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I pulled up to the window and parted with some of my precious dollars. I wasn’t assertive enough to ask for parking validation, and it hadn’t been offered. I guessed sometimes people just didn’t consider these little fees to be important. It was a big deal to those of us on a budget, but people who were comfortable in their jobs probably didn’t even think about it.
I drove to the shelter, thinking that I could get a hot meal and take a shower. They let me in but told me that they didn’t have any beds. That meant I was sleeping in my car. I took the news as gracefully as I could. It wasn’t optimal. I couldn’t really stretch out in the back seat, and the seat belt buckles poked into my back all night long.
But at least it was dry and provided some protection from the cold. And I had a job to look forward to. That fact alone could have kept me warm in a blizzard. I had a job, and I was on my way up.
I grabbed my toiletries bag from the back seat and a change of clothes. Locking the car door, I left it right behind the shelter, under the floodlight, in full view of the staff. No one would mess with my car when it was that visible. It was the dark alleys and corners that you had to worry about.
Swiftly, I walked into the locker room, avoiding everyone I could. There were a couple of old ladies standing naked in the middle of the room. I kept my eyes on the floor, hugging the walls. Past the toilets, there were four shower stalls. Two of them were empty, so I chose the one closest to the sinks.
While I had never been a victim of violence in the shelter, that didn’t mean I let my guard down. There was no such thing as a luxurious shower. It was get in and get out, clean yourself up and move on.
I had to shave, so it was going to take me a bit more time, but I was a pro after so much time on the street. I could shave my entire body in less than ten minutes, add five for washing my hair and two for scrubbing my face, and that was all I needed. As I washed, I kept one ear peeled for trouble. It wouldn’t do to get caught unaware while I was vulnerable. This wasn’t prison, but it was the next best thing.
Without incident, I finished the shower, toweling off and slipping into what passed for pajamas on the streets. I couldn’t get all comfy in jersey knit or a knee-length T-shirt, but I could wear sweatpants and a sweatshirt. That would keep me warm, and it was flexible fabric. If something happened in the middle of the night, I would be appropriately dressed to talk to the cops. But if I was allowed to sleep, I would be comfortable enough to get by.
I waited around until dinner was served. It was meatloaf, prepared and served by the congregation at Beth Shalom Synagogue. I always made sure to thank any volunteers who came into the shelter. They didn’t have to spend their time and energy taking care of us. The home cooked meals were appreciated, and it didn’t cost me anything to be friendly.
I got into a conversation with one of the women who was serving. She was going to MIT but preferred doing good works to partying and staying up all night.
“You’re a rare bird,” I told her with a grin.
She shrugged. “I’ve met so many great people doing this work.”
“I haven’t met that many great people,” I responded. “Although hopefully I won’t be here much longer.”
“I hope you find your way soon,” she said, turning back to the line and cutting another slice for the next homeless resident.
“I have a college degree,” I told her.
She looked back at me in shock, her jaw dropping. Most people thought homelessness was a problem for the unemployed, for people who dropped out of high school or for military veterans who lost themselves in far-off battles. I didn’t tell very many people that I was homeless, but if I did run into someone at the shelter, I liked to blow those preconceptions out of the water. If it could happen to me, it could happen to anyone. There wasn’t any shame in it, although I wished desperately that my time out of doors would come to an end.
Leaving the shelter that night, I got back in my car and drove to a spot that I liked. It was in an alley behind a grocery store. There were lights all around, so I didn’t feel so scared, but no one ever went back there after the store closed.
I parked the car and turned it off, climbing into the back seat. My phone was charged, so I used it to scroll through social media. Learning about how my friends were doing didn’t make me feel any better about my own situation, but it didn’t make me feel worse. Some of them had kids and pets that they showcased, making me smile. Some of them had lifestyles that they were promoting, like veganism or bike riding. A few of them were crazy, and their curse-filled rants made me feel like I was a pinnacle of mental health.
After browsing, I left without posting my own update. I didn’t say very much online. The picture I used was from my sophomore year in college, and I hadn’t bothered to update it. I knew that Marcus followed me, and I didn’t want to clue him in on how I was doing. He could wonder, along with the rest of the world. I wasn’t going to shed any light on the matter.
I set my alarm to wake up with plenty of time to get cleaned up and get dressed. The shelter opened at seven, and I had to be at work by eight-thirty. That left me an hour and a half door to door.
Drifting off, I wrapped myself in the glorious truth that this car camping thing was going away soon. I just had to get a few paychecks in the bank, and I would be all set. According to HR, I got paid every two weeks. So that was just one more month I would be living like this. After that, I could wake up in my own bed and take a shower without looking over my shoulder. I dreamed of that life and all the peace and security an apartment would bring.
It didn’t feel much longer that I woke to the sound of my alarm blaring in my ear. Turning it off, I rubbed my eyes. I climbed over the seat and took the wheel, driving back to the shelter with plenty of time. I considered toweling off with some wipes like I had the day before, but thought better of it. I needed to make a good impression. A job interview was one thing when I wasn’t sure about my chances. But the job was mine, and I needed it to stay that way. I would have to shower in the mornings, despite my distaste for the exercise.
I went through all the motions again and emerged from the shelter dressed professionally. I couldn’t leave my car at the shelter all day, I was afraid for its safety and afraid that the staff would have it towed. I couldn’t afford the parking garage, so I decided to park it somewhere close. Driving around the city streets, I was able to find a narrow lane without parking meters. Teasing it into a tight spot, I spent a good ten minutes fiddling until I got it right. Getting out, I locked the door. I had fifteen minutes to make it to work.
I hurried down the street, not altogether accustomed to the high heels I wore. Still, I was capable enough to make it on time. I showed the guard my badge at the door, and he told me where to swipe it. I punched through into the lobby, making a good impression on my first day.
With no wait, I rode up in the elevator to the seventh floor. Getting off, I found my way back to Mr. Brockton’s office. I found the reception desk outside his office empty. I assumed that was where I would sit, so I tested out the chair, sliding a few of the drawers open to investigate. There were no files, pens, papers, or paperclips inside. It was as if the desk was new, or it had been cleaned out by a professional maid.
There was nothing on top of the desk either, so I had no way to do any work. There was a phone with several lines. I leaned over to read the text below some of the buttons. Forward, hold, line 1, line 2, that was all it said. It seemed pretty straightforward. I could handle that part of the job, no problem. I was going to have to ask about a computer, though, and there was no time like the present.
I got up and knocked on the office door. I waited a full minute before I heard a terse “Come in!”
Pushing it open, I walked through, familiar enough with the interior of the space to wait comfortably while my new boss finished up his phone call. He was on his cell, pacing the room. He looked at me, holding up a finger. I nodded to him. Of course I would wait.
I noticed a tray of pastries on a side table beneath a mirror. It was almost absurd, the dichotomy between Mr. Brockton’s office and the shelter. There, everything was institutional, with dirty tile and peeling wallpaper. There were fluorescent lights everywhere and roaches scurrying in the corners.
But in the CEO’s office, the windows were covered with fine drapes, a heavy netting that let in the light but blocked the glare. The carpet beneath my feet was plush and unbroken, either vacuumed fresh that morning or brand new. The space was wide and cool, broken into several different alcoves by glass walls and couches. The pastries were lying on a platter, next to a silver carafe that either held coffee or hot water. I tried not to focus on them, but I could feel my stomach rumbling. I hadn’t eaten anything since the meatloaf last night. They looked delicious, all sparkling with sugar glaze.
