Author's Commentary
This is completely unpolished.
Basically, the first draft, just got the adventure down on paper.
True story, went homeless for three days and two nights.
It was... an experience.
Dear Mom, Dad, Jackie
I’m gone for a week. Be back by Sunday.
I’m safe. I’ll check my phone every night.
Much love
-------------------------------------------------
We had no plans. We knew where we were going, and how we would get there, but everything beyond that was a blank canvas. We didn’t know where in San Francisco we would go, or what we’d eat, or where we’d sleep. The concrete would be our beds, and the sky our ceiling. I was thrilled
As the clock approached 4:30 in pre-dawn San Jose, we made our way out of my back door with three bags of supplies, one-hundred and twenty-seven dollars, the clothes on our backs, and all of our kidneys intact. Dan and I popped open umbrellas against the drizzle that the wind blew in our faces regardless. We had chosen probably the worst week to go on our excursion, as we had very dry weather up to that point, but San Francisco and new experiences beckoned.
As we waited over an hour at the bench for the first bus of the morning, the thrill of adventure jolted through my veins. When I looked above the rooftops, the sky resembled the kind a sailor might see as his boat rocks in the tides of an enticing embarkation. Be they stormy seas, or calm waters, I was ready for whatever the unpredictable ocean before me had to offer. Our barge docked at the bus stop across the street, going against our current, but we made swiftly to catch it. We figured it would be nicer to sit in those seats, and wait for our transport to turn around, than to wait around on a cold bench.
As we sat in our seats, Dan caught some sleep while I stayed alert, making sure we got off at the right stop. I was the navigator on our journey, and I had planned our bus and train routes the night before. I pulled out a travel log, and jotted down my thoughts as we headed out on our odyssey.
5:41AM Feb 16, 2009
on bus route 25
adventure ahoy!
Through a few more buses than I originally counted for, we found ourselves in downtown San Jose, with a few maps in the pocket of the duffle bag I kept slung over my shoulder. The rain was pouring, and puddles were forming in the streets. They soaked through my boots immediately, making my socks unpleasantly moist. But, at that point, it hardly mattered. The adventure had begun!
Lost, but not discouraged, we stumbled upon San Jose State University. We passed by a number of pretty girls, as we find our way through the downpour to the humongous library. We took escalators to the top floor, and I took off my drenched footwear. We found ourselves an unoccupied corner, and half-napped for an hour or two.
When we figured it was time to leave, we were fortunate enough to have a dry spot in the weather. I tied string around the legs of my pants, hoping that it would help keep out the rain. It didn’t. We walked aimlessly for a while, looking for food, before coming across an Indian restaurant. We figured we might be living on one meal a day, so we decided to make it a good one. Despite being two-thirds my size at ninety pounds, Dan was an extreme perfectionist and ate three times the amount of food that I did. He made sure every plate on the table was clean, to the point that he could hardly swallow anymore.
We bussed to the train station, and picked up tickets to San Francisco. The train arrived immediately, and we boarded for our ninety minute trip. While Dan napped again, I stayed half-conscious to keep track of the stops. When we were far enough into the city, we walked off the train and into the station.
We had no idea where we were. We opened up a large map, but trying to pinpoint the street we were on was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. We eventually folded up the guide, and took the old-fashioned approach, questioning the locals. Once figuring out we were in the South Beach district, we set a direction, and tried to follow it.
Looking at my cell phone, I discovered that eight voice mails had appeared out of nowhere. We walked into a bookstore for shelter, and I sat down to listen to them.
“Hi, it’s your mother. When do you need to be picked up?”
Beep. I deleted it.
“Where are you? Call me. Bye”
Beep.
“Tell me where you are right now. This isn’t funny.”
Beep.
“Call your fucking mother, asshole”
Beep.
And so on, from my mother, my sisters, my father, my uncle… Ironically, I suppose, they had informed neither my oldest sister, nor my aunt, both who lived in the city. After a bothersome battle through text message with my youngest sister where I made the point that I was an adult, and allowed to do what I wanted, I called the house, and calmed them down. Family is a nice thing to have, but they’re a damn hassle when you need to embrace your own independence, ya know?
With that burden off my shoulders, but the duffle bag and a backpack still weighing me down, we settled down in Starbucks for a few minutes. We ordered a cup of hot water from the barista, and dropped in a teabag from my backpack. We decided to set sail for Chinatown, and finishing the tea, we were on our way.
The sky was getting dark, and needed directions again. I tried getting the attention of passersby, but dressed in old boots, two trench coats, and a beanie over my long, uncombed hair, not to mention my regularly untamed facial hair, people dismissed me immediately as a panhandler. Dan, with his more childlike appearance, had to be the one that obtained the information from strangers. And with that, we were headed the right way.
Walking through the off-and-on rain, we eventually made our way through the lion-guarded gates. We glanced inside stores, and walked into a large gift shop. On an impulse, I bought a knobbed fake-wood walking stick. With cane in hand, looking possibly more homeless than before, we decided to scope out a place to bed.
After checking out a few alleys, we decided on a nice flat street, outside of a Chinese Restaurant. We set down our bags, and I gave my still-wet feet some air. Dan tried sleeping, and I pulled out a book. We were there for no more than half an hour, when a soft-spoken Asian man shooed us away.
I decided to visit an ex-girlfriend at that point, while Dan looked for another place for us to sleep. Being without a cell phone, Dan took mine, and we agreed that I would call him using my ex’s when I was finished talking to her, so we could meet up. Hiking on our first big hill, we took the wrong way down twice before going the right way down Mason Street.
It was odd being back in her presence. Her hair was longer than the last time I had seen her, almost two years ago. She looked nice, and I knew I looked like shit. She led me to a balcony in her apartment building, and we discussed small things.
“Well, I’m a man of my word,” I obscurely joked, looking out into the street. “I said I was going to live on the streets for you.” At the age of fourteen and on the verge of a breakup that really came months later, I had no clue what I was talking about. I just wanted to bridge the distance gap that played a vicious role in our year-long relationship. I was sincere back then, too.
She brought me some tea, and put more in a travel cup that I could take to Dan. With an awkward hug, she walked back up to her parent’s apartment, and I found my way out of the building. By the time I was back on the sidewalk, I realized I had forgotten both the cup, and the phone call.
Almost panicking and completely lacking any form of communication, I paced the street, hoping my friend didn’t travel too far. No luck. I decided to wait outside my ex’s building, and hoped he would come find me. While sitting, I noticed a small bistro across the street, and was fortunate enough to be able to use their phone.
When we were reunited, Dan told me he had found a few good alleys. We walked in the general direction, as he didn’t know the streets well enough to lead us anywhere specific. We ended up finding a store in Chinatown that would be unoccupied at least until daylight. We set up camp outside, wrapping our luggage in trash bags, and setting up our umbrellas to keep out the occasional rain.
After a few failed attempts at sleep, finding maybe fifteen minutes of rest at a time, we decided to walk around. We picked up our belongings, and decided to explore for a few hours. Tired, but still enthusiastic, we moved forward with the hopes of finding a place to sleep and/or an adventure to experience. At the very least, we came across the latter.
We found a 24-hour donut shop, and stopped in for a rest and half-a-dozen donuts; at four bucks, that was a pretty good deal. The store was run by an Asian couple, who eyed us suspiciously.
On our way out, we passed by a building advertising Thailand Massage involving a hot tub. Had I not been weighed down with a minor, I would have walked in; for the sake of the warm water, at the very least. We came across a guy in his early-twenties hovering over what looked like a computer part on the sidewalk, with the cover broken off. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and though I can’t stand the smell of tobacco, I felt like being social.
“Need a light?”
He nodded, and I dug through my backpack for a box of matches. He introduced himself, Lance, and started talking to us as I struck a flame. We stood around the shelled electronic, and made small talk; it was two AM, and that’s a terrible time to feel alone. He was convinced there was something odd about the machine.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a bomb or something, I don’t know.” It was a computer monitor. We told him about the donut shop, and though we had just come from there, we decided to go back with him. He balanced the “bomb” on his suitcase, and we were on our way.
Inside the donut place, we took a table. Lance immediately struck up conversation with a man in his early forties, whose name I never heard. We moved closer to the two new strangers, and spent an hour and a half in the conversation. They talked about where they were from, about drugs, and about life itself.
“Do you smoke weed?” the older bum asked me. I told him I didn’t. “Drink?” he asked, inquiring further, and I told him that I did on occasion. “Vegetarian?” I don’t know where he pulled that from, but it was eerily accurate.
I learned that Lance had been out on the streets for a year, and came from Colorado, and the other gentleman had been out for seven months. He was from Ireland, with an accent to prove it, and had lived in London for twenty years before moving to California for nine years.
The Irish man was drawing on donut bags with a blue pen, and what he told us was a Japanese gel pen. He drew odd designs, a strange mask, a dancing eyeball and a flying eight ball, all in a tattoo-like fashion. That’s when I noticed he was absolutely covered in ink, from his neck down his limbs.
The homeless strangers talked, and I listened in while Dan, like usual, slept. Lance seemed like he had a lot of potential; he was a dreamer, and he wanted to make a change in the world. He wasn’t smart, but he was aware of his ignorance. Lance drew as well while he spoke, making designs that he seemed to put a lot of detail into, but he never presented them to us.
As he shaded in a red mask, the Irishman talked about the hardships of Ireland, how there was always a job to be done, and how people had to work tirelessly. He muttered about how vacations weren’t a time to travel; they were a time to finally get some relaxation. He talked a lot about his life, and it was an interesting story to hear.
When he finished his drawing, he drew a line from the monster’s mouth, and wrote “No Answer”. He handed me the paper as a present, and I told him to sign it. I carefully placed it in my backpack, and he asked me to create something as well, knowing I was a writer. I reached out for inspiration for a poem, as I watched Lance speaking, using fidgety hand gestures, and the Irishman talked to him, bantering from his perspective. The downpour had started up again outside.
3 AM Donut Shop
When you're in San Francisco
and the sun hasn't risen yet
and the rain in falling
and the only place you have to stay
is on the sidewalk,
it's pretty fucking lonely.
You go into a donut shop
and there are people like you
and it's pouring outside 'til it floods
and you're all in the same boat.
At least it's not so fucking lonely.
I signed the paper, and handed it to the Irishman. He folded it, and placed it in his breast pocket. Soon after that, he said he had to go. He stood around though, for a good fifteen minutes, continuing the conversation. Lance ended up leaving before the Irishman did, saying that maybe today or tomorrow, he would get on a train back home. We both wished him good luck, as he pulled away his wheeled suitcase, still balancing the possibly-explosive monitor.
“He’s on something” the Irishman commented, after Lance had left. That was unquestionable. He said it a few more times as we exchanged a few more words, before he left too, leaving Dan and I alone at the table. We soon both fell into a light slumber. We were awoken several minutes later, by the Asian store owner knocking on the table. He mentioned something about “this is a restaurant” in his broken English, and we took that as our cue to leave. That was the second place we had been kicked out of.
Exhausted, we went venturing into the wet air. We eventually came across another Starbucks around 5:30, and we decided to sit down inside. We ordered a cup of hot water again, and I made some French vanilla flavored black tea. We sat at a table near a couple of crack whores who were probably doing the same thing we were. Dan and I decided to take turns sleeping, but soon we both crashed.
Half an hour or so later, an employee gently woke us up, saying we couldn’t sleep there. We sat around for another ten minutes, waking ourselves up. We picked up our bags, and made our way out onto the streets; the sun was starting to show up, and I accepted that wet feet, sore shoulders and lack of sleep were going to be permanent conditions on this journey.
We meandered half-consciously for a few hours. We walked into a Borders, and I hoped to sneak a few Z’s in. I picked up a collection of poetry, and we sat in a corner. I lied down, with my face buried in the book, hoping that anyone passing by wouldn’t see my closed eyes. Sure enough, before long a metrosexual-looking man with a Swedish accent booted us from the store. That made four.
We came across the Irishman again that afternoon, as we were bumbling around the Financial District. He stopped to talk to him as he panhandled. An employee from the Jamba Juice across the street, brought him something with a granola in it, and then invited us to come get some discount oatmeal. We bid adieu to our bum buddy after talking a bit longer, and then made our way to the cheap brunch.
We spent two leisurely hours in the store. We didn’t talk, just stared at the rain outside the large glass wall. I realized something about being homeless at that point. It’s very easy, when you have no place at all to be, to sit somewhere for hours; you can almost turn off your brain.
We decided on dinner at a Teriyaki restaurant that was handing out coupons. As we climbed around hills to explore our way back to the eatery, I was grateful that I had purchased the walking stick. It proved to be extremely useful when trying to pull my aching body up steep hills. Well worth the four dollars I paid for it.
When we got to the restaurant, celebrating its grand re-opening, we found it empty of customers. The new owner, an Indian woman, took our orders, and the man next to her whipped up the food in a manner of minutes. He handed us each a plate of rice, lying under a mass of vegetables and tofu. The food was okay, and the sauce was amazing. The crew was somewhat inattentive, but they never pushed us out of the door. We stuck around for over two hours before stepping out into the evening air.
Where to sleep again became an issue. We found another Starbucks, and spent a good hour or so fucking around with yet another cup of hot water, using their bathroom, and sleeping until they kicked us out. We searched for another temporary bed.
In what seemed like a sunny ray of hope on the cloudy day, we found a hospital with large, sheltered deck area in its front. We found refuge for a few hours, hiding behind a pole. We put down our bags, and relaxed. I realized that, like the ones on my feet, the extra socks I had brought along were already the worse for my swampfoot. As I peeled off my fourth pair of black, gold-toed socks, I noticed the string from the previous day, meant to keep out rain, was still there, hanging about my calf. I didn’t care to cut it off.
I pulled some tea candles out of my bag, and lit up a few. I held my sock over the heat, hoping to dry them off. I added more candles, trying to keep few enough that if a cop walked by, I could blow them out quickly. An hour and a half later, I had dry socks, and I understood the importance of small pleasures.
I decided to visit my ex again, and Dan didn’t mind waiting around. I took a couple of ziplock bags from my backpack, and used them as a barrier between my lovely, dry socks and my tired, drenched shoes. The visit was a short one, but she took the duffle bag, which at that point was beginning to make me feel extremely frustrated, off my hands. We agreed to hang out the next day, and I made my way the eight blocks back to the hospital.
For a while longer, we hung around the hospital. We got comfortable, and before the air got too cold, we decided to try to fall asleep. Fifteen minutes later, we were awoken by a security guard. Kicked out again, this time from a fucking hospital.
Starting to get cranky from severe lack of sleep, we decided to look for the donut shop again. For about three hours, we searched fruitlessly. We looked for any place at all that was open, but somehow in a busy city, we couldn’t even find an all-day convenience store.
The lack of sleep wracked my brain, and the fatigue of walking up and down hills was taking its number on my will. But we pressed on through the frigid night, hoping to find any bit of good fortune in the dark night. Every possible location had a security guard, and a feeling of hopelessness was omnipresent.
We found a couple of benches outside an Academy of Art University building. While it wasn’t the most comfortable, it was better than the cold concrete. A drugged up homeless man stood nearby, being excessively noisy. At that point, despite my pacifistic nature, I was ready to grab my cane and make him bleed. Profusely.
A guard came around, and there was our seventh time being booted. Know why? You’d think benches on the sidewalk were open to the public, but nope! We couldn’t be sitting there because, as the man told us, we weren’t students. Apparently we were scaring off any aspiring artists that happened to going to class at three in the fucking morning.
I was pissed off at this point. There’s really not much more to say about that, aside from the fact that Dan didn’t help with his occasional mocking “Aaadventuuuure.”
We stopped by a nice-looking hotel, so Dan could, yet again, use the bathroom. While I waited for probably half an hour, the doorman and I watched a scene across the street. Two gay guys were having an argument outside their apartment, because one of them was smoking, and the other didn’t approve. The latter was furious, his words reaching clearly across the street, while the other acted meek and soft spoken. The worried lover smacked the box cigarettes out of the other’s hand, and proceeded to grind them into the ground with his shoe.
Eventually, they went together into the building. Minutes later, a man, probably in his twenties, walked by and picked up a cigarette from the ground.
“Enjoy your cigarette” the doorman said, chuckling.
Sooner or later, we found the donut shop again, and sat down inside for an hour and I ordered French toast. We met a new bum this time, an Israeli who wanted to escape his family. The conversation with this man wasn’t so exciting, as he came off as very socially awkward, and a bit creepy. We stopped talking after a few minutes.
I noticed the girl at the cash register, no doubt related to the fresh-off-the-boat Asian couple that ran the restaurant, was pretty, in a way. She asked us where we were from, but I don’t think she knew California geography well enough to understand. I checked her out, glad to have something at least remotely pleasant to look at. I eventually noticed a ring on her finger. Oh well
We muddled around for a few more hours. We promised my ex we’d meet her at ten, and that was still hours away. We found the same Starbucks from the previous morning, and it ran like a rerun from before. The crack whores were even there, at the same table, in the same poses, as if they had never left.
After another abrupt wake-up, we made our way to my ex’s apartment to wait. When she came out, we headed to her work so she could get a smoothie, before making our way to the Golden Gate Park via bus. We took seats near the back of the bus, near a group of black teenage girls. Eventually, one of them got my attention.
“Hey, is he your son?” they asked, referring towards my short, Vietnamese friend. Somehow, the fact that I’m white didn’t answer that question immediately, so I promptly lied. They then asked if my ex, who is half-Chinese, was the mother. They both kept quiet, while I bullshit with a straight face.
“You’re not lying to us, are you?”
“Why would I lie?”
When we got to the park, she told us she had a membership to the Tech museum, which let her bring in guests for free, as well as skip the line. This wasn’t really exciting for us, but it became laughable when we saw the line that stretched at least a mile. We trotted to the front of the line, towards the member’s door.
Turns out every third Wednesday of the month is a “free admission day”, and there’s no special line for members.
We decided to screw that plan, and made our way towards a Korean restaurant that she knew about. Once the food arrived, we realized that we ordered way too much. Being a vegan and a vegetarian, my ex and I quickly slid all the plates that included fish towards Dan. The meal wasn’t bad, but the best part was that she paid for the whole thing. I decided I’d treat her to dinner someday.
We bussed down to the beach after that, where there was smooth sand and a wall covered in graffiti. We set our stuff down, and independently roamed the beach. My ex collected shells, I watched my footsteps in the sand, and Dan sat. She tried to convince us to dip our feet in the waves, but my feet had spent enough time wet during the trip.
After some time, Dan wandered off the sand to go look for a bathroom. I took the opportunity to pick up a conversation with the girl whom I used to be able to converse with for hours daily. We walked around the shore, as we talked. I wish it hadn’t been as awkward as it was.
She had changed a lot, and I suppose I did a bit as well. We did it in different ways, though. My change was gradual, leaving footprints on the path behind me; I felt as in touch with myself ten years ago as I did then. She, on the other hand, would pick up new attributes, and drop old ones in an instant, feeling completely disconnected with the girl I had practically dedicated my life to three years prior. To be honest, I was looking for a sort of nostalgia to fill a hollow place in my spirit. I came out of the conversation disappointed.
Dan and I decided we had enough of the street life for a while. My body ached, my mind was on the verge of breakdown, and I had a family life to patch up. My ex gave me directions for the route to the train station, as we sat together on a bus going downtown. We got off, hugged, and she walked off. I wasn’t glad to see her go, but I didn’t mind it either.
We both fell asleep on the train ride home, actually missing our stop. The conductor, a really nice guy, talked to the man from the train going back, and got us on board. In San Jose, the bus ride took an opposite turn, as I got us off at an early stop. The night had freshly dropped over the sky, and I was frustrated and exhausted beyond reason by that point, though glad to be in San Jose. I ended up calling my family for a ride back home.
Dan had purchased an all-day transport pass, so he decided to find his way home on the bus. I sat on a small lawn near a shopping center, and waited for my father to pick me up.
When we got home, I headed straight for the shower, where I spent over an hour. It was nice being clean. It was nice knowing I was covered in water that wasn’t rain. It was nice being warm at night. It was nice having a place to be. It was nice being home.
I thought no one was homeless.
I thought the sky, stars and clouds
were a Michael Angelo ceiling.
I believed store façades were walls,
and roads were door frames.
I saw streetlamps as a hall light,
creeping through a crack in the door,
and the cars and people passing by
were the bustle of an occupied house.
I thought no one was homeless,
that some just had more urban abodes.
I tried living on the pavement,
where roof leaks,
where the walls did not block the wind,
where light was not reassuring
and people were anything but comforting.
I thought no one was homeless
until I understood what a home is.
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