It’s 4 AM on an early September morning when there’s a knock on my car door. I’ve been sleeping inside my Subaru next to the sparse contents of my life. The knock comes rudely, shaking me from my stupor. “Police,” I hear a gruff voice on the other side of the window.
“Open up.”
Fuck. Not again. I think through my groggy early morning haze. I’ve been car camping at trailheads and Walmart parking lots for the past month. And this isn’t the first time I’ve been woken up by a man of the law. Last time it happened, I was minding my own business next to the river. The stars blazed above my sunroof. And the idyllic evening quickly swooshed me into sleep. But it wasn’t long before a police officer with a flashlight pulled up to my car, scanning the interior for signs of life. Good thing I wasn’t naked.
With Covid-19 ravaging the planet, the camping rules have changed:
No camping next to the road.
No camping in National Forest parking lots.
No camping in camp sites.
The rules come from federal desk jockeys who are hoping to slow the spread of the virus. But it seems like police are using the virus to crack down on vagabonds like me. They want me to find a home — a real one with running water and a toilet. Maybe they even want to corral me into an attempt at a normal life, selling my brain to the highest capitalistic bidder. But I can’t help myself. I’m a lost cause.
Under the cover of darkness, I open the door to face the intruder, bracing myself for the confrontation.
And then I see him.
“Chris, you’re a dumbass.”
Beneath my sleepy stupor, I’ve forgotten that I’m actually in a Walmart parking lot and there’s nothing illegal about what I’m doing. I can’t help but smile at my own relief. Chris and I joke that Walmart is my new home. He knows to look for me in the northeast corner of the parking lot because the parking lights don’t shine there. And I never would’ve imagined myself growing comfortable with curbside sleeps.
His teeth glisten like the teeth of the Cheshire Cat when he smiles in the darkness. He’s kniving yet funny. Rude yet realistic. He knows what it’s like to be evicted from your parking spot at all hours of the night. In fact, he only recently began paying rent after spending the past decade bouncing from state to state. We share an insatiable need to be on the move.
Once I realize that the threat of authority is imagined, I soften.
“Let’s go get coffee,” Chris says, wrapping his grubby arms around me.
The hug feels like half of an apology. I don’t know if I want to be touched this early or not. But coffee does sound good.
For More Inspiration:
