Even though nobody really had anything, they were all very generous with each other. It’s amazing, really, that people whose next meal was in doubt, would be willing to share anything at all. But there was a generosity and caring that I’ve never seen anywhere else.
I remember sitting on the patio at the hamburger joint one day. Ron and Chris were there (and several other friends). There was a bus stop just outside the patio. The bus stopped, and an old woman got out. Somebody ran up, grabbed her cane, and started running away with it. Ron and Chris jumped over the little wall and ran after him. They eventually came back with the cane.
Later that day, someone offered me a couple of joints. I didn’t smoke pot, but I took them anyway. Ron and Chris smoked, and they were heroes. Now I had something to give them. In this way everyone did what they could to help each other.
I remember another time when I got very sick. I was throwing up and running a fever. Two of my friends bundled me up and got me on a bus to the hospital. They stayed with me in the waiting room, through my appointment, and then escorted me back to the park. Then they watched over me while I slept on and off for the next several days. I’m sure it never occurred to them to desert me when I might need someone, even if it was just a hand to hold.
There were also many groups that did things to help the homeless. There were church groups that each distributed sack lunches once a week. The Salvation Army had a hot dinner once a week. If you knew the schedule, you could get a free meal almost every day. And we would swap with each other for the parts we liked.
One of the church groups put a small can of corned beef hash in each lunch sack. There’s no doubt that it was the healthiest part of the lunch. The rest was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, and a cookie. But I just can’t look at that stuff and see it as edible by humans. I tried. So I would give someone else my can in exchange for their apple and sandwich.
The local McDonalds also worked with the homeless. At a certain time of the morning, they would discard any breakfasts they had made but not sold. One of us would go wait by their back door and get them, and bring a whole stack back to share with everyone. Mmmm. Pancakes, eggs and sausage! With syrup! Heaven.
And if anyone earned enough and decided to splurge on a motel room, they’d usually invite their friends to share. Imagine if you will: a room with one full or queen sized bed. Three or four people sleeping in the bed. A few laying on the floor on each side. And a few of us on the floor by the foot. Ten of us in one room wasn’t unusual. Just being someplace warm where no one would disturb you for a few hours was wonderful. The opportunity for a shower was a bonus!
It’s funny sometimes how little you really need to make you happy.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Chapter 4
But there are a few incidents here and there that have not only stayed with me, but have the type of clarity that makes it hard to believe they happened more than half of my lifetime ago.
Some of them are silly little nothings. I remember that the fries at the hamburger joint came in a lunch sack. For one dollar you could get a sack that size, full of fries. Believe me, that was a very good deal for people with very little money and a yawning pit in their center.
But mostly I remember the people...
Tom: Tom was one of my first boyfriends... sort of. He asked me to be his girlfriend, and was really nice to me. It took a few weeks for me to ask him why he never kissed me. He had AIDS. He didn't want to run any risk that I'd catch it. He told me that his lover had already died, and some day God would call him home also. We would sit together for hours and write poetry. He'd write a line, then I'd write the next. I was awful at it! But it seemed to bring him some happiness. Looking back, I'm not sure why he was interested in me.
I don't remember why we broke up, or how long we were together. One day, months later, I was sitting on the patio at the hamburger joint, and a car pulled up. Some one got out of the car, walked over to me, and said, "Tom is going home." Before my brain could translate that into anything meaningful, he was back in the car, and the car was gone.
I didn't recognize the person who told me, so I can only assume that Tom was in the car and pointed me out. I wish I'd gotten to say goodbye.
Dale: Dale lived in an apartment behind the hamburger joint, with his roommate Danny, and Danny's girlfriend. I would stay with them sometimes. But not very often, because Danny would hit on me if the other two were gone. I didn't want to tell Dale that, though.
Eventually Dale told me that he had gotten another girl pregnant when he was out of town. She was going to move down here and he would marry her. I saw them a few months later. She was very pregnant, and he looked very happy. Strange to think that their child will now be older than I was when I last saw them.
Liz: Liz had red/orange hair, freckles, round face and body, and a sunny disposition. She was the first female to claim to be in love with me. Of course, half of my male friends claimed to be in love with me, so the declaration itself didn't mean much. And I was in a time and place where sexual activities and preferences were not questioned or judged. However, I didn't find her in the least attractive. But I took her proposal as a compliment, as it surely was. I feel the same way now when a woman hits on me; just because I am not attracted to her doesn't make her offer any less of a compliment. I treat it the same as being hit on by a man I am not interested in. Isn't it really the exact same thing?
Brian: Brian actually had a business... if you consider selling drugs to be a business. He was certainly successful at it. I have a memory of being in a room at the Holiday Inn with him, Liz, and another guy. Liz was portioning out speed into smaller baggies. The other guy was going to distribute it. I was there because I was with Brian. And everyone knew I didn't do drugs and I didn't steal.
A few days later Brian suggested we leave town. We hitchhiked to Albuquerque, New Mexico and he got us a motel room. I was to stay in the room and stay hidden, because he only paid for one person. He brought me a coffee maker and some herbal teas. Then he pretty much disappeared. He would come home each night, sometimes with some food. He said he was looking for work. Then he said he found a sugar daddy. I was still hiding in the room all day, every day. I didn’t have a room key, so if I went out I’d be unable to get back in. This went on for a few weeks. Finally we got into a huge fight (I’m not sure what we fought about). The next day, while he was gone, I left. I found some local businesses that would let me wash their windows for a little cash. Imagine trying to clean the huge plate glass windows in front of a dealership, using nothing but a newspaper and water. I didn’t do a very good job, and my arms ached before I’d really even started. I’m lucky anyone paid me. I hitchhiked back home that night.
So I lived in New Mexico for two weeks. But I only ever saw one block, and that for less than one day.
Rocky: Rocky was never really a boyfriend. More of a brother. One day he told me that he was going to go up to Washington to see his parents. He invited me to go with him. One of the benefits of street life is the lack of schedule. If you want to pick up and leave for a day, week, month, year, there was nothing to stop you. No pets, bills to pay, jobs. So I agreed to go. We hitchhiked with truckers. We would usually claim to be brother and sister. Occasionally boyfriend and girlfriend, if it looked like I’d be propositioned. I don’t know what city we were in when we decided to purchase a shower (truck stop showers are not free). We shared a shower. Perfectly normal for people short of money. He wished to have sex. I didn’t see any reason not to. He was paying for everything and this was all I had to offer in return.
After our shower we sat in the truck stop diner and ordered breakfast. He went to use the payphone to call his family. He came back and told me that his mom had offered to pay for a bus ticket for him, but she wouldn’t buy one for me. I can’t blamer her. She didn’t know me. He gave me her number and told me to call when I got to Washington.
So I hitchhiked the rest of the way by myself. On the way I met a really nice driver who wanted me to stay with him. I considered it. But I was afraid Rocky would worry. Besides, I had a commitment. He was my last ride before Yakima, Washington. I agonized over whether to stay with him. I decided that I needed to stick to my plan. I got into Yakima and called the number Rocky gave me. The woman who answered told me I had the wrong number.
I still don’t know what actually happened there. Did his mother decide to save him from the bad influence of his street friends? Did she ever tell him that I called? Or did Rocky decide, once he succeeded in having sex with me, that he really didn’t need to continue the relationship? And the whole bus ticket thing was just a ruse to get away from me? Did he tell the truth about everything, but decide once he got home that he didn’t want me there? Or was it actually a wrong number… I’ll never know. But it has always bothered me.
Joe: Joe was an interesting guy. I think he was probably 15 years older than I. Maybe more. We were together for a long time. Sometimes he would disappear for weeks on end. One time when he was gone (and I was convinced that he was in jail or not coming back) a friend brought me a magazine. One of the (many) pictures of nude men was Joe! Disconcerting.
We eventually moved in with my friend Chris. Chris had an apartment that was so small, I’m surprised it was legal. The width of the apartment was exactly enough to hold a twin bed (no frame) from wall to wall. Joe and I slept there. Then there was another twin bed perpendicular to ours, along the side wall. This was the entire “living” area. Then the kitchen started. It had a mini fridge with a 2 burner range on top of it. Across from that was a sink with a cupboard above and below. On the far side of the kitchen was the bathroom. I’m sitting in my patio writing this, and I just realized that my patio is bigger than the apartment the three of us shared.
I ran into a friend who was working construction a few blocks from the apartment, and begged him to hire Joe. He agreed. I told Joe about it, and he seemed pleased. Monday morning I got up and packed him a lunch, kissed him goodbye, and got ready to start my day. Now that “we” had an income, I was going to celebrate by going out to breakfast.
I walked out of the apartment and started the three mile walk to the little diner with a great pancake special. My path took me right by the construction site. My friend came over and asked where Joe was. Hmmm. Maybe he stopped at the liquor store for cigarettes? I’m sure he’ll be here any time.
I walked to the diner and ordered my pancakes. Ate them with great relish. And then went to pay… Where was my money? I didn’t have much, but I knew exactly how much it was and it wasn’t there! Maybe I left it stashed under the bed?
I walked the three miles back to the apartment, stopping again at the construction site. No Joe. When I got home, Chris was there. I couldn’t find my money, so I borrow some from Chris. Three miles back to the diner to pay my tab, and three miles back to the apartment, again checking for Joe on the way. No Joe, no money.
That was the last I heard of Joe until a few months after I had moved back in with my parents. I had my own phone line and it was listed under my name. Joe evidently remembered my name because he called me… collect, from the other end of the state. He wanted to visit me and apologize. He would be in town the following week. He did visit. And on his way out the door he asked to borrow twenty dollars for bus fare back home.
What a guy.
Some of them are silly little nothings. I remember that the fries at the hamburger joint came in a lunch sack. For one dollar you could get a sack that size, full of fries. Believe me, that was a very good deal for people with very little money and a yawning pit in their center.
But mostly I remember the people...
Tom: Tom was one of my first boyfriends... sort of. He asked me to be his girlfriend, and was really nice to me. It took a few weeks for me to ask him why he never kissed me. He had AIDS. He didn't want to run any risk that I'd catch it. He told me that his lover had already died, and some day God would call him home also. We would sit together for hours and write poetry. He'd write a line, then I'd write the next. I was awful at it! But it seemed to bring him some happiness. Looking back, I'm not sure why he was interested in me.
I don't remember why we broke up, or how long we were together. One day, months later, I was sitting on the patio at the hamburger joint, and a car pulled up. Some one got out of the car, walked over to me, and said, "Tom is going home." Before my brain could translate that into anything meaningful, he was back in the car, and the car was gone.
I didn't recognize the person who told me, so I can only assume that Tom was in the car and pointed me out. I wish I'd gotten to say goodbye.
Dale: Dale lived in an apartment behind the hamburger joint, with his roommate Danny, and Danny's girlfriend. I would stay with them sometimes. But not very often, because Danny would hit on me if the other two were gone. I didn't want to tell Dale that, though.
Eventually Dale told me that he had gotten another girl pregnant when he was out of town. She was going to move down here and he would marry her. I saw them a few months later. She was very pregnant, and he looked very happy. Strange to think that their child will now be older than I was when I last saw them.
Liz: Liz had red/orange hair, freckles, round face and body, and a sunny disposition. She was the first female to claim to be in love with me. Of course, half of my male friends claimed to be in love with me, so the declaration itself didn't mean much. And I was in a time and place where sexual activities and preferences were not questioned or judged. However, I didn't find her in the least attractive. But I took her proposal as a compliment, as it surely was. I feel the same way now when a woman hits on me; just because I am not attracted to her doesn't make her offer any less of a compliment. I treat it the same as being hit on by a man I am not interested in. Isn't it really the exact same thing?
Brian: Brian actually had a business... if you consider selling drugs to be a business. He was certainly successful at it. I have a memory of being in a room at the Holiday Inn with him, Liz, and another guy. Liz was portioning out speed into smaller baggies. The other guy was going to distribute it. I was there because I was with Brian. And everyone knew I didn't do drugs and I didn't steal.
A few days later Brian suggested we leave town. We hitchhiked to Albuquerque, New Mexico and he got us a motel room. I was to stay in the room and stay hidden, because he only paid for one person. He brought me a coffee maker and some herbal teas. Then he pretty much disappeared. He would come home each night, sometimes with some food. He said he was looking for work. Then he said he found a sugar daddy. I was still hiding in the room all day, every day. I didn’t have a room key, so if I went out I’d be unable to get back in. This went on for a few weeks. Finally we got into a huge fight (I’m not sure what we fought about). The next day, while he was gone, I left. I found some local businesses that would let me wash their windows for a little cash. Imagine trying to clean the huge plate glass windows in front of a dealership, using nothing but a newspaper and water. I didn’t do a very good job, and my arms ached before I’d really even started. I’m lucky anyone paid me. I hitchhiked back home that night.
So I lived in New Mexico for two weeks. But I only ever saw one block, and that for less than one day.
Rocky: Rocky was never really a boyfriend. More of a brother. One day he told me that he was going to go up to Washington to see his parents. He invited me to go with him. One of the benefits of street life is the lack of schedule. If you want to pick up and leave for a day, week, month, year, there was nothing to stop you. No pets, bills to pay, jobs. So I agreed to go. We hitchhiked with truckers. We would usually claim to be brother and sister. Occasionally boyfriend and girlfriend, if it looked like I’d be propositioned. I don’t know what city we were in when we decided to purchase a shower (truck stop showers are not free). We shared a shower. Perfectly normal for people short of money. He wished to have sex. I didn’t see any reason not to. He was paying for everything and this was all I had to offer in return.
After our shower we sat in the truck stop diner and ordered breakfast. He went to use the payphone to call his family. He came back and told me that his mom had offered to pay for a bus ticket for him, but she wouldn’t buy one for me. I can’t blamer her. She didn’t know me. He gave me her number and told me to call when I got to Washington.
So I hitchhiked the rest of the way by myself. On the way I met a really nice driver who wanted me to stay with him. I considered it. But I was afraid Rocky would worry. Besides, I had a commitment. He was my last ride before Yakima, Washington. I agonized over whether to stay with him. I decided that I needed to stick to my plan. I got into Yakima and called the number Rocky gave me. The woman who answered told me I had the wrong number.
I still don’t know what actually happened there. Did his mother decide to save him from the bad influence of his street friends? Did she ever tell him that I called? Or did Rocky decide, once he succeeded in having sex with me, that he really didn’t need to continue the relationship? And the whole bus ticket thing was just a ruse to get away from me? Did he tell the truth about everything, but decide once he got home that he didn’t want me there? Or was it actually a wrong number… I’ll never know. But it has always bothered me.
Joe: Joe was an interesting guy. I think he was probably 15 years older than I. Maybe more. We were together for a long time. Sometimes he would disappear for weeks on end. One time when he was gone (and I was convinced that he was in jail or not coming back) a friend brought me a magazine. One of the (many) pictures of nude men was Joe! Disconcerting.
We eventually moved in with my friend Chris. Chris had an apartment that was so small, I’m surprised it was legal. The width of the apartment was exactly enough to hold a twin bed (no frame) from wall to wall. Joe and I slept there. Then there was another twin bed perpendicular to ours, along the side wall. This was the entire “living” area. Then the kitchen started. It had a mini fridge with a 2 burner range on top of it. Across from that was a sink with a cupboard above and below. On the far side of the kitchen was the bathroom. I’m sitting in my patio writing this, and I just realized that my patio is bigger than the apartment the three of us shared.
I ran into a friend who was working construction a few blocks from the apartment, and begged him to hire Joe. He agreed. I told Joe about it, and he seemed pleased. Monday morning I got up and packed him a lunch, kissed him goodbye, and got ready to start my day. Now that “we” had an income, I was going to celebrate by going out to breakfast.
I walked out of the apartment and started the three mile walk to the little diner with a great pancake special. My path took me right by the construction site. My friend came over and asked where Joe was. Hmmm. Maybe he stopped at the liquor store for cigarettes? I’m sure he’ll be here any time.
I walked to the diner and ordered my pancakes. Ate them with great relish. And then went to pay… Where was my money? I didn’t have much, but I knew exactly how much it was and it wasn’t there! Maybe I left it stashed under the bed?
I walked the three miles back to the apartment, stopping again at the construction site. No Joe. When I got home, Chris was there. I couldn’t find my money, so I borrow some from Chris. Three miles back to the diner to pay my tab, and three miles back to the apartment, again checking for Joe on the way. No Joe, no money.
That was the last I heard of Joe until a few months after I had moved back in with my parents. I had my own phone line and it was listed under my name. Joe evidently remembered my name because he called me… collect, from the other end of the state. He wanted to visit me and apologize. He would be in town the following week. He did visit. And on his way out the door he asked to borrow twenty dollars for bus fare back home.
What a guy.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Chapter 3
The details of daily life are mostly very fuzzy now. I think some of that is just time and distance. I notice that a lot of my memories of other times are the same way. Then again, I’m sure there are things that I have chosen to forget. A form of lying to myself. Considering some of what I DO remember, I can only assume that any memory I have blocked is something that would not improve my life with the remembering. So I’ve made no effort to dig into my mind and root out those lost times. I must trust that if I have hidden something from myself, I had good reason to do so.
Which brings me to one of the valuable lessons I learning on the streets: knowledge of myself.
How can I say that I have knowledge of myself, right after saying that I can’t remember a lot of my life? Because I know who I AM, more that what I’ve DONE. I trust my judgment (most of the time). So if I decided to do something for my own good, I am sure I made a wise decision even if I don’t remember it.
Trust in oneself comes from a deep knowledge of what one is likely to do in most circumstances. People whose lives have always been safe, stable places have no real idea of what they’re capable of… or not. They may think they do, but only a true emergency can test those beliefs. Unfortunately, an emergency is no time to find out that you aren’t as capable as you thought!
There are wonderful stories of what a small woman did to save her child from being crushed by a wall, or what a soldier did under fire to save his buddy’s life. These are the true “trial by fire” lessons we learn about ourselves. While I don’t wish for anyone to be in danger, or to have a loved one in danger, the knowledge one gains of oneself is invaluable.
I have learned that I will eat food out of a dumpster if it is packaged and untouched.
I have learned that I will not rat out a friend, under any threat or provocation.
I have learned that my body will not be destroyed forever by having sex, even if it’s against my will. (Side note: is this really very different from what many wives say they do? If the only difference is that they “love” their partner, then the physical act itself is not any different. It doesn’t scar them for life, why would it scar me?)
I have learned that canned corned beef hash will never look like food to me, no matter how hungry I am. It’s not that it tastes bad, just that it looks like dog food.
I have learned that I can stay awake, without drugs or caffeine, as long as I need to IF I truly feel I need to. Of course, that has faded with age. But it’s amazing what the lack of a safe place to sleep will do for your ability to stay awake.
I have learned that if you know yourself, with a true honesty that accepts what you do and feel, that it gives you a better ability to understand others. You can not properly put yourself in someone else’s shoes if you are unwilling to admit the emotions that go along with the situation. There are certainly things that I would not do, and emotions that aren’t a usual part of my self. But for the most part I can listen to a person’s story and find the place inside of me where I might have done the same thing or felt the same way. Without that acknowledgement within my self, any advice I might give is worthless. It is the blind man telling the sighted man how to feel about the rainbow.
Which brings me to one of the valuable lessons I learning on the streets: knowledge of myself.
How can I say that I have knowledge of myself, right after saying that I can’t remember a lot of my life? Because I know who I AM, more that what I’ve DONE. I trust my judgment (most of the time). So if I decided to do something for my own good, I am sure I made a wise decision even if I don’t remember it.
Trust in oneself comes from a deep knowledge of what one is likely to do in most circumstances. People whose lives have always been safe, stable places have no real idea of what they’re capable of… or not. They may think they do, but only a true emergency can test those beliefs. Unfortunately, an emergency is no time to find out that you aren’t as capable as you thought!
There are wonderful stories of what a small woman did to save her child from being crushed by a wall, or what a soldier did under fire to save his buddy’s life. These are the true “trial by fire” lessons we learn about ourselves. While I don’t wish for anyone to be in danger, or to have a loved one in danger, the knowledge one gains of oneself is invaluable.
I have learned that I will eat food out of a dumpster if it is packaged and untouched.
I have learned that I will not rat out a friend, under any threat or provocation.
I have learned that my body will not be destroyed forever by having sex, even if it’s against my will. (Side note: is this really very different from what many wives say they do? If the only difference is that they “love” their partner, then the physical act itself is not any different. It doesn’t scar them for life, why would it scar me?)
I have learned that canned corned beef hash will never look like food to me, no matter how hungry I am. It’s not that it tastes bad, just that it looks like dog food.
I have learned that I can stay awake, without drugs or caffeine, as long as I need to IF I truly feel I need to. Of course, that has faded with age. But it’s amazing what the lack of a safe place to sleep will do for your ability to stay awake.
I have learned that if you know yourself, with a true honesty that accepts what you do and feel, that it gives you a better ability to understand others. You can not properly put yourself in someone else’s shoes if you are unwilling to admit the emotions that go along with the situation. There are certainly things that I would not do, and emotions that aren’t a usual part of my self. But for the most part I can listen to a person’s story and find the place inside of me where I might have done the same thing or felt the same way. Without that acknowledgement within my self, any advice I might give is worthless. It is the blind man telling the sighted man how to feel about the rainbow.
Chapter 2
This was freedom in a way I had never imagined. I had no one at all telling me what to do. No rules to follow. No one depending on me to justify their existence. I could actually be selfish. Be self-centered in the most basic meaning of the term.
I reveled in it.
Where did I sleep? Well, this was Southern California. The weather is beautiful for most of the year. I slept in the park with the other homeless people. I slept in the apartment of the burger joint’s cook and his two roommates. I shared a motel room with friends who had enough money for one. I was the baby, and clearly a helpless one, so I was well protected by my friends. They fed me. They looked after me. They watched over me while I slept. Occasionally they would want to have sex with me. It seemed a reasonable trade. But it seldom happened. Most of these people were in their teens, twenties, and thirties. They were almost all, male and female, prostitutes. While they all understood the value of sex as a trade good, none of them actually wanted much more sex than they were already getting. They didn’t need me to give them some, when they could give it elsewhere and get paid for it!
Most of them also did drugs. I didn’t, though it never occurred to me to judge them for anything they did. The fact that I was neither a prostitute nor a drug user gave me some strange appeal to them. I was the “good” person in their midst. I’m sure that, and my tender age, were a big part of why they all liked me so much.
I had various boyfriends during my time on the streets. Being drug addicts and male prostitutes, there were some unusual strains on my relationships. Of course, since I’d never had a boyfriend before, I had nothing to compare it to.
So when I found out that Rick, my latest, was also sleeping with Sandra, I didn’t get overly upset. I simply went to talk to Sandra. She told me she loved him. Fine. So we both went to talk to Rick. He said he loved both of us. Fine. So he dated both of us. With the benefit of hindsight, I’m sure he was hoping this meant a threesome in his future. For all I know, she suggested such a thing. I don’t recall. She might have been subtle, and I missed it. I don’t think I would have refused, since I had absolutely no personal guidelines for my behavior, no sexual hang-ups, no peer condemnation to fear. Since I don’t recall the experience, I can only conclude that either they didn’t ask, or I didn’t understand.
Being a “clean” girl, I was much in demand as a girlfriend. So I would “go out with” a guy for a few weeks or months, and break up with him to “date” someone else. I suppose that would have made me a slut in any other world. In this one, where most of them were actively seeking to have sex with several people a night, I was practically a virgin.
I don’t know why I didn’t catch any serious diseases. God watches out for fools, I guess. I did get a few minor things that were cured at the local county hospital for free. Nothing a shot in the ass couldn’t clear up. And no one ever suggested that I should stop having sex, or use protection. In fact, I wasn’t even on birth control. I don’t know if my failure to get pregnant was from my own health, the low sperm count of my partners, or more special attention from On High, but I was very lucky.
There’s no doubt that this early indoctrination into the “real” world shaped my view of sex, relationships, and responsibilities. Whether for the better or not is hard to say. In fact, the only thing I can say for sure is that it is not something most boyfriends since that time have understood. Usually safer to just not tell them.
I reveled in it.
Where did I sleep? Well, this was Southern California. The weather is beautiful for most of the year. I slept in the park with the other homeless people. I slept in the apartment of the burger joint’s cook and his two roommates. I shared a motel room with friends who had enough money for one. I was the baby, and clearly a helpless one, so I was well protected by my friends. They fed me. They looked after me. They watched over me while I slept. Occasionally they would want to have sex with me. It seemed a reasonable trade. But it seldom happened. Most of these people were in their teens, twenties, and thirties. They were almost all, male and female, prostitutes. While they all understood the value of sex as a trade good, none of them actually wanted much more sex than they were already getting. They didn’t need me to give them some, when they could give it elsewhere and get paid for it!
Most of them also did drugs. I didn’t, though it never occurred to me to judge them for anything they did. The fact that I was neither a prostitute nor a drug user gave me some strange appeal to them. I was the “good” person in their midst. I’m sure that, and my tender age, were a big part of why they all liked me so much.
I had various boyfriends during my time on the streets. Being drug addicts and male prostitutes, there were some unusual strains on my relationships. Of course, since I’d never had a boyfriend before, I had nothing to compare it to.
So when I found out that Rick, my latest, was also sleeping with Sandra, I didn’t get overly upset. I simply went to talk to Sandra. She told me she loved him. Fine. So we both went to talk to Rick. He said he loved both of us. Fine. So he dated both of us. With the benefit of hindsight, I’m sure he was hoping this meant a threesome in his future. For all I know, she suggested such a thing. I don’t recall. She might have been subtle, and I missed it. I don’t think I would have refused, since I had absolutely no personal guidelines for my behavior, no sexual hang-ups, no peer condemnation to fear. Since I don’t recall the experience, I can only conclude that either they didn’t ask, or I didn’t understand.
Being a “clean” girl, I was much in demand as a girlfriend. So I would “go out with” a guy for a few weeks or months, and break up with him to “date” someone else. I suppose that would have made me a slut in any other world. In this one, where most of them were actively seeking to have sex with several people a night, I was practically a virgin.
I don’t know why I didn’t catch any serious diseases. God watches out for fools, I guess. I did get a few minor things that were cured at the local county hospital for free. Nothing a shot in the ass couldn’t clear up. And no one ever suggested that I should stop having sex, or use protection. In fact, I wasn’t even on birth control. I don’t know if my failure to get pregnant was from my own health, the low sperm count of my partners, or more special attention from On High, but I was very lucky.
There’s no doubt that this early indoctrination into the “real” world shaped my view of sex, relationships, and responsibilities. Whether for the better or not is hard to say. In fact, the only thing I can say for sure is that it is not something most boyfriends since that time have understood. Usually safer to just not tell them.
Chapter 1
Some of what I write is pure fact. Some is pure feeling. In either case, it is all true in one way or another.
Why would anyone live on the streets? Especially if they had options, as I did. And I certainly did! My parents had a wonderful house in Malibu. And they were very good to me. I didn’t have mean siblings, no one was abusing me, I wasn’t really even unhappy. So why did I leave?
It’s funny, sometimes, the way that circumstances pile up, one on top of the next, until you find yourself somewhere that you never intended to be.
When I moved in with my father and his wife, I was escaping a very narrow, restricted, sheltered, and solitary existence. I was not really permitted friends. Now, my father’s wife essentially told me that as long as I came home at night (or told them that I wouldn’t) those were my only rules. What a change!
At that time, they were living in West Hollywood. The school year hadn’t started yet, so I had nothing but spare time on my hands.
Freedom!
I roamed around the blocks closest to their apartment. I met new people. I hung out in the park and watched the old men play chess. I sat still, without worrying that my mother was going to notice that I was late. Evidently my wish to be anywhere but in her presence was tantamount to admitting that she wasn’t really the center of my life. Since she wasn’t the center of anyone else’s life either, this was enough to emotionally destroy her. So I was always home.
No longer. Now I was never home.
I hung out at the local burger joint. I met people my own age… or the age I considered myself to be. In actuality, I was probably the youngest person there. But West Hollywood has a very young homeless population. Not that I knew most of these people were homeless until I’d been there a while.
I talked to people. I listened to their stories. I heard about some amazing things (most of which were probably lies, but were entertaining none the less for that). I spent time getting to know a whole new group of people. I met my first openly gay man, and his lover… who flirted with me. People liked me! People found me attractive! In fact, the gay man was a bit jealous that his boyfriend was interested in this little, scrawny girl.
I had friends.
So when my father and his wife decided to move to Malibu, taking me away from the first friends in my lonely existence, is it any wonder that I found this to be the most tragic thing to ever happen to me?
Even then, I didn’t plan to run away. I was enrolled in a new school, had not made any friends yet. And was used to skipping class in order to have some time away from my mother. Skipping school and taking a bus back to West Hollywood to see my “friends” was not really such a stretch for me.
But the busses only run until 5:00, and I lost track of time. I was stuck in West Hollywood with no way home, unless I called and confessed. The idea of admitting that I’d done something wrong never occurred to me. I simply didn’t go home.
What a silly reason to become homeless…
Why would anyone live on the streets? Especially if they had options, as I did. And I certainly did! My parents had a wonderful house in Malibu. And they were very good to me. I didn’t have mean siblings, no one was abusing me, I wasn’t really even unhappy. So why did I leave?
It’s funny, sometimes, the way that circumstances pile up, one on top of the next, until you find yourself somewhere that you never intended to be.
When I moved in with my father and his wife, I was escaping a very narrow, restricted, sheltered, and solitary existence. I was not really permitted friends. Now, my father’s wife essentially told me that as long as I came home at night (or told them that I wouldn’t) those were my only rules. What a change!
At that time, they were living in West Hollywood. The school year hadn’t started yet, so I had nothing but spare time on my hands.
Freedom!
I roamed around the blocks closest to their apartment. I met new people. I hung out in the park and watched the old men play chess. I sat still, without worrying that my mother was going to notice that I was late. Evidently my wish to be anywhere but in her presence was tantamount to admitting that she wasn’t really the center of my life. Since she wasn’t the center of anyone else’s life either, this was enough to emotionally destroy her. So I was always home.
No longer. Now I was never home.
I hung out at the local burger joint. I met people my own age… or the age I considered myself to be. In actuality, I was probably the youngest person there. But West Hollywood has a very young homeless population. Not that I knew most of these people were homeless until I’d been there a while.
I talked to people. I listened to their stories. I heard about some amazing things (most of which were probably lies, but were entertaining none the less for that). I spent time getting to know a whole new group of people. I met my first openly gay man, and his lover… who flirted with me. People liked me! People found me attractive! In fact, the gay man was a bit jealous that his boyfriend was interested in this little, scrawny girl.
I had friends.
So when my father and his wife decided to move to Malibu, taking me away from the first friends in my lonely existence, is it any wonder that I found this to be the most tragic thing to ever happen to me?
Even then, I didn’t plan to run away. I was enrolled in a new school, had not made any friends yet. And was used to skipping class in order to have some time away from my mother. Skipping school and taking a bus back to West Hollywood to see my “friends” was not really such a stretch for me.
But the busses only run until 5:00, and I lost track of time. I was stuck in West Hollywood with no way home, unless I called and confessed. The idea of admitting that I’d done something wrong never occurred to me. I simply didn’t go home.
What a silly reason to become homeless…
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