AllFreeNovel
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By outer appearances, I do have bad luck.
For example, I am currently sleeping in my car. It is a nice car, though. A Chevy Tahoe, the fancy kind with captain seats in the second row. I won it nine months ago from an eye-patch-wearing Irish businessman in a game of poker. I’m pretty sure the SUV was his rental from Hertz, but they’ve not caught me yet. I figure he just paid them off.
Anyway, I sleep in the back and am quite comfortable. I’ve spent time organizing the layout of my new “home.” Pillows and blankets in the back, clothes rack in the middle, cooler on the floorboard, gun in the glovebox. I’ve learned the key to being homeless is to have a nice vehicle. Suburbanites aren’t suspicious of shiny new cars parked on the side of the road. Junkers? They’ll get reported in under three hours.
There are benefits to sleeping in your car.
For example, I am always on time. I used to be chronically late, but not anymore. When you live in your car, there is no excuse to be late—ever.
I have no mortgage, no utility bills, no property taxes. I always have all my belongings with me. There is something comforting in that. I am also very lucky that I have three credit cards with decent credit limits (obtained before I lost my job). I have multiple changes of clothes and toiletries that I took when I was evicted from my Los Angeles apartment. I also have a burner phone, but no internet. I find access to that at libraries or coffee shops. This is where I apply for jobs.
To be clear, however, I don’t love this life, and I’m certainly not proud of it. I am fully aware that I am a loser, a drain on society. But I am trying to change this. In fact, I spend every waking moment putting in the effort to change the status of my life. My record is applying for nineteen jobs in a single twenty-four-hour period.
Turns out it’s significantly harder for someone without a college degree and an unimpressive résumé to get a reputable job in this economy. Add to that the fact that I am pushing forty years old, and well, let’s just say I’ve received my fair share of looks of pity.
I’ve worked at multiple fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and two different pet shops. I was even a janitor for a bit, and after that, a greeter at the local Walmart.
But I quit them all. Why?
I could make up an excuse here, but I’d be lying. The truth is, I felt like I was too good for those jobs. Working in fast food is not what I see for myself. I want more. And I know that if I continued working in fast food, I would become complacent—like I have been for my entire life. I can’t keep doing this. I won’t. Ihaveto strive for more.
I’ve lost weight, which doesn’t wear well on my tall, skinny frame. My once shiny, long brown hair is now dull and brittle. I look different too. My face is pale and gaunt, carrying the stress of someone at the end of their rope. But—I remind myself daily—I look better than most in my position.
I try to avoid passing other homeless people during my daily walks.Realhomeless people—the kind who don’t even have a car. Some have grocery carts filled with random things they have pulled from dumpsters, some have children, some have puppies, others have nothing but bottles of booze and they scream expletives as I pass. One thing they all have in common is a sign that reads:help me.
I can’t even look at them anymore. It’s like looking through a window to a future that terrifies me so much that it is almost inconceivable.
I am close to maxing out all three of my credit cards. I can’t accurately express the feeling of terror and panic this gives me. It is an anxiety like I have never experienced. Without money, I will literally have nothing. No means of survival. No gas for my SUV, no food, no water.
People talk a lot about coming to the end of your rope, although they don’t know what it’s really like. The end of the metaphorical rope is homelessness. It is literally having nothing and staring death in the face. It is living in a constant state of fear and unknowing.
Anyone who is homeless was not always that way. What was once a goal of living well is now just a goal to live—and people will do anything to survive. It is life-or-death desperation, the kind that turns you into a completely different person. The kind that makes you do things you never thought you would—or were capable of.
The scariest part? The longer you stay, the harder it is to leave. Which is like anything, I guess.
So, back to my comment about bad luck. None of this is bad luck. It is, as I said, a direct result of the bad decisions I have made in my life. And so I figure, if erratic, careless decisions can create a bad life, then a good, well-thought-out plan can correct it.
Two weeks ago, I made one. A plan that I have outlined, reviewed, edited, and refined no fewer than a dozen times.
Today is day one of that plan.
I am nervous but motivated.
As my mother once said, there is nothing more dangerous than a desperate woman.
3
Lavinia
Lightning slashes the midmorning sky as my Tahoe climbs a steep paved driveway that weaves like a snake through the thickly wooded property.
When the house comes into view, my jaw drops. Even through the curtain of rain, it is stunning, reminding me of the fancy ski lodges I’ve seen in movies.
Built on a mountain peak, the log cabin stretches across a rolling manicured lawn with unobstructed views of the Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest. Sweeping windows stretch to peaked rooftops with copper accents. Multicolored stone frames the bottom half of the house, and everything else is wood and glass. It is literally breathtaking.
I cannot believe I will be working here—living here—for the foreseeable future.
When I saw the post for a live-in nanny, I thought,bingo.Finally, an opportunity to move out of my car. And how hard can it be to look after a kid?
