Tonight was I was (once again) accidentally mistaken for a
homeless person.
As a gal with far more clothes than one ought have
(mostly thrift, mind), it’s rare that I find myself in a situation considered truly “desperate” when it comes to laundry. I have enough of the
essential items to go a month without serious worry. Nonetheless, when
I pulled open the panty drawer this morning, the outlook was bleak. It was time
for a trip to my Laundromat.
Car loaded up, I hauled straight from work with a game plan. Too much to do to let a thing like laundry slow me down. No
time to chitchat about detergents and gossip about over dry cleaning
with the tiny old Asian women, deadbeat dads and single soccer moms like
normal. I had a to-do list this time.
Got to the mat. Changed out of my work outfit so it could
get washed too (not going to start in the negative with that damn dirty laundry
basket). Donned a ratty old t-shirt and a too-big pair of sweatpants that I'd found at the back of a drawer this morning. Commandeered a few machines,
pumped in my quarters and sprinted out to my car to put on a pair of sneakers.
Realized I forgot to grab my tennies, so went for the emergency pair in my trunk
(you’d be amazed at the junk in my trunk… #butforreals). Turned on my Charity
Miles app and hit the sidewalk. Walked to the nearest fast food joint in the
hot and windy weather and got a side salad and small fry (healthy? Ish?). Took
the long way back to get some extra mileage.
Had some time left, so decided to sit outside my
laundromat (housed in a suburban strip mall) to eat. Opened the side salad to
find that over half the lettuce was nasty, shriveled and gross. Mumbling profanities
under my breath, I turned and went a few steps to the outdoor trash bin to
start picking out bad lettuce. Left my laundry-day satchel and little bag of
fries sitting on the curb as I cursed and threw away my pennies via slimy
lettuce. Satisfied, and with a much smaller salad, I returned and sat down in a
huff on the curb. And then a dollar fell in my lap.
Looking up, with the best “WTFuck is going on?” look I could
muster, I see some basic housewife smile thoughtfully and say, “It gets better,
dear.” And off she goes, dry cleaning in tow. Good deed done for the day. It
took me a second, but I realized that my picking apart fast food over the trash
may have looked less like I had bought some piss-poor fast food and was fixing
it, and more like I had just hijacked some discarded noms from the trash bin in
the first place and was picking off the bad bits to salvage it. I was wearing
holey, inappropriately sized clothes and beat up sneakers (they use to be my
lawn mowing shoes), looking worse than a ten-year-old HP wearing Dudley’s
clothes. And the wind had taken advantage of my hair again so that I looked a
bit like a banshee. Plus, I was cursing under my breath and mumbling to myself. No
one but my tattered old satchel to talk to….and the voices in my head? Yeah.
Fair enough, lady.
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| Fries - a staple in the hobo diet? |
Lost for words, I returned to my fries and watched the Good
Samaritan walk off to her SUV, head held high. I was still staring as the neighboring Weight
Watchers group let out. Wasn’t paying attention until I heard a particularly
loud, “This use to be such a nice neighborhood, and now they’re just there,
whenever you step outside.” Bemused, I glance over to see that she was glaring
at me, my satchel, and my half eaten fries. At this point, it
was too funny and I couldn’t help myself… I put on my best “crazy and destitute”
smile and held up the bag to offer her a fry. With a scoff, she stomped off,
all in a tizzy. She was probably just pissed that she couldn’t have a fry and I
could, but that’s no reason to jump to assumptions.
Since it was time to attend to laundry and my to-do list
anyways, I started to gather up my things when I heard another voice start in, “Excuse
me, ma’am, but…” At that point, after what had been a bad/busy day, I assumed I was being shooed off the curb. So, I finally
lost it and shrieked out, “I’M NOT HOMELESS AND I CAN EAT MY SHITTY SALAD
WHEREVER I WANT!” The fifteen year old kid with his mom just stared, holding up
a dollar bill, and finally said, “Okay, but, you dropped your dollar.” He
extended a hand, I smiled and said thanks, grabbing the bill. He bolted, on his
mom’s heels, while she barked praises over her shoulder about his kind heart and
lectured him about not talking to strangers on the street, even if they said they weren’t homeless.
Returning to my responsibilities, I reflected. I’ve always cynically
thought that many street people were actually not without homes, but were just
begging for a second income (curse the documentary that made me see the stats
on that one!), or looking to get out of their homes to avoid unpleasantries. On
the optimistic side, I’ve seen vagrants in some of the most beautiful cities in
the world and thought, “What a swell place to be free and adrift!” Not that
that sort of nomadic existence is easy, but if you’re going to be on the
streets, you may as well be somewhere awesome (not that most get a choice in
that matter – if you can’t afford a roof over your head, a ticket to Rome probs
isn’t within your budget). I knew for a fact I wouldn't be able to hack it though, were that the card I was dealt. My porcelain skin, exposed to the elements all day? I'd be dead within a week.
That all sounds awful, and it is a real issue, but the suburbia reactions to a scrawny chick on laundry
day (both helpful and judgmental) made the whole thing just seem oddly comical.
What gives anyone the right to point at another person and assume they know a darn
thing about their circumstances? And if we all just judge a book by its cover,
when how many books are we judging wrong? Food for thought,* from a
spontaneously homeless gal to you.
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| Because there is ALWAYS an accordion playing on the streets of France, and everyone else has a day job. She's a g'damn artist, providing a vital service. |
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