He was attractive, but more than that, having him close to me made me feel…something. I’m not sure what, but it wasn’t the usual fear and loathing. It was something warmer, softer…safer.
Which is ridiculous. I know nothing about him, and even if I did, I can’t risk him finding out about my situation. Even if I liked him and he liked me, I’m homeless. I live in a tent and have to either pee behind a tree or walk to a campsite to use the bathroom or take a shower.
I’ve stolen things, like the clothes I’m wearing right now and some stuff from the box of donations for the homeless once the weather starts to turn cold. I’m lesser. I don’t have a home. I don’t have a job. I scrounge food from the ranger service and try to befriend campers so they’ll invite me to their campfires in the hopes of being offered a hotdog or anything else they’ve attempted to cook.
The money I brought with me ran out weeks ago. I have three dollars to my name and a collection of loose change I’ve found on the ground, usually in the parking lot, having fallen out of pockets or purses.
I have nothing. I am nothing. So why can’t I stop thinking about the man whose name I don’t even know?
The moment he walks out of sight, I exhale a shaky breath, glad that several cars pull into the lot and distract me from my racing thoughts. After an hour, my time volunteering is over. Some days, I keep going, especially if it’s particularly busy. But the parking lot is full, and the trail must be buzzing with the number of people walking it. I’m not needed here.
Some days I walk into town, but today, after seeing him, I’m too jittery to be around people. So I grab the ragged backpack I claimed as mine after someone left it behind one day a few weeks back and head down the trail, forking to the left where every other hiker turns right. It takes me about twenty minutes to reach my campsite, and when I do, I crawl into the stuffy, humid tent and zip the hatch closed, forcing a heavy breath from my lungs the moment I’m hidden inside.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I try to find some of the peace that being out here alone in the woods has brought me, but instead of the calm I was expecting, I see him. I’ve never had or wanted a boyfriend. We barely stayed anywhere long enough for me to make friends, let alone spend enough time with someone for me to be attracted to them.
Since my dad left, I’ve been surrounded by men. Men that desire me. Men that want to use me. Men that want to do things to me. But none of them have ever made me feel anything. Not lust or desire. Not sexual attraction, or even a hint of want or need. Truthfully, I’ve been starting to wonder if I’m asexual, because I’ve never felt attraction to anyone, male or female, until now.
Just being near him woke something inside of me. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but he definitely did something to me.
I don’t know if that realization is a good thing or a bad one. Knowing I can feel attraction and desire must be a good thing, but knowing it’s for a man I’ll likely never see again is definitely bad.
Inhaling, then exhaling several more times, I force my racing thoughts to quiet for long enough that I hear my stomach growling and reminding me that I’m hungry. Like every other morning since I found out they gave out food to the volunteers, I was outside the ranger’s office this morning, ready to collect my breakfast sandwich and brown bag lunch.
On the days that I get to eat dinner, I save the breakfast sandwich for my lunch, then save the bagged lunch for my dinner. But over the last few days I haven’t managed to find anyone interested in me enough to ask me to join them for their barbecue or campfire dinner, and by morning I’ve been so hungry I’ve devoured the breakfast sandwich the moment I’ve had it in my hands.
Being homeless without people realizing you’re homeless is a juggling act. Using the local campgrounds’ bathrooms helps me keep clean. I managed to snag some leftover laundry detergent someone forgot about in the laundromat a few weeks ago, so my clothes are mostly washed. I’m fairly confident I don’t smell, and even though my very limited capsule closet is mostly things I’ve found or stolen, alongside the few things I managed to pack before I ran from my apartment, I might look messy, but I don’t think I look like someone sleeping in a tent.
But staving off hunger is a constant battle. I’m naturally curvy with a big butt and breasts, but since I ran from BJ’s, the irregular meals have seen my body start to shrink, and when I look at myself in the mirror, I barely recognize the person looking back at me.
The black marks beneath my eyes seem to get deeper and darker with each day that passes, and even though I’m not starving, I know I’m not eating enough to stay healthy.
My shoulders slump as the reminder of my situation pushes all thoughts of the man away. Living like this is manageable at the moment. The weather is warm and dry, but the summer won’t last forever. The moment the cold starts to set in, I’ll freeze to death out here, and it’d probably be months before anyone finds me.
Opening my eyes, I pull my backpack off and place it in my lap. Unzipping it, I pull out the brown bag and unroll the top, silently hoping they’ve put a double sandwich in here bymistake. Unfortunately, the bag holds the exact same thing it does every day: a small bread roll filled with cheese, a bag of chips, and an apple.
Reminding myself to be grateful, I pull the roll out and carefully unwrap it, breaking it in half, before rewrapping half and putting it back into the bag. Pulling it into bits, I put some in my mouth and chew twice as many times as I actually need, trying to trick my brain into thinking it’s eaten more than I have.
Half of the roll is gone faster than I’d like, and I weigh the pros and cons of eating the chips or the apple now and saving the other for later. I decide to eat the apple, biting into the sweet, crisp flesh, and sighing at the sweetness as it fills my mouth.
When I’ve eaten everything except the core and the seeds, I open a bottle of water and bring it to my lips, drinking thirstily. It’s warm, but I don’t care. I wish it was juice or soda, but once again I remind myself to be grateful that at least I’m not thirsty in this heat.
The water sits on top of the bread and fruit, making me feel fuller than I truly am, and I once again remind myself that I’m safe. I’ve had food, a drink, and I have somewhere dry to sleep tonight. My life could be a lot worse.
Afternoons after my volunteering shifts are over tend to drag. As shaken as I am by the man’s effect on me, I’m not used to not working, and I can’t just stay in this tent and wait for night to come. So changing out of my stolen shorts and T-shirt, I put on the one dress I brought with me from my apartment and a pair of flip-flops I found by the trash at one of the campgrounds near the trailhead.
Slipping my backpack—that holds my three dollars and the extra bottle of water I haven’t opened—onto my back, I unzip the tent and crawl out, leaving my Rockhead Peak Ranger Service cap behind.
Closing the tent hatch, I smooth my dress and my hair, then make my way down the trail toward the parking lot, hoping that no one sees me or questions where I’ve come from when I’m clearly not dressed for hiking.
The walk into town isn’t too far, and thirty minutes later, I’m wandering through the throngs of tourists, searching store windows for help wanted signs or a new restaurant that I haven’t already visited to ask if they’re hiring.
I’ve done this exact same thing every day for weeks now, and I’m worried that I’ll become recognizable as the crazy homeless girl still looking for a job, or that someone will eventually question why I’m here and where I’m staying.
My legs ache and my feet are sore from the cheap, uncomfortable sandals when I turn in a circle and start to head away from the streets of stores and restaurants. The sun is starting to set when I reach the first campground, scanning the rows of tents and RVs for friendly looking older couples or families.
When I spot a woman who looks to be in her mid- to late sixties, I casually walk toward her. “Excuse me,” I say politely. “Do you know if there’s a store near the campground?”
“I’m sorry, we only just got here this afternoon, we haven’t had a chance to explore yet,” the woman says kindly.
