Real-Life Homelessness
Brendan Hickey
Issue date: 2/2/09 Section: Viewpoints
I'm sitting on the balcony of my friend's downtown apartment, overlooking the skyline, beautifully backlit by another perfect San Diego sunset. The last remaining rays of daylight reflect off the buildings' facades, giving the city a vibrant orange shimmer. I'm playing a game with myself-counting the number of American flags atop the skyscrapers. I've got seven so far. Oh shit, eight! Had to squint for that one. Eight's a good number. I'll stop there.
So I'm homeless. Have been for what, twelve days? A baker's dozen? I haven't really been counting and honestly, when you find yourself in this situation, it's pretty easy to lose track. I've spent a night in my car, a couple nights on various couches, an air mattress here and there, even a few nights where I just didn't sleep at all. Lately, I've been crashing on a former coworker's giant beanbag. It's actually pretty damn comfortable. I've spent my days walking the streets and driving the freeways of this city so many times that if you Google-mapped my routes, it would create a pretty killer spirograph pattern.
How did I end up here? It's a question I've been asking myself on the daily. Actually, more like the hourly. I come from a middle-class, suburban background. I've got a job. I've got a car (well, it's more of a time bomb. The "check engine" light's been on since August-that's a bad thing, right? But that's neither here nor there). I'm currently listening to my brand new iPod that the family got me for Christmas. And I've still got a cell phone, for which papa bear graciously foots the bill. A month ago, I was living easy in a one-bedroom studio a block away from the beach. Forgive my vulgarity, but what the fuck?
How did this happen?
We all have a picture of the homeless in our heads-living on the streets in tattered clothing, bodies caked in filth, storing myriad personal items in trash bags and shopping carts. Of course, that lifestyle is very real and tragically heartbreaking. I walk through it every day. Right outside this apartment complex, there's a two-block strip, cluttered with tents and blankets, sunken eyes and weary faces. Hope comes in the rare form of nickels and dimes tossed their way.
We can speculate and dissect the forces that produce these outcomes. From drug addictions to mental problems to poor investments-hell, even to bad luck-the list can go on and on.
Stop. Rewind. What happened to the struggling, transitioning, 20-somethings like myself? The kids who have loving families to rely on. The kids who carry an arsenal of modern technology in their designer jean pockets. The kids who have jobs and bank accounts and high expectations for their futures. How is it possible that the kids so seemingly secure in their lives could so easily end up in a makeshift tent at the end of that strip?
I could give you a ten-page report on the correlation stats between the economic crisis and rising rates of homelessness. I could offer you a plethora of social commentaries. But fuck it. Everyone's got an opinion. Anyone could look up the facts. In my position, I think it's much more relevant (not to mention more useful) to illustrate just how easy it is for any of us to find ourselves here. I didn't think it was possible, and I doubt any of you could picture yourself without a roof over your head at night-a year ago, I wouldn't have been able to. So just how did I get here?
To save us both from a ramble, I'm going to recap the last two months in hyper speed.
Back in December, my life was pretty stable. I had driven out west to stay in my aunt's garage, (the car was still functioning back then). I was fulfilling the last of my requirements at community college in order to transfer to a University of California school as a state resident. I was working a little over 30 hours a week at a Sam Goody store downtown. Remember those? They still exist! Last one in California. But as we drifted further into this recession, the store became a ghost town. One day a tumbleweed rolled right past my counter. For serious. Anyways, I guess luxuries like the new Akon album and Don't Mess With the Zohan became less important than feeding your family. The employee hours got cut and I was raking in less than $150 per paycheck. On top of that, my informal lease was up and I had to be out of my place at the end of the month.
Because of everyday expenses and student loan pay-offs, I didn't have the money for a studio. I paired up with a couple of buddies from Sam Goody who were in the process of finding a new apartment. I made the mistake of holding onto my job longer than I should have-I didn't want to start a new job and then find a place on the other side of town. I did spend a considerable amount of time job-hunting when I was able to, but the search was fruitless. It felt like walking through the Sahara in search of a Holiday Inn.
I don't have to go into the agony of the job-search-many of you are familiar with that whole process. But before a new job appeared, my lease ended, my coworkers were no closer to switching apartments, and I had less than $300 in my bank account. My family has always had financial problems, and the recent economic downturn meant that reinforcement from them was especially out of the question. I was without a home, practically without a car, and nearly out of a job.
So there you go. And here I sit, getting ready for another night on the beanbag chair. At least I have that to look forward to, right?
My future remains mysterious. The job market is still in shambles and my wallet remains thin. I'm treading water, but managing to keep my head afloat. I'm still pretty damn lucky to be where I am. I'm lucky to have friends around that put up with me crashing on their floors and eating their food. I'm lucky that I have friends and family that call me daily to make sure that I'm…you know, still alive. That I haven't fallen to the level of cardboard-box houses and shopping cart storage.
This support keeps me from losing my composure, and I think I keep my spirits pretty high, given the circumstances. But it will always be terrifying to come from such security only to realize what a fine line there is between me sitting on a friend's bean bag chair and me sitting on a curb. Hey, fairness was never a concept agreed upon in this goofy cluster fuck called life, right?
But I can't deny this strange, exhilarating feeling that comes from a vagabond lifestyle. It's a passion that comes from actually relying on love, fellow humans, and the beauty of the world around me, rather than just witnessing it. These things truly come alive when you don't have the security of money or a bed to come home to; when you continue to hold such high hopes for the future, even when you don't necessarily know what you're fighting for. I've ventured through the cracks of this city, from secluded beaches along the cliffs to downtown back alleys, without any direction but with nothing to prove and no expectations. It's one of the most beautiful feelings I've experienced. Just living.
In fact, you should really try this sometime. Clear your schedule for a weekend. Drive out to the middle of nowhere. Hell, just walk out your front door and sit on your damn lawn. Pretend that you don't have a place to stay for the night. Pretend that there's absolutely nothing that has to be done. I guarantee you'll see things in bolder color. I guarantee you'll have a moment where you just say "Whoa."
Then again, maybe not. Maybe you'll just sit there and say "What the fuck am I doing?" I've done that a lot, too.
I know my situation is temporary. I could have a home by the time you read this. Then again, with my luck, the road could still be very bumpy. Maybe I'll write a follow-up next issue, about what's it's like actually living on the streets. Maybe I will have duct-taped coat hangers to my head and will be rambling about an underground cult made up of the ghost of Mussolini, the Miami Dolphins, and Aerosmith, and how they're the real cause of this awful recession.
But let's hope it doesn't come to that.
So I'm homeless. Have been for what, twelve days? A baker's dozen? I haven't really been counting and honestly, when you find yourself in this situation, it's pretty easy to lose track. I've spent a night in my car, a couple nights on various couches, an air mattress here and there, even a few nights where I just didn't sleep at all. Lately, I've been crashing on a former coworker's giant beanbag. It's actually pretty damn comfortable. I've spent my days walking the streets and driving the freeways of this city so many times that if you Google-mapped my routes, it would create a pretty killer spirograph pattern.
 Media Credit: Linni Kral Where the heart is |
How did I end up here? It's a question I've been asking myself on the daily. Actually, more like the hourly. I come from a middle-class, suburban background. I've got a job. I've got a car (well, it's more of a time bomb. The "check engine" light's been on since August-that's a bad thing, right? But that's neither here nor there). I'm currently listening to my brand new iPod that the family got me for Christmas. And I've still got a cell phone, for which papa bear graciously foots the bill. A month ago, I was living easy in a one-bedroom studio a block away from the beach. Forgive my vulgarity, but what the fuck?
How did this happen?
We all have a picture of the homeless in our heads-living on the streets in tattered clothing, bodies caked in filth, storing myriad personal items in trash bags and shopping carts. Of course, that lifestyle is very real and tragically heartbreaking. I walk through it every day. Right outside this apartment complex, there's a two-block strip, cluttered with tents and blankets, sunken eyes and weary faces. Hope comes in the rare form of nickels and dimes tossed their way.
We can speculate and dissect the forces that produce these outcomes. From drug addictions to mental problems to poor investments-hell, even to bad luck-the list can go on and on.
Stop. Rewind. What happened to the struggling, transitioning, 20-somethings like myself? The kids who have loving families to rely on. The kids who carry an arsenal of modern technology in their designer jean pockets. The kids who have jobs and bank accounts and high expectations for their futures. How is it possible that the kids so seemingly secure in their lives could so easily end up in a makeshift tent at the end of that strip?
I could give you a ten-page report on the correlation stats between the economic crisis and rising rates of homelessness. I could offer you a plethora of social commentaries. But fuck it. Everyone's got an opinion. Anyone could look up the facts. In my position, I think it's much more relevant (not to mention more useful) to illustrate just how easy it is for any of us to find ourselves here. I didn't think it was possible, and I doubt any of you could picture yourself without a roof over your head at night-a year ago, I wouldn't have been able to. So just how did I get here?
 |
To save us both from a ramble, I'm going to recap the last two months in hyper speed.
Back in December, my life was pretty stable. I had driven out west to stay in my aunt's garage, (the car was still functioning back then). I was fulfilling the last of my requirements at community college in order to transfer to a University of California school as a state resident. I was working a little over 30 hours a week at a Sam Goody store downtown. Remember those? They still exist! Last one in California. But as we drifted further into this recession, the store became a ghost town. One day a tumbleweed rolled right past my counter. For serious. Anyways, I guess luxuries like the new Akon album and Don't Mess With the Zohan became less important than feeding your family. The employee hours got cut and I was raking in less than $150 per paycheck. On top of that, my informal lease was up and I had to be out of my place at the end of the month.
Because of everyday expenses and student loan pay-offs, I didn't have the money for a studio. I paired up with a couple of buddies from Sam Goody who were in the process of finding a new apartment. I made the mistake of holding onto my job longer than I should have-I didn't want to start a new job and then find a place on the other side of town. I did spend a considerable amount of time job-hunting when I was able to, but the search was fruitless. It felt like walking through the Sahara in search of a Holiday Inn.
I don't have to go into the agony of the job-search-many of you are familiar with that whole process. But before a new job appeared, my lease ended, my coworkers were no closer to switching apartments, and I had less than $300 in my bank account. My family has always had financial problems, and the recent economic downturn meant that reinforcement from them was especially out of the question. I was without a home, practically without a car, and nearly out of a job.
So there you go. And here I sit, getting ready for another night on the beanbag chair. At least I have that to look forward to, right?
My future remains mysterious. The job market is still in shambles and my wallet remains thin. I'm treading water, but managing to keep my head afloat. I'm still pretty damn lucky to be where I am. I'm lucky to have friends around that put up with me crashing on their floors and eating their food. I'm lucky that I have friends and family that call me daily to make sure that I'm…you know, still alive. That I haven't fallen to the level of cardboard-box houses and shopping cart storage.
 |
This support keeps me from losing my composure, and I think I keep my spirits pretty high, given the circumstances. But it will always be terrifying to come from such security only to realize what a fine line there is between me sitting on a friend's bean bag chair and me sitting on a curb. Hey, fairness was never a concept agreed upon in this goofy cluster fuck called life, right?
But I can't deny this strange, exhilarating feeling that comes from a vagabond lifestyle. It's a passion that comes from actually relying on love, fellow humans, and the beauty of the world around me, rather than just witnessing it. These things truly come alive when you don't have the security of money or a bed to come home to; when you continue to hold such high hopes for the future, even when you don't necessarily know what you're fighting for. I've ventured through the cracks of this city, from secluded beaches along the cliffs to downtown back alleys, without any direction but with nothing to prove and no expectations. It's one of the most beautiful feelings I've experienced. Just living.
In fact, you should really try this sometime. Clear your schedule for a weekend. Drive out to the middle of nowhere. Hell, just walk out your front door and sit on your damn lawn. Pretend that you don't have a place to stay for the night. Pretend that there's absolutely nothing that has to be done. I guarantee you'll see things in bolder color. I guarantee you'll have a moment where you just say "Whoa."
Then again, maybe not. Maybe you'll just sit there and say "What the fuck am I doing?" I've done that a lot, too.
I know my situation is temporary. I could have a home by the time you read this. Then again, with my luck, the road could still be very bumpy. Maybe I'll write a follow-up next issue, about what's it's like actually living on the streets. Maybe I will have duct-taped coat hangers to my head and will be rambling about an underground cult made up of the ghost of Mussolini, the Miami Dolphins, and Aerosmith, and how they're the real cause of this awful recession.
But let's hope it doesn't come to that.
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