Welcome to the Minivan Hoboshack

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.