I’m fortunate enough to have gone through some pretty painful experiences and to have made it out the other side. A few that come to mind:
High school
Major Depressive Disorder
Heroin withdrawals
Shitting myself in my shower
Shitting myself in in someone else’s shower
Quitting cigarettes
As horrendous as some of these were, none of them have beaten the brief period of time where I didn’t know where I was going to sleep. I hesitate to say homeless, because even if I technically was, I didn’t have to be. All I had to say was, “Fine, I’ll go to rehab,” and I would’ve had a roof over my head and all the resources I needed in an instant. Unfortunately, not many are as lucky.
It’s a terrifying experience regardless.
The engine that fueled my addiction was an unending desire to be comfortable. Physically and mentally. Despite having everything I needed (and more) growing up, it was never quite enough to get me to that finish line. My skin just wouldn't sit right, and the idea of being able to lay down and be at peace with myself was laughable. Improbable. My body was a junkyard beater, and I’m no mechanic.
The comfort came though. It came with drugs. Here were these booster rockets I could strap to my clunker of a brain. And suddenly, I could go wherever I wanted. No more fear. They were something I could come back to no matter what happened to me in the outside world. They were my secret to success. My confidence. Unfortunately, after enough time, they blew the tires off of me. My bare rims were left sparking and clawing against pavement.
Without the drugs, it wasn’t as simple as being back at the starting line. I wasn’t even on the track anymore. In fact, I didn’t even know where the track was. The smoke and wreckage were too disorienting. The withdrawals had me pinned like a car cash. They were just bearable before, when I had a mattress to lay on, food to eat, cigarettes to smoke, and friends to commiserate with. But I didn’t have that anymore. I had a suitcase, and a pair of ripped jeans.
Not even an actual car to sleep in.
Without life’s comforts. Physical or mental. Small or large. It was a bare knuckled struggle to stay afloat—to simply exist. Self-actualization, love, belonging, even safety, none of that mattered when I was getting kicked out of a Jack in the Box for the second time in a row because they didn’t want me sleeping there, and I didn’t know where else to go because it was raining, and I had to lug a suitcase over cracked sidewalks to find a dry spot of cement. They were unnecessary. Love wasn’t going to buy me crack or a place to sleep.
The following story is a snapshot from this period in my life. My only hope is that it sheds some light, or offers a different perspective, on the people we pass all too often on the street. And “sometimes all it takes is a change in perspective to make the world brand new.”1
As a guest, it’s considered poor etiquette to leave your meth pipe on display in someone else’s home.
The burnt glass tube of chemicals must have been rolling back and forth on the coffee table all morning as college seniors rushed in and out of the knock-off frat house. It slipped my mind, the paraphernalia. But to be fair, I was worried about more than good manners that day. I had an appointment at the bank.
If the University District were a grid of streets, then the bank lived at the origin. Where The Ave met NE 45th ST. A crossroads. I had walked past it so many times as a student, but I had never come from this direction before. I was late. By the time I got there, Sean was already outside, leaned up against the ATM. His frayed broomstick hair bounced in front of his face as he worked on a cigarette.
“Just gotta talk to someone, then I’ll have the money.” I said, continuing towards the bank as I did.
Sean tapped against his cigarette like a wary jackrabbit. Heroin didn’t deliver itself. That was Sean’s job. He just needed my cut. The bank door squeezed shut behind me, forcing the gray Seattle winter back outside. Warm fluorescent lights and tellers in ironed shirts took its place. My jeans dragged across the tile as I moved ahead, more thread than denim by this point. I was unraveling before everyone’s eyes.
“Can I open an account,” I asked.
This was the plan: sign up for a new checking account and get the free two hundred dollars that came with it. It was the last idea I had left. None of the cards in my wallet worked anymore. They weren’t pulling money from ATMs, and they weren’t being accepted by registers. No cash either. The only paper in my wallet was a business card for an addiction recovery specialist. Nothing helpful.
“Right this way.” The teller led me to a plump leather chair. It squeaked beneath my chicken-bone legs.
I signed document after document. One, a cramped wall of text detailing the intricacies of FDIC. Another, a grid explaining the differences between simple checkings and simple savings. There was student savings too, but the teller assured me that I didn’t want that. None of it made sense, but that didn’t matter. I just wanted the free funds. It’d be just enough to cover me for the week—that is, if none of it went to food. Fortunately, I didn’t eat as much as I used to.
The teller handed over a gray plastic card. “Is the two-hundred already there?” I asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“The two-hundred,” I repeated. “The money for signing up.”
“Oh,” the teller collected all my signed documents together, patting them against the desk. “That won’t come in until you have a direct deposit set up.” He slid the papers into a folder and handed them to me.
Outside, the folder of bank forms slammed against the sidewalk. “What do you mean you won’t cover me?” I asked Sean. “Not even just this once?”
A burst of wind caught a loose sheet, rippling it like a broken fan blade. My foot stomped down on it to cut the noise. Sean was unimpressed. He sighed and walked away—didn’t even shake his head, just left. His mop of hair bounced away from me and the crossroads, eventually vanishing behind a corner.
The crosswalk said go, but I stood there until the digital, red hand started to flash. Before it counted all the way down to zero, my feet took control—leading me back in the direction I first came in. Where else was there to go? Perhaps my host at the knock-off frat house would lend me some dough. Dough. Maybe he and his friends would order pizza. My stomach floated freely inside my belly as I crushed dead leaves beneath my shoes and manufactured false hopes. As long as there was something to look forward to, there was a reason to keep moving. As long as there was a reason to keep moving…well, what else was there to do?
Silverware clattered against patio tables and someone stifled a laugh. Up ahead, beneath the sign of a restaurant, a group of students sat outside enjoying their lunches. Bacon burger. Fries. Lamb gyro. Mozzarella sticks. Those cloudy teas with bubbles in them. A thought struck me. I had stolen Snickers bars before, but would I have to learn how to steal entire meals? The smell of fried bread carried across the wind. My stomach shrank.
Self-checkout lanes. There was a plan: go to the grocery store, fill a basket with essentials (meats, cheeses, Ruffles potato chips), and pretend to pay for them. The machine would reject my card, but if the attendant were young enough—and stoned enough—they wouldn’t notice or care. I’d have to go to multiple stores though. Too risky otherwise. How long would I be able to keep it up? That’d be so much walking.
My foot stepped on a loose strand of my pants as my host’s home came into view. I tripped but managed to keep my balance by grabbing onto a street lamp. The door to the house was cracked open, and stuff piled on the patio. Just one more block, and I could sit back down—focus my energy on next steps. My stomach bounced like a hollow ping pong ball.
Hoisting myself up the concrete railing, the door swung completely open.
“Oh no,” this guy with a trimmed beard stared me down. “No, no, no.”
What I hadn’t noticed before, the junk piled on the patio. It was my stuff. Backpack and suitcase. The handle was fully extended.
“You can’t stay here, dude.” This is what the bearded man said.
My stomach dropped. It was almost enough to bring me down too. “What? No. Where’s Ben? He said I could stay here. I’ve known him for years.”
This bearded guy. He wouldn’t shut up. “Nah, not if you’re going to smoke crack in our living room.”
Fuck, I thought. The fucking pipe. Why did I have to leave it out? “Please,” I begged. “Ben said I could. You didn’t throw it away did you?”
The bearded man gripped the side of the door. It creaked back and forth as if he wanted to close it but something was stopping him. His eyebrows pushed together, his tone changed. “Hey, look,” he said. “I can bring you to the homeless shelter, but…you can’t stay here.”
My suitcase banged against each step as I dragged it off the patio. The homeless shelter was not an option. The homeless shelter was defeat. I could do this myself, even if it meant sleeping on cigarette butts and spit. The bearded man, this neatly groomed son of a bitch, I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. This was my life.
“Fuck you!” I spat, storming down the sidewalk with no idea where it went. “And enjoy your comfortable bed.”
Nathan Fielder. “The Fielder Method.” The Rehearsal, season 1, episode 4, 2022.
Image Sources: jordan-bebek from Unsplash, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ave
That was hard-I could feel the desperation--wow
Rough, but honest. Thanks for sharing!