Sam was a tall, wiry boy with close-cropped blond curly hair who wore tight Wrangler jeans and flannel shirts. Sam wasn’t too into team sports, but he was an outdoorsman. He liked camping, fishing, kayaking and bow hunting. He was country, and he was one of the boys I hung out with in middle school. I never exactly crushed on him, but I did appreciate him. He and his friends took me in when other kids had shunned me. Being in his lunch crowd provided some protection from bullies, and I didn’t feel so alone and unwanted when I was with them. Sam talked about sex in a crass way, and he sometimes bragged about his conquests. I took him at his word at the time, but now I suspect much of what he said about his experience was exaggerated or fabricated. However, he was a sexy boy. If he had asked me for a blowjob, I would have dropped to my knees in front of him without hesitation. I would have been happy for the opportunity, but no such invitation was ever extended.
Sam and I had gym class together in our freshman year of high school. I was relieved to see him that first day, but he never looked in my direction. I got the sense he was deliberately avoiding me. We didn’t do anything on the first day. The coach assigned us lockers and told us what we were required to wear during his class. Then he left, leaving us with nothing to do for about twenty minutes. Sam stood near the door waiting for the bell to ring. I went over and stood beside him, but he didn’t say anything. In fact, he seemed kind of nervous. Finally, I spoke to him. I made some kind of silly joke hoping to break the ice. But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he glanced sideways at me and said in a low voice as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear, “Cottle, if you talk to me again, I’ll kick your ass.”
Of course, I was hurt and shocked, but I wasn’t mad at Sam. It was just further confirmation that I had nothing to offer. I didn’t know why anyone would want to talk to me, so how could I hold Sam’s snub against him? Years later, I realized Sam was afraid. He always seemed confident and assured. He exuded masculine toughness in my eyes. I never imagined he would have his own insecurities. But high school was new to us, and gym class was a hyper-macho environment. Boys strutted and postured in an attempt to establish dominance. And since I didn’t play that game, I was the lowest in the pecking order. Sam didn’t know where he stood yet, and he didn’t know if he could afford to take me in as he had done in middle school. Befriending a weaker, less popular kid might be viewed as a sign of strength, but it was risky. If the boys who didn’t know Sam saw him being chummy with me, they might assume he was a faggy outsider, too.
I abided by Sam’s wishes and didn’t bother him anymore. Oddly enough, a couple of years later, we passed in the hall, and he waved and said hello as if nothing had happened. But that was way into the future that first day of high school. After gym class, I knew I was on my own again.
High school wasn’t as dangerous as middle school, generally speaking, and that’s because many of the worst bullies, the ones who were potentially violent, had quit before making it to the ninth grade. Some were probably even locked up. However, there was a sharper division between the supposedly cool, popular, usually rich kids, the not so popular kids and the untouchables. I was aware of this stratification system from the start, but I didn’t know how to navigate it. I was shy, introverted and socially awkward, and I had a huge secret. I wanted and needed some kind of validation, but I knew I couldn’t let anyone get too close. It was a balancing act that was beyond my skill set.
Just as in middle school, lunch was one of the most unpleasant periods of the day. While in class, we were expected to sit quietly. That came easily enough for someone who didn’t like to be noticed, but that stricture didn’t apply to lunch period. You could socialize during that hour, but for me, that was like jumping off the high dive at the swimming pool. The windowless lunch room was small and crowded, so I couldn’t sit by myself. I had to wander around until I found an empty chair and hopefully some friendly faces. I must have looked like a lost puppy. Once I sat down, the others at the table would continue talking as if I weren’t there. I didn’t know how to insinuate myself into the conversation, so I didn’t say anything. I felt conspicuous and unwanted. Everyone was chatting and laughing while I was being ignored. The situation was often so stressful it caused intense headaches. My temples throbbed. To this day, anything that remotely resembles a school cafeteria will bring on flashbacks and a sense of panic and dread.
I think I was on the edge during my freshman year. I was friendless. School did nothing but reinforce my sense of utter worthlessness, and Mother’s mental health was deteriorating, too. As soon as I got home, I’d grab some junk food, lock myself in my room and watch my little black and white television until it was time to go to bed.
Within a few weeks, I stopped trying to eat lunch at school. I couldn’t stand the rejection. So I began passing that period leaning against the wall near the office. That’s where many of the misfits gathered. We were too damaged to trust or reach out to each other, so we remained imprisoned in our private torments. I don’t know how we survived. We were like flowers trying to grow in the shade. We were too timid to complain or act out, so our distress went unnoticed, but make no mistake about it, many of those kids standing alone with their heads bowed were in terrible danger. Many of us were potential victims of suicide, but in the world we inhabited, there was no safety net for us. Quiet kids were easy to overlook.
Perhaps it was for the best that my behavior didn’t ring any warning bells at that time. If Mother’s condition had come to the attention of the wrong authority figure, I might have been sent to a foster home. That, more than likely, would have only made things worse. There was also the prevailing belief that troubled boys should have a heaping dose of discipline thrust upon them, which usually meant rough contact sports and a drill sergeant type getting up in your face and telling you to “man up.” But boot camp was the antithesis of what I needed.
I could have used some counterexamples that challenged the deeply ingrained attitudes about sex and what boys and girls were supposed to be like. Knowing other men and boys like myself would have been nice. Knowing an older gay couple would have been wonderful. Dating an older boy, maybe a college boy, would have been like a dream if he were patient and good to me. Someone with a little more knowledge and a willingness to impart it in a gentle way. Someone who could have made me feel wanted, esteemed, respected, desired. To this day, I sometimes daydream of meeting such a prince when I was fifteen. Ah, to have had some sweet, lanky kid pick me up in his decrepit Gremlin, take me to a secluded spot—there are many in West Virginia—and have him say, “What do you want to do with me, Gary? We can do anything, just ask.” I would have wet myself with glee if I had seen a magazine photo of two cute guys holding hands. Even seeing some gay porn would have been revelatory. If only I could have been magically transported to New York City to watch the Pride Parade. I knew there were boys like me in the world. I knew there were at least a few more besides myself in my hometown. I at least was aware of that much, so I was a little better off than gay boys who came of age before the 1980s. But I didn’t know how to make contact. I was like a spy who needed to come in from the cold. Potential friends were around, but they were allusive and invisible, incognito…like me.
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
Sunday, September 9, 2018
Dark Score Dreams
My favorite Stephen King novel is Bag of Bones. That’s what I took with me to Yosemite. After dark, you can’t do much in the park, so I’d head to my tent-cabin and immerse myself in the story until I got sleepy. Bag of Bones doesn’t seem to be a favorite of many King fans, but I love it. Like so many of King’s best stories, Bones is much more than merely a supernatural thriller. At it’s core, the story is about real human problems: dealing with bullies, loss, facing mortality, moral ambiguity, the dark side of human nature and finding out surprising, even shocking and disturbing things about someone you’ve loved for years. Bag of Bones is wistful and elegiac from beginning to end, and it is deeply emotionally honest.
A big part of the appeal for me might be the lifestyle of the protagonist. Mike Noonan is a successful novelist, but not too successful. He’s sold enough copies of his books to make him independently wealthy, but not conspicuously rich. He can still walk around in public without many people recognizing him. He’s comfortable and hasn’t been seduced into wasting his money on private jets, mansions and designer clothes. He drives an ordinary car, wears a Timex and enjoys eating cheeseburgers at greasy spoons. He lives in a Victorian in Derry, but most of the story takes place at his woodsy summer home on Dark Score Lake. I can do without the ghosts, the heartache and the run-ins with a psychopathic billionaire, but I’d take the rest of it in a New York second, especially the lake house, Sara Laughs.
I’ve heard that many of the fictional communities in King’s novels are inspired by real places in Maine, so I wondered if Dark Score Lake had a factual counterpart. According to one article I came across, Dark Score is really Flagstaff Lake, a 20,000 acre body of water in Summerset and Franklin counties. I’d love to visit.
A big part of the appeal for me might be the lifestyle of the protagonist. Mike Noonan is a successful novelist, but not too successful. He’s sold enough copies of his books to make him independently wealthy, but not conspicuously rich. He can still walk around in public without many people recognizing him. He’s comfortable and hasn’t been seduced into wasting his money on private jets, mansions and designer clothes. He drives an ordinary car, wears a Timex and enjoys eating cheeseburgers at greasy spoons. He lives in a Victorian in Derry, but most of the story takes place at his woodsy summer home on Dark Score Lake. I can do without the ghosts, the heartache and the run-ins with a psychopathic billionaire, but I’d take the rest of it in a New York second, especially the lake house, Sara Laughs.
I’ve heard that many of the fictional communities in King’s novels are inspired by real places in Maine, so I wondered if Dark Score Lake had a factual counterpart. According to one article I came across, Dark Score is really Flagstaff Lake, a 20,000 acre body of water in Summerset and Franklin counties. I’d love to visit.
Saturday, September 8, 2018
What I Did On My Summer Vacation
I looked for fire damage on the way to Yosemite on Tuesday, and I did see patches of scorched earth and dead trees here and there. Surprisingly, there were signs of recent fire on the hills above Yosemite View Lodge. This motel shouldn’t be confused with Yosemite Lodge inside the park, but it is right outside the park entrance. Apparently, the Ferguson fire came horrifyingly close to Yosemite Valley.
It was sunny all the way to Yosemite, which isn’t unusual for this time of year, but as soon as we got to the park, I noticed storm clouds were rolling in. I intended to check in, drop my bag in my tent-cabin and spend the rest of the afternoon walking around. But it started raining, and then the shower turned into a thunderstorm. At first, I was annoyed, but then I remembered I hadn’t experienced a true thunderstorm in years. So I decided to appreciate it.
I hadn’t eaten. That morning, I was nervous about the trip, and I was afraid food would upset my stomach, but once I was in the park, my nerves settled, and I realized I was starving. So I ordered a single serving pizza at the Pizza Deck at Half Dome Village. I ate it under a patio umbrella as the sky flashed and grumbled. An employee told us we could eat our pizza in the bar even if we didn’t order alcohol due to the weather, but I elected to finish my early dinner alfresco.
It stopped raining by six, so I decided to walk down to Yosemite Village with my camera. The light was spectacular. I had never seen that kind of light in the park. The sky was still fairly dark, but rays of sunshine were highlighting the granite walls, including Half Dome.
I wanted to take the El Cap shuttle to the El Cap picnic area and walk around on that end of the park on Wednesday. I haven’t spent a lot of time down there. But the El Cap shuttle is a “summer service.” They used to keep it going until October, but this year, they shut it down the day after Labor Day. So I decided I would walk as far as the El Cap Bridge and come back on the other side of the Merced River. That would be about four miles down and four miles back.
I’ve been walking here at home, and I thought I was up to it. I thought I’d take it really slow and make a day of it. It wasn’t a race after all. I wanted to enjoy being in the park. And I did enjoy it…half of it, anyway, but I neglected to take a few things into consideration. When I’m here at home, I’m walking in air conditioned comfort. I don’t do all my walking at once. I walk for a few minutes six times a day, and I can drink as much water as I want.
On Wednesday morning, I took two bottles of water with me. I didn’t want to be weighed down, and I didn’t want to spend too much money, but I ran out of water by the time I got to the bridge. So there I was, a soon-to-be fifty-three year old man, considerably over weight out in the hot sun and four miles away from Yosemite Village. There is no place to get water down there, and because the El Cap shuttle wouldn’t be running again until next June, I couldn’t hop on a bus and head for the Village Store. The altitude may have been getting to me, too. 4,000 feet isn’t that high, but I’ve been living pretty close to sea level for over ten years.
I was already tired, but I thought surely I can go another four miles. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t that far even without water. I ran into a few people in the same predicament. An Indian couple in their sixties stopped me and asked where they could catch the shuttle. I told them I didn’t think there was a shuttle. I got the impression that the outing had been the husband’s idea, and the wife was not very happy. She told me in a sharp voice that they had been walking for five hours. After that, two English women asked me about the shuttle, so once again, I was the bearer of bad news. One said in her English accent, “They didn’t tell us that,” and the other said in her English accent, “No, they didn’t tell us that a-tall.”
Well, I trudged on, but I could only go a few feet before I started panting. I was sweating a lot, too. I was so thirsty. I don’t think I have ever been that thirsty in my life. The trail wasn’t packed, but people would pass me going in one direction or another about ever five or ten minutes, mostly young, fit people. I knew I should ask someone if they would give me some water. I tried to force myself to do it, but my shyness and social anxiety just wouldn’t let me. So I kept going. And I kept getting weaker, and I started feeling funny in my head. I also started stumbling, which isn’t good because there are big rocks everywhere in Yosemite. If you fall, you could hit your head on one of them. When I tried to sit down on one of those rocks, I completely missed it and ended up sprawled out on the ground. Luckily, I landed on a bed of pine needles.
I thought I was going to faint, so when the trail got close to the road, I cut through the woods, stood on the shoulder…and I stuck out my thumb. A few minutes earlier, I couldn’t bring myself to ask anyone for water, but now I was hitchhiking for the first time ever. I did my best Blanche DuBois impression and depended on the kindness of strangers. And it worked! It worked!
Within minutes, a couple stopped. They asked me where I needed to go. I said the nearest bus stop would be fine. In their car, I told them that I had run out of water and began feeling ill. They gave me a bottle of water and a piece of fruit. The lady explained that she had bone cancer, and this was their first trip to Yosemite. I got the impression she was checking off her bucket list in case the end was nigh. I thanked them profusely when they dropped me at the stop near the chapel. I wish I had thought to ask their names and maybe take their picture. This time it wasn’t my anxiety that prevented me from doing that. I was still feeling a bit disoriented. That was a scary episode, but it taught me a lesson. When you need it, ask for help. There are a lot of good people out there. Not everyone is a monster. It almost makes me cry thinking about how these people I had never seen before stopped for me when I was so afraid and feeling sick.
On Thursday, I was still a bit weak and rundown, but well enough to walk around a little. However, I stuck to the more developed side of Yosemite Valley. I was never far from a shuttle bus stop, so I could always head back to my tent-cabin if I needed to rest or a store for more water. I walked up to Mirror Lake, and then I walked along the stream back to Happy Isles.
When I’m in the park, part of the fun for me is people watching. I don’t get out much, so being around my fellow humans is quite the experience. And there are people from all over the world in the park. I hear all kinds of languages…French, Spanish, German, and many I can’t identify. Yosemite is woodsy but also cosmopolitan. I overheard one woman say she could tell the difference between grain and grass fed beef. I overheard a group of friends talking about ancient Greece. No one goes to Yosemite for the people, but they’re interesting nonetheless.
I had a memorable time, and enjoyable for the most part despite my little crisis. I’m glad I went, but it’s good to be home. I always sleep better in the park. The bed in my tent-cabin was comfortable, but the tent-cabin isn’t like home. The park is so expensive, too. The bill for my tent-cabin was sixty dollars more than expected, and even a peanut butter and jelly sandwich costs five dollars. I guess I should start saving for my next trip soon.
It was sunny all the way to Yosemite, which isn’t unusual for this time of year, but as soon as we got to the park, I noticed storm clouds were rolling in. I intended to check in, drop my bag in my tent-cabin and spend the rest of the afternoon walking around. But it started raining, and then the shower turned into a thunderstorm. At first, I was annoyed, but then I remembered I hadn’t experienced a true thunderstorm in years. So I decided to appreciate it.
I hadn’t eaten. That morning, I was nervous about the trip, and I was afraid food would upset my stomach, but once I was in the park, my nerves settled, and I realized I was starving. So I ordered a single serving pizza at the Pizza Deck at Half Dome Village. I ate it under a patio umbrella as the sky flashed and grumbled. An employee told us we could eat our pizza in the bar even if we didn’t order alcohol due to the weather, but I elected to finish my early dinner alfresco.
It stopped raining by six, so I decided to walk down to Yosemite Village with my camera. The light was spectacular. I had never seen that kind of light in the park. The sky was still fairly dark, but rays of sunshine were highlighting the granite walls, including Half Dome.
I wanted to take the El Cap shuttle to the El Cap picnic area and walk around on that end of the park on Wednesday. I haven’t spent a lot of time down there. But the El Cap shuttle is a “summer service.” They used to keep it going until October, but this year, they shut it down the day after Labor Day. So I decided I would walk as far as the El Cap Bridge and come back on the other side of the Merced River. That would be about four miles down and four miles back.
I’ve been walking here at home, and I thought I was up to it. I thought I’d take it really slow and make a day of it. It wasn’t a race after all. I wanted to enjoy being in the park. And I did enjoy it…half of it, anyway, but I neglected to take a few things into consideration. When I’m here at home, I’m walking in air conditioned comfort. I don’t do all my walking at once. I walk for a few minutes six times a day, and I can drink as much water as I want.
On Wednesday morning, I took two bottles of water with me. I didn’t want to be weighed down, and I didn’t want to spend too much money, but I ran out of water by the time I got to the bridge. So there I was, a soon-to-be fifty-three year old man, considerably over weight out in the hot sun and four miles away from Yosemite Village. There is no place to get water down there, and because the El Cap shuttle wouldn’t be running again until next June, I couldn’t hop on a bus and head for the Village Store. The altitude may have been getting to me, too. 4,000 feet isn’t that high, but I’ve been living pretty close to sea level for over ten years.
I was already tired, but I thought surely I can go another four miles. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t that far even without water. I ran into a few people in the same predicament. An Indian couple in their sixties stopped me and asked where they could catch the shuttle. I told them I didn’t think there was a shuttle. I got the impression that the outing had been the husband’s idea, and the wife was not very happy. She told me in a sharp voice that they had been walking for five hours. After that, two English women asked me about the shuttle, so once again, I was the bearer of bad news. One said in her English accent, “They didn’t tell us that,” and the other said in her English accent, “No, they didn’t tell us that a-tall.”
Well, I trudged on, but I could only go a few feet before I started panting. I was sweating a lot, too. I was so thirsty. I don’t think I have ever been that thirsty in my life. The trail wasn’t packed, but people would pass me going in one direction or another about ever five or ten minutes, mostly young, fit people. I knew I should ask someone if they would give me some water. I tried to force myself to do it, but my shyness and social anxiety just wouldn’t let me. So I kept going. And I kept getting weaker, and I started feeling funny in my head. I also started stumbling, which isn’t good because there are big rocks everywhere in Yosemite. If you fall, you could hit your head on one of them. When I tried to sit down on one of those rocks, I completely missed it and ended up sprawled out on the ground. Luckily, I landed on a bed of pine needles.
I thought I was going to faint, so when the trail got close to the road, I cut through the woods, stood on the shoulder…and I stuck out my thumb. A few minutes earlier, I couldn’t bring myself to ask anyone for water, but now I was hitchhiking for the first time ever. I did my best Blanche DuBois impression and depended on the kindness of strangers. And it worked! It worked!
Within minutes, a couple stopped. They asked me where I needed to go. I said the nearest bus stop would be fine. In their car, I told them that I had run out of water and began feeling ill. They gave me a bottle of water and a piece of fruit. The lady explained that she had bone cancer, and this was their first trip to Yosemite. I got the impression she was checking off her bucket list in case the end was nigh. I thanked them profusely when they dropped me at the stop near the chapel. I wish I had thought to ask their names and maybe take their picture. This time it wasn’t my anxiety that prevented me from doing that. I was still feeling a bit disoriented. That was a scary episode, but it taught me a lesson. When you need it, ask for help. There are a lot of good people out there. Not everyone is a monster. It almost makes me cry thinking about how these people I had never seen before stopped for me when I was so afraid and feeling sick.
On Thursday, I was still a bit weak and rundown, but well enough to walk around a little. However, I stuck to the more developed side of Yosemite Valley. I was never far from a shuttle bus stop, so I could always head back to my tent-cabin if I needed to rest or a store for more water. I walked up to Mirror Lake, and then I walked along the stream back to Happy Isles.
When I’m in the park, part of the fun for me is people watching. I don’t get out much, so being around my fellow humans is quite the experience. And there are people from all over the world in the park. I hear all kinds of languages…French, Spanish, German, and many I can’t identify. Yosemite is woodsy but also cosmopolitan. I overheard one woman say she could tell the difference between grain and grass fed beef. I overheard a group of friends talking about ancient Greece. No one goes to Yosemite for the people, but they’re interesting nonetheless.
I had a memorable time, and enjoyable for the most part despite my little crisis. I’m glad I went, but it’s good to be home. I always sleep better in the park. The bed in my tent-cabin was comfortable, but the tent-cabin isn’t like home. The park is so expensive, too. The bill for my tent-cabin was sixty dollars more than expected, and even a peanut butter and jelly sandwich costs five dollars. I guess I should start saving for my next trip soon.
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Sometimes Less Is Less
The novel Less by Andrew Sean Greer won the Pulitzer, and now that I’ve read it, I can see why. It is polished, clever, funny, well-structured and safe...so safe. Arthur Less, the protagonist, has his sorrows to be sure, but nothing too horrifying or tragic, and although Arthur isn’t exactly sexless, he’s also not exactly passionate either. I have never read a story about a gay man that was as non-threatening as this.
Arthur’s parents were a bit befuddled, but they read books on how to relate to their sissy son. They raised him as a Unitarian, so Arthur isn’t crippled by homophobic religious doctrine or fears of hellfire. He wasn’t bullied or humiliated. He’s had two significant relationships in his life, but both partners left him. However, neither breakup was the stuff of high drama. He’s still on speaking terms with both men. He’s a mid-list literary writer. He never sits beside anyone on planes who has read his books. But because of his association with a beloved and revered poet, he’s often asked to participate in literary events. He lives a middle class life, and he’s about to turn fifty. Less is bit like garden gnomes and Wonder Bread. If you want something reliable and comforting that won’t challenge you too much, try it out.
Arthur’s parents were a bit befuddled, but they read books on how to relate to their sissy son. They raised him as a Unitarian, so Arthur isn’t crippled by homophobic religious doctrine or fears of hellfire. He wasn’t bullied or humiliated. He’s had two significant relationships in his life, but both partners left him. However, neither breakup was the stuff of high drama. He’s still on speaking terms with both men. He’s a mid-list literary writer. He never sits beside anyone on planes who has read his books. But because of his association with a beloved and revered poet, he’s often asked to participate in literary events. He lives a middle class life, and he’s about to turn fifty. Less is bit like garden gnomes and Wonder Bread. If you want something reliable and comforting that won’t challenge you too much, try it out.
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
An Unexpected Gift
I’ve been in this room many times in the past five years. I’ve grown accustomed to the long, mirrored wall, the worn hardwood floor, the high ceiling, and the large window at the opposite end with its rounded top, now turning slowly black due to the setting sun. The room is filling up, mostly with young girls and their parents, but my gaze has settled onto Jacob. Lately, he only wears gleaming white tights that come down to his knees and his shoes—which still look peculiar to me—during class. Jacob’s reddish brown hair isn’t too long, but it is long enough so that it bounces and tumbles with every move he makes. His fair skin is specked with freckles that match the color of his hair. Recently, he has become quite tall—over six foot. He’s stretching in preparation of Ms. Whitmore’s drills. His right foot—clad in one of those odd looking shoes—is up on the bar, and all of his muscles are taut as a result. Even though he retains the look of an angular, emaciated youth when he is fully dressed, I can’t help but notice how extraordinarily toned he is now.
At this point, no one expects Jacob to become a professional. I don’t think Ms. Whitmore—a sharp-boned woman who still dresses like one of her students even though her dancing days are well behind her—has ever produced a professional. Two or three years ago, Jacob dreamed about the possibility of getting accepted by one of the larger metropolitan ballet companies, but he knew scouts hardly ever made it this far out into suburbia, and they weren’t likely to make the journey for a boy who only practiced a few hours a week. Jacob now admits that he comes here only because he wants to, and that he’s likely to give up dancing once he goes to college.
Even though Jacob doesn’t have the drive to become a star, his efforts have been steady and reliable over the years, and this has given him a payoff of sorts. Although he is tall and reedy, Jacob is not awkward or clumsy. He moves with confidence while holding his head high. Although his voice is small and delicate, he speaks clearly and with a certain amount of self-assurance that is never cocky or flip. And Jacob is nearly always unfailingly polite. So you could say that dance has given him poise. He commands respect in a way that I never thought he would.
Jacob drove the car to the studio this evening, but because he only has a learner’s permit, I had to come with him. His mother, Jenna, usually accompanies him to dance class, but she had to work late, so I stepped in. I don’t mind. Waiting for Jacob will give me a chance to catch up on my reading. Just as I am about to turn to my book, Tom Clancy’s Without Remorse, a smiling, happy-faced woman with curly blond hair steps in front of my chair, blocking my view of Jacob.
“Hi, Arty. Remember me? I’m Karen, Ashton’s mother.”
Ash, as Jacob always calls him, is a fairly shy dark-haired boy who started coming to Ms. Whitmore about the same time Jacob did. I catch him ducking into the locker room out of the corner of my eye just as I speak. “Of course, I remember you, Karen.”
Her expression becomes a bit more serious when she says, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Sure,” I say, not knowing what I could possibly do for this woman.
“Bruce, my husband, and I want to get away this weekend, and we were hoping that we could leave Ashton with you and Jenna.”
I hesitate for maybe a second, but then I say, “That would be fine.”
Karen’s smile lights up, and she says, “Great. I know Ashton will be thrilled. You are aware that he has a huge crush on your son, right?”
I try to match her levity as much as I can when I rejoin, “I’m pretty sure Jacob is just as smitten with Ash, Karen.”
She shakes her head in agreement and says in a slightly lower voice, “I caught them kissing the other day in the family room.” She giggles in a way that is surprisingly girlish and then adds, “It was so cute. When they noticed I was there, they were so embarrassed, but they tried to act cool and casual.”
My face freezes for a moment, and I scramble to think of a reply. Finally, I say, “Teenagers can be so self-conscious.”
“Yes... Well, anyway, thanks for taking Ashton this weekend. I’ll drop him off at your house on Friday about five or six.”
“No problem,” I say, making sure I sound sincere.
The request causes me to remember an incident that occurred a few weeks ago. As Karen steps away, the details come into focus. Jacob and I were sitting in the living room. I was reading, and he was doing his homework, when suddenly I realized he was looking directly at me, studying me. I asked him if anything was wrong, and he said no, but he asked if it would be okay if Ash stayed over the next night. Without thinking, I curtly replied, “Aren’t you a little old for sleepovers?” I’m not sure why I responded this way, and I knew immediately I was being foolish, but before I could apologize, Jacob’s fair skin burned red. He got up and left the room without saying another word. After that, I couldn’t bring myself to broach the subject, and apparently neither could Jacob, for he never mentioned it again.
In the days that followed, I picked up on a few clues that suggested I had been making my son uncomfortable about his feelings for Ash. For instance, one day when I walked through the kitchen, I saw that Jacob was sitting at the counter with his sketch pad—he loves to draw. When he noticed me, he turned the page in a way that was meant to appear nonchalant, but I was able to see what he had been working on before the maneuver was complete. Jacob had been putting the finishing touches on a sketch of Ash lying shirtless in a meadow. From what I saw of it, the likeness was pretty good. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to tell him that there wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, but something was blocking me, blocking both of us. And now Karen made me realize something else; Jacob has been spending a lot of time at Ashton’s house, but Ash hardly ever shows up at ours. It seems Jacob feels the need to hide his friend from me, and there shouldn’t be any reason for that. Ash is a good and decent kid.
As the class gets underway, I open my book to where I left off three days ago and drift into the story. I pay little attention to the flurry of activity taking place in front of me, the classical music coming from the old-fashioned record player or the sound of Ms. Whitmore belting out her instructions. But when I hear her call out my son’s name, I look up just in time to see Jacob catch a young woman by her waist and twirl her around. The young woman remains rigid, and she keeps her arms high above her head as my son spins her. I am struck by this move because Jacob does it with seemingly little effort, and I’m reminded of how people will sometimes swing a baby around in the air, only Jacob is much more graceful and fluid than the average new parent. I wonder how long he has been able to do that.
I watch in awe for a moment, but then I return to my book before Jacob catches me staring. I sit there engrossed in my story for quite a while. I am only dimly aware of the end of class and the people filing out of the room. When I look up, I realize that the only people left are Ms. Whitmore, one of the young girls in her class and the girl’s mother. They are down by the window, and it seems the two women are having a serious discussion, presumably about the little girl who waits silently and patiently a few feet away.
I instinctively look at my watch and see that it’s late, and then I look toward the locker rooms. I’m slightly annoyed that Jacob has kept me waiting, so I sit my book down and head toward the boys’ locker room. I go in thinking he is the only boy left inside. The showers are just past the door, and I can hear the water and feel the steam wafting in the air. I look into the shower room expecting to see Jacob lazily allowing the hot spray to flow over his tall frame. I almost call out to him in my fatherly voice, meaning to tell him to hurry up. But before saying anything, I see that Jacob is not alone. Ash is with him even though I didn’t notice Karen outside. It dawns on me that what the boys are doing is meant to be just between the two of them, so I quickly turn and leave before either one notices me.
When I’m out in the hall, I feel safe, and suddenly I feel washed in gratitude for having managed to get away without being detected. But then the gravity of what I just witnessed sinks in. I only caught a glimpse, but it was obvious the boys were dancing together. The little bit that I saw mirrored what took place outside earlier, only Jacob was spinning his wet, naked friend rather than a young lady. I have to admit that it was elegant. At least for this moment, they were meant to be together.
Jacob is nothing like what I expected when I was told that I was going to be the father of a boy. But as I stand there in the hall, I come to know that I wouldn’t want any other boy. He is a unique gift, and I’m so happy that he was given to me of all people. I am proud of him. So much so I laugh with joy as I imagine him and Ash dancing in their private studio.
Fifteen minutes later, after having read another chapter in my book, I return to the locker room. I open the door and listen before entering. When I don’t hear the sound of water running or feet skidding across the tiled floor, I go inside. As I make my way, I hear the boys chattering. I find them sitting on the bench in front of their adjoining lockers with their big white towels wrapped around their waists. They haven’t even begun to dress.
“Guys,” I say pleadingly, “take pity on the old man and get a move on it.”
Jacob looks over at me and says plaintively, “Sorry, Dad.”
To ease their disappointment, I say as I draw closer, “You two will have lots of time to talk in a couple of days. Ash’s mother tells me that he’ll be spending the weekend with us.”
Jacob turns in surprise, and Ash leans closer to him and says in a low voice that I’m able to hear clearly, “I told her to wait and let you ask him.”
“It’s okay,” I say as I turn to face our soon to be guest. “Ash, you’re welcome at our house anytime.”
When I look back at Jacob, I see that his shock is almost comical. “Don’t give me that,” I say.
“What?” he asks innocently.
“Stop staring at me as if you expected to find a monster behind you instead of your father.”
While keeping the rest of his body impossibly still, he curls his lips into a grin.
I place my hand on his shoulder and say, “Jake, I was watching you earlier, and I just wanted to tell you that you dance beautifully.”
His expression softens. “Thanks, Dad.”
Turning back to Ash, I say, “Is your mother waiting for you out in the parking lot? She’s not out in the studio.”
“She only dropped me off. There’s something she had to do, so she couldn’t wait.” As he speaks, he lowers his gaze. It’s obvious that he can’t maintain eye contact without blushing.
“How will you get home?”
“I’ll take the bus…if I’ve not missed the last one.”
Immediately Jacob begs, “Can’t we take him home?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks,” Ash says. “And thanks for letting me stay this weekend.”
“No problem. We’ll be happy to have you.” When I head toward the door, I say to both of them, “I’m giving you guys exactly two minutes to finish up in here.”
Before leaving the room, I hear Ash say to Jacob in his confidential tone, “I thought you said he was going to be uptight about me staying over."
At this point, no one expects Jacob to become a professional. I don’t think Ms. Whitmore—a sharp-boned woman who still dresses like one of her students even though her dancing days are well behind her—has ever produced a professional. Two or three years ago, Jacob dreamed about the possibility of getting accepted by one of the larger metropolitan ballet companies, but he knew scouts hardly ever made it this far out into suburbia, and they weren’t likely to make the journey for a boy who only practiced a few hours a week. Jacob now admits that he comes here only because he wants to, and that he’s likely to give up dancing once he goes to college.
Even though Jacob doesn’t have the drive to become a star, his efforts have been steady and reliable over the years, and this has given him a payoff of sorts. Although he is tall and reedy, Jacob is not awkward or clumsy. He moves with confidence while holding his head high. Although his voice is small and delicate, he speaks clearly and with a certain amount of self-assurance that is never cocky or flip. And Jacob is nearly always unfailingly polite. So you could say that dance has given him poise. He commands respect in a way that I never thought he would.
Jacob drove the car to the studio this evening, but because he only has a learner’s permit, I had to come with him. His mother, Jenna, usually accompanies him to dance class, but she had to work late, so I stepped in. I don’t mind. Waiting for Jacob will give me a chance to catch up on my reading. Just as I am about to turn to my book, Tom Clancy’s Without Remorse, a smiling, happy-faced woman with curly blond hair steps in front of my chair, blocking my view of Jacob.
“Hi, Arty. Remember me? I’m Karen, Ashton’s mother.”
Ash, as Jacob always calls him, is a fairly shy dark-haired boy who started coming to Ms. Whitmore about the same time Jacob did. I catch him ducking into the locker room out of the corner of my eye just as I speak. “Of course, I remember you, Karen.”
Her expression becomes a bit more serious when she says, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Sure,” I say, not knowing what I could possibly do for this woman.
“Bruce, my husband, and I want to get away this weekend, and we were hoping that we could leave Ashton with you and Jenna.”
I hesitate for maybe a second, but then I say, “That would be fine.”
Karen’s smile lights up, and she says, “Great. I know Ashton will be thrilled. You are aware that he has a huge crush on your son, right?”
I try to match her levity as much as I can when I rejoin, “I’m pretty sure Jacob is just as smitten with Ash, Karen.”
She shakes her head in agreement and says in a slightly lower voice, “I caught them kissing the other day in the family room.” She giggles in a way that is surprisingly girlish and then adds, “It was so cute. When they noticed I was there, they were so embarrassed, but they tried to act cool and casual.”
My face freezes for a moment, and I scramble to think of a reply. Finally, I say, “Teenagers can be so self-conscious.”
“Yes... Well, anyway, thanks for taking Ashton this weekend. I’ll drop him off at your house on Friday about five or six.”
“No problem,” I say, making sure I sound sincere.
The request causes me to remember an incident that occurred a few weeks ago. As Karen steps away, the details come into focus. Jacob and I were sitting in the living room. I was reading, and he was doing his homework, when suddenly I realized he was looking directly at me, studying me. I asked him if anything was wrong, and he said no, but he asked if it would be okay if Ash stayed over the next night. Without thinking, I curtly replied, “Aren’t you a little old for sleepovers?” I’m not sure why I responded this way, and I knew immediately I was being foolish, but before I could apologize, Jacob’s fair skin burned red. He got up and left the room without saying another word. After that, I couldn’t bring myself to broach the subject, and apparently neither could Jacob, for he never mentioned it again.
In the days that followed, I picked up on a few clues that suggested I had been making my son uncomfortable about his feelings for Ash. For instance, one day when I walked through the kitchen, I saw that Jacob was sitting at the counter with his sketch pad—he loves to draw. When he noticed me, he turned the page in a way that was meant to appear nonchalant, but I was able to see what he had been working on before the maneuver was complete. Jacob had been putting the finishing touches on a sketch of Ash lying shirtless in a meadow. From what I saw of it, the likeness was pretty good. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to tell him that there wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, but something was blocking me, blocking both of us. And now Karen made me realize something else; Jacob has been spending a lot of time at Ashton’s house, but Ash hardly ever shows up at ours. It seems Jacob feels the need to hide his friend from me, and there shouldn’t be any reason for that. Ash is a good and decent kid.
As the class gets underway, I open my book to where I left off three days ago and drift into the story. I pay little attention to the flurry of activity taking place in front of me, the classical music coming from the old-fashioned record player or the sound of Ms. Whitmore belting out her instructions. But when I hear her call out my son’s name, I look up just in time to see Jacob catch a young woman by her waist and twirl her around. The young woman remains rigid, and she keeps her arms high above her head as my son spins her. I am struck by this move because Jacob does it with seemingly little effort, and I’m reminded of how people will sometimes swing a baby around in the air, only Jacob is much more graceful and fluid than the average new parent. I wonder how long he has been able to do that.
I watch in awe for a moment, but then I return to my book before Jacob catches me staring. I sit there engrossed in my story for quite a while. I am only dimly aware of the end of class and the people filing out of the room. When I look up, I realize that the only people left are Ms. Whitmore, one of the young girls in her class and the girl’s mother. They are down by the window, and it seems the two women are having a serious discussion, presumably about the little girl who waits silently and patiently a few feet away.
I instinctively look at my watch and see that it’s late, and then I look toward the locker rooms. I’m slightly annoyed that Jacob has kept me waiting, so I sit my book down and head toward the boys’ locker room. I go in thinking he is the only boy left inside. The showers are just past the door, and I can hear the water and feel the steam wafting in the air. I look into the shower room expecting to see Jacob lazily allowing the hot spray to flow over his tall frame. I almost call out to him in my fatherly voice, meaning to tell him to hurry up. But before saying anything, I see that Jacob is not alone. Ash is with him even though I didn’t notice Karen outside. It dawns on me that what the boys are doing is meant to be just between the two of them, so I quickly turn and leave before either one notices me.
When I’m out in the hall, I feel safe, and suddenly I feel washed in gratitude for having managed to get away without being detected. But then the gravity of what I just witnessed sinks in. I only caught a glimpse, but it was obvious the boys were dancing together. The little bit that I saw mirrored what took place outside earlier, only Jacob was spinning his wet, naked friend rather than a young lady. I have to admit that it was elegant. At least for this moment, they were meant to be together.
Jacob is nothing like what I expected when I was told that I was going to be the father of a boy. But as I stand there in the hall, I come to know that I wouldn’t want any other boy. He is a unique gift, and I’m so happy that he was given to me of all people. I am proud of him. So much so I laugh with joy as I imagine him and Ash dancing in their private studio.
Fifteen minutes later, after having read another chapter in my book, I return to the locker room. I open the door and listen before entering. When I don’t hear the sound of water running or feet skidding across the tiled floor, I go inside. As I make my way, I hear the boys chattering. I find them sitting on the bench in front of their adjoining lockers with their big white towels wrapped around their waists. They haven’t even begun to dress.
“Guys,” I say pleadingly, “take pity on the old man and get a move on it.”
Jacob looks over at me and says plaintively, “Sorry, Dad.”
To ease their disappointment, I say as I draw closer, “You two will have lots of time to talk in a couple of days. Ash’s mother tells me that he’ll be spending the weekend with us.”
Jacob turns in surprise, and Ash leans closer to him and says in a low voice that I’m able to hear clearly, “I told her to wait and let you ask him.”
“It’s okay,” I say as I turn to face our soon to be guest. “Ash, you’re welcome at our house anytime.”
When I look back at Jacob, I see that his shock is almost comical. “Don’t give me that,” I say.
“What?” he asks innocently.
“Stop staring at me as if you expected to find a monster behind you instead of your father.”
While keeping the rest of his body impossibly still, he curls his lips into a grin.
I place my hand on his shoulder and say, “Jake, I was watching you earlier, and I just wanted to tell you that you dance beautifully.”
His expression softens. “Thanks, Dad.”
Turning back to Ash, I say, “Is your mother waiting for you out in the parking lot? She’s not out in the studio.”
“She only dropped me off. There’s something she had to do, so she couldn’t wait.” As he speaks, he lowers his gaze. It’s obvious that he can’t maintain eye contact without blushing.
“How will you get home?”
“I’ll take the bus…if I’ve not missed the last one.”
Immediately Jacob begs, “Can’t we take him home?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks,” Ash says. “And thanks for letting me stay this weekend.”
“No problem. We’ll be happy to have you.” When I head toward the door, I say to both of them, “I’m giving you guys exactly two minutes to finish up in here.”
Before leaving the room, I hear Ash say to Jacob in his confidential tone, “I thought you said he was going to be uptight about me staying over."
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
The Missus
I was in second grade when Lester and his parents moved into the mobile home behind our house. We played together nearly every day for about three years. On weekends and during the summer, we were practically inseparable during daylight hours. I usually went to his house because his mother didn’t like him to be out of her sight. She and her husband were quite old to have such a young boy. At some point, Mrs. Beechum admitted to my parents that she and her husband were Lester’s grandparents, not his parents. Oddly enough, my parents passed on this information to me but forbade me from telling Lester. I never did let it slip, even when Lester was seething mad at Mrs. Beechum for being too restrictive.
The Beechums came from Logan County, and their accent was different, more backwoods and country. Lester enjoyed comic books and dinosaurs, and Mrs. Beechum didn’t differentiate between the Superheroes and the extinct reptiles. They were all Lester’s monsters to her, but she added an extra vowel sound to the word, mon-a-sters. One Saturday afternoon when I was at the Beechums, my mother called me home. Before I left, Mrs. Beechum asked, “You’uns goin’ summers?” I had no idea what she meant. I asked her to repeat herself, but I still didn’t understand, so I left without answering. My face was red, and I felt deeply ashamed for being so dumb.
Mrs. Beechum dipped snuff, and she always had an old Maxwell House coffee can handy so she could spit into it. Sometimes, she would blow her nose and sink the snotty tissue into the brown juice. I was traumatized by the sheer, unabashed nastiness of Mrs. Beechum’s coffee can. I think she was oblivious to the fact that some might not like to see that.
Lester and I didn’t play sports. We didn’t play any games with rules. We never kept score. There were no winners or losers. Lester and I spent our time together engaging in make-believe. We sometimes used his plastic dinosaurs to aid us. We often played with toy cars including Matchbox cars. My Alfa Carabo was my favorite. We spent hours rolling those cars along the floor or on the ground outside while making car sounds. I’m sure it was maddening to anyone who had to listen to us, but no one ever complained. At least it kept us out of trouble. Other times we didn’t use toys at all. We acted out scenarios as if we were putting on a play, but we made it all up as we went along. We extemporized, riffing off of one another for what must have been hours. No one ever noticed or said anything, but I regularly played Lester’s wife or girlfriend. It seemed like a natural role for me, and I stepped right into it without giving it much thought.
I was never ashamed to pretend to be female, especially one attached to Lester’s male characters, but I must have understood there were limits that I dared not cross. I would continue to daydream about the little dramas we had acted out when I went home, and I nearly always pictured myself in Lester’s arms. I imagined Lester kissing me, too. They weren’t hot tongue kisses—maybe I was still too young for that—but they were romantic mouth-to-mouth kisses. I never told anyone about those fantasies, and I never tried to push the action in that direction when I was playing with Lester. But I wanted to. I wanted to. I wanted Lester to pretend to come home from work, and I wanted him to take hold of me, his missus. I wanted us to roll around on the floor, and when we stopped, I wanted him to be on top of me. I wanted him to look down at me, call me by a girl’s name, tell me he loved me, and kiss me and kiss me again. I was nine years old and writing a dime store paperback romance inside of my head. I loved Lester, at least as much as a kid that age can love. I went so far as to write his name in magic marker on the bottom of my sock drawer. I had that dresser until I was forty years old, so I was regularly reminded of my childhood crush.
The Beechums came from Logan County, and their accent was different, more backwoods and country. Lester enjoyed comic books and dinosaurs, and Mrs. Beechum didn’t differentiate between the Superheroes and the extinct reptiles. They were all Lester’s monsters to her, but she added an extra vowel sound to the word, mon-a-sters. One Saturday afternoon when I was at the Beechums, my mother called me home. Before I left, Mrs. Beechum asked, “You’uns goin’ summers?” I had no idea what she meant. I asked her to repeat herself, but I still didn’t understand, so I left without answering. My face was red, and I felt deeply ashamed for being so dumb.
Mrs. Beechum dipped snuff, and she always had an old Maxwell House coffee can handy so she could spit into it. Sometimes, she would blow her nose and sink the snotty tissue into the brown juice. I was traumatized by the sheer, unabashed nastiness of Mrs. Beechum’s coffee can. I think she was oblivious to the fact that some might not like to see that.
Lester and I didn’t play sports. We didn’t play any games with rules. We never kept score. There were no winners or losers. Lester and I spent our time together engaging in make-believe. We sometimes used his plastic dinosaurs to aid us. We often played with toy cars including Matchbox cars. My Alfa Carabo was my favorite. We spent hours rolling those cars along the floor or on the ground outside while making car sounds. I’m sure it was maddening to anyone who had to listen to us, but no one ever complained. At least it kept us out of trouble. Other times we didn’t use toys at all. We acted out scenarios as if we were putting on a play, but we made it all up as we went along. We extemporized, riffing off of one another for what must have been hours. No one ever noticed or said anything, but I regularly played Lester’s wife or girlfriend. It seemed like a natural role for me, and I stepped right into it without giving it much thought.
I was never ashamed to pretend to be female, especially one attached to Lester’s male characters, but I must have understood there were limits that I dared not cross. I would continue to daydream about the little dramas we had acted out when I went home, and I nearly always pictured myself in Lester’s arms. I imagined Lester kissing me, too. They weren’t hot tongue kisses—maybe I was still too young for that—but they were romantic mouth-to-mouth kisses. I never told anyone about those fantasies, and I never tried to push the action in that direction when I was playing with Lester. But I wanted to. I wanted to. I wanted Lester to pretend to come home from work, and I wanted him to take hold of me, his missus. I wanted us to roll around on the floor, and when we stopped, I wanted him to be on top of me. I wanted him to look down at me, call me by a girl’s name, tell me he loved me, and kiss me and kiss me again. I was nine years old and writing a dime store paperback romance inside of my head. I loved Lester, at least as much as a kid that age can love. I went so far as to write his name in magic marker on the bottom of my sock drawer. I had that dresser until I was forty years old, so I was regularly reminded of my childhood crush.
Monday, July 9, 2018
A Place To Just Be
As many of you know, my living situation troubles me. I have never liked Merced. I have never felt at home here. I traveled across country to live in a more liberal and accepting area and landed in one of the more conservative parts of California. The place is also much too dry and hot for a tree hugger like me.
My apartment isn’t the best, and I’ve had some maintenance and neighbor issues, but no place is going to be perfect. I could deal with the apartment if it were in a better location. However, I worry that I could be suddenly forced out. Last summer the owners decided to put the burden of paying the electricity on the tenants. The electric company demanded a huge deposit. (Or at least it was huge to me.) And this all took place right at the beginning of summer. The electric bill here isn’t so high from October to May, but once the temperature heads toward and exceeds 100, the cost of electricity can become astronomical. I was blindsided by all of this, and if not for the help of friends, I could have been forced to choose between rent or air conditioning. Something like that could easily lead to me becoming homeless. My lease and rent subsidy are reviewed yearly, too. There is never any guarantee that either will be renewed.
I know I’m not alone. Lately, I’ve come across a few stories (some fiction and some nonfiction) about people who have been forced to live in their cars, vans and RVs. A lot of these people are older, and many are loners, like me. If you prefer to live alone (or need to live alone for the sake of your mental health) and don’t have much money, you don’t have a lot of options. Many have learned to adapt to the nomadic lifestyle, but sadly, it can be difficult to find places where it is safe and legal to camp in your car. There are public lands where you can do it, but they don’t have any facilities, so finding water and an electrical outlet can be difficult. And if you don’t have much money, you can’t afford a lot of gas. You can take a chance on parking lots and side streets, but there’s always a possibility that someone will notice and call the cops on you or harass you.
I know that housing can be expensive, and you can’t count on government to increase funding given our current political situation. So I was wondering how you could provide a place for someone to live on the cheap. I personally wouldn’t mind living in a campground. I know there are plenty of campgrounds around already, but they generally charge by the night. Existing campgrounds are mainly getaways for the middle class. I’m thinking of a campground where you can live for a low monthly fee. The tenants could supply their own cars, vans or camp trailers. Maybe you could encourage people to donate old vans and camp trailers. Maybe there would be some handy people around who would volunteer to fix them up. There could be a bathhouse for those who don’t have a bathroom and coin washing machines and dryers. There could be a clubhouse with free wifi so residents could stay connected. And it could have one of those post office box rental places so residents could have an official address. I’m wondering if you could provide a service like this for less than 200 per site a month. I know you wouldn’t make money, but could someone with the funds to invest at least break even? If I won the lottery, I would do it even if I lost money. A lot of us, the poor loners of the world, need someplace where we can live and just be.
My apartment isn’t the best, and I’ve had some maintenance and neighbor issues, but no place is going to be perfect. I could deal with the apartment if it were in a better location. However, I worry that I could be suddenly forced out. Last summer the owners decided to put the burden of paying the electricity on the tenants. The electric company demanded a huge deposit. (Or at least it was huge to me.) And this all took place right at the beginning of summer. The electric bill here isn’t so high from October to May, but once the temperature heads toward and exceeds 100, the cost of electricity can become astronomical. I was blindsided by all of this, and if not for the help of friends, I could have been forced to choose between rent or air conditioning. Something like that could easily lead to me becoming homeless. My lease and rent subsidy are reviewed yearly, too. There is never any guarantee that either will be renewed.
I know I’m not alone. Lately, I’ve come across a few stories (some fiction and some nonfiction) about people who have been forced to live in their cars, vans and RVs. A lot of these people are older, and many are loners, like me. If you prefer to live alone (or need to live alone for the sake of your mental health) and don’t have much money, you don’t have a lot of options. Many have learned to adapt to the nomadic lifestyle, but sadly, it can be difficult to find places where it is safe and legal to camp in your car. There are public lands where you can do it, but they don’t have any facilities, so finding water and an electrical outlet can be difficult. And if you don’t have much money, you can’t afford a lot of gas. You can take a chance on parking lots and side streets, but there’s always a possibility that someone will notice and call the cops on you or harass you.
I know that housing can be expensive, and you can’t count on government to increase funding given our current political situation. So I was wondering how you could provide a place for someone to live on the cheap. I personally wouldn’t mind living in a campground. I know there are plenty of campgrounds around already, but they generally charge by the night. Existing campgrounds are mainly getaways for the middle class. I’m thinking of a campground where you can live for a low monthly fee. The tenants could supply their own cars, vans or camp trailers. Maybe you could encourage people to donate old vans and camp trailers. Maybe there would be some handy people around who would volunteer to fix them up. There could be a bathhouse for those who don’t have a bathroom and coin washing machines and dryers. There could be a clubhouse with free wifi so residents could stay connected. And it could have one of those post office box rental places so residents could have an official address. I’m wondering if you could provide a service like this for less than 200 per site a month. I know you wouldn’t make money, but could someone with the funds to invest at least break even? If I won the lottery, I would do it even if I lost money. A lot of us, the poor loners of the world, need someplace where we can live and just be.
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