Let’s be clear here. I am one of the lucky ones. I’ve never been one of the “invisible people” – the down-and-out folk on the street who most people shun as if they don’t exist. I’ve been homeless episodically since 1979, but I’ve always been able to maintain the illusion that I am one of “us,” not one of “them.”
That’s the illusion. The reality is that I am one of them. And the truth is, “They are not the other. They are us.” (Utah Phillips, folksinger and homeless advocate)
In this final installment of lost a day in my life 2008, I really needed a long, hot shower and a cold beer with a friend …
A Hot Shower and a Cold Beer
Okay. I was having a bad day. First, a cop woke me up at 2 a.m. and then, shortly after noon, I got chewed out by an editor for something that was his fault.
There’s a 13-page diagnostic profile of me that helps explain why my life is a series of dysfunctional breakdowns and better-than-before recoveries.
Obviously, I was already in the breakdown lane of my life, sleeping in my car. And today, my mental health was deteriorating rapidly. Even though both incidents got resolved, I was still stressed out from the experiences.
Realizing I was on the edge of an emotional meltdown in Starbucks, I shut down my computer and headed up country. Experience and years of cognitive behavioral therapy had taught me country roads and country rock were good for my soul.
Instead of taking Interstate 80 from Auburn to Colfax, I took the back roads, radio blasting Creedence Clearwater. It’s a 15-20 minute drive on the interstate, but when you have no place to go, what’s the hurry?
As I cruised the winding country roads, the trees and meadows reminded me why I chose to live in Northern California’s Sierra Nevada Foothills instead of the endless suburbs of Los Angeles. I love it here.
Eventually, I found my way into Colfax. It had a notorious reputation as “a small drinking town with a railroad problem.” As the former editor of the Colfax Record, I knew this to be all too true.
I had no great love of Colfax. The 13-page diagnosis came about as a result of my obsessed effort to work myself to death in 1987 as the newspaper editor – but that’s another homeless story for another time.
Right now in 2008, the reason I came to Colfax was not because it had a Starbucks.
It was because one of my best friends lived there.
Jon was homeless when I first met him 20 years ago, but since then, he’d done quite well for himself as a self-employed cabinetmaker. I hated to interrupt him while he was working, but we’d been there for each other over the years.
Jon was working in his shop when I drove onto his homestead. As always, I marveled at how much he had improved his property since the last time I’d been there.
“Go take a shower, while I finish up here,” he said when I arrived. He was covered in sawdust and looked like he needed a shower more than I did. Nevertheless, he could take a shower anytime he wanted. I couldn’t.
I went into his unique, charming little house. The front door was a hand-carved woodland scene backed by glass to seal the open spaces. Although he made his living making laminated, pressed-wood cabinets and counters for commercial installations, his home was a testament to his creativity and craftsmanship as woodworker.
I took a leisurely shower and changed clothes. As always, I made sure I left the bathroom as clean as I found it. The toilet was beginning to develop a ring, so I scrubbed it.
When I went back to the shop, Jon was blowing the sawdust off himself with his air compressor. I took the hose and finished the job. Although Jon had built a beautiful outdoor bar, we decided to walk across the highway to The Red Frog.
The Frog had an open-air bar overlooking the spectacular vista of Cape Horn. Trains still traverse the precarious track originally cut into the face of the Cape’s towering cliff for the transcontinental railroad. Once again, I was overcome with appreciation for where I lived – even if I was homeless.
“How are you doing?” Jon asked.
I smiled and gestured toward a westbound Union Pacific train snaking across the cliff. It was a picture postcard moment. “Just another day in paradise.”
We drank to that.
Jon asked me to house-sit his home and chickens, cats and dog next month while he went off to Belize with his girlfriend. No pay. Just a nice place to live for a few weeks. Fair enough.
After a couple of brews, we hugged each other, and I moved it on down the line.
I got back to Nevada City just in time to check my postal mailbox. Yay! A check for $125 finally came from The Union newspaper for a story and photo I’d written about a guy who made keepsake items out of cremation ashes.
It was too late to deposit the check in my credit union (screw banks!), but I still had enough cash and time to do my laundry.
If it can’t stand a hot/cold wash in an industrial-sized washing machine, it’s not in my wardrobe. There’s nothing delicate about being homeless. I shoved all my dirty clothes into one machine and fed it a prodigious number of quarters.
While my clothes were getting thoroughly thrashed, I retired to my car. I pulled out one of my still cool (the ice had melted) beers and poured it into a stainless steel Starbucks coffee cup, another extravagant gift my ex bought for me with my money.
I sneaked a quick toke from an unfinished joint and ate the roach. Old habits die hard.
Then I went back into the laundromat to sip my “coffee” and stare brainlessly at the tumbling clothes. There was a TV mounted on the wall, but I had no interest in the surreality of television anymore.
My clothes were still drying when the surly owner came to lock up the laundromat for the night.
No mercy. She pointed at a sign on the wall: Do not use dryers after 9:15 p.m. So I pulled my still wet clothes out of the drier and stuffed them in my laundry basket. I heard the door lock click firmly behind me.
I stuffed my laundry back into my car and climbed in driver’s seat. Suddenly, I realized how tired I was. I leaned my head back on the headrest for just a min …
The cold woke me up just before midnight. Shivering, I started up the car and set the heater on high. I was intending to drive to Grass Valley to park for the night, but as I was backing up, my hand touched my wet clothes.
Oh, hell. I was going to have to dry them in the morning, so I might as well not go anywhere. Driving across the strip mall’s parking lot, I parked under a light as instructed by the deputy who’d scared me awake the night before.
I wrapped my Mexican blanket around myself and settled in for the night. The light switched off at midnight. Damn. Screw it.
Just another day in paradise.
This is the final installment of a three-part series. Click here for part one and part two.
