Ukulele?
Check. Laptop? Check. Half
eaten avocado, spork and pocketknife? Check. Oh yeah… and a change of clothes
and some toiletries. Sweet. Room for the next four days, here I come.
This is my new life and the very profound thoughts that come
with living out of my rather vast vehicle. On Friday I gave up, folded the
seats down and organized my minivan. I now have a “kitchen”, a “bathroom zone”,
a “dresser/hamper”, a “shoebox” and, my favorite of all, a “library”, for what
hoboshack is complete without at least twenty five books stacked lovingly
against a wall ready to slide about as soon as I brake too quickly?
One might ask, but why, Halley, are you living out of your
car? Surely you could find a place to live somewhere in Santa Cruz. It is, after all, rather a
largish town, certainly replete with buildings, some of which must have rooms
designed specifically for the purpose of human habitation.
Well, young grasshopper, you have a point. The excuse of
having just gotten back from being kidnapped to Mexico is getting a bit stale, two
weeks is enough to get my feet under me and make a respectable citizen of my
vagabond self once more. And yet…
This evening, after my dear friend Snarky convinced me that
I should not consume solely cake for my evening meal, I went scavenging in the
“kitchen”. Thus dinner consisted of a motley assortment of bread, cheese (which doesn't go bad as fast as I thought- going on one week now and the Gouda is
still good…a)(can’t help it, I’m sorry), marinated mushrooms, half an avocado,
some dried cranberries, some almonds, a couple strips of beef jerky and cake
for dessert. (Snarky approved cake as a reasonable breakfast, so I anticipate
more mocha chocolate-y goodness in the morning, followed by the requisite
bellyache).
Does this not sound utterly romantic? The life of a
vagabond! A true wanderer, homeless, drifting from place to place like a
dandelion fluff, borne by the combustion of decayed dinosaurs in the
traditional steed of the soccer-mom.
In my defense against the allegations that I myself am
making, I have been combing for housing. This very evening I looked at two
places. One was labeled the “Man
Cave”, and came complete
with a fully packed bong waiting on the kitchen counter, a chicken coop and
upholstered chairs in the backyard, and a promise that they would build me a
structure onto which I could hang my aerial silk. Surprisingly, the Man Cave
had a remarkable number of women in it, but since it houses six other people,
that many men alone in one space might breed either a testosterone monster or a
fraternity (I think those are different things, though I leave that open for
debate).
My other option was a clean cut, no nonsense condo with a
couple who have respectable jobs, a dog, early bedtimes and white carpets.
Perhaps either of these is a perfectly acceptable
alternative to the minivan hoboshack, but I find myself gravitating towards the
absurd, toward the idea of actually living out of a car for four and a half
months and somehow rocking it. I mean, it’s not like I’m unemployed. I realized
with a start the other day that I have four jobs. (Only one is full time, but I
kid you not, four jobs). Shall we call this the year of employment? Also, this
is the first time I've truly worked in January. Hilarious, but for a seasonal
worker like my humble self, January is a hibernation month. What if I don’t
have enough stored up to get through the winter now?
So we’ll see what I get up to, but if you are one of the dear souls
(poor suckers) that offered up your establishment for a crash pad, don’t be
surprised if you get a house call from your friendly neighborhood vagabond,
Splash, the wandering sailor/naturalist/adventurer/seeker of showers and
connoisseur of fine couches.
