The Assimilation — The Pursuit Project

The assimilation started slowly, unbeknownst to me, it began.

Living in a van during the times of COVID-19 is, to me, an excellent option. My rent, utilities, and internet payments are non-existent, I am still a participating member of the public (mostly grocery shopping) and I am safe...for the most part. I am the ultimate free-loading, free-living being I ever have been and perhaps ever will be. My bills are limited to my: Cellphone ($40), car insurance ($70), and credit card ($350), which is a majority of grocery and gas expenditures. I use the public restroom at the grocery store, rarely buying groceries after my morning transactions. I shower at my friends, who coincidentally, is also my boss. Laundry happens once a week at the local laundromat. My entertainment consists of reading free E-books from my, once local, library. Climbing at various locations around New Mexico and southern Colorado, writing, and some internet time. But wait, how do you have internet? Good question. Luckily for me, Taos, has free public WiFi at the park, where I also happen to call “my home”. This is also where assimilation began.

The assimilation I speak of is into the world of homeless and troubled folk. Now let's face it, I am indeed homeless, for a van isn’t your text-book home, but it does the trick. I am lacking the troubled part though, I mean I have my own troubles, but unlike some folks here I am not deeply troubled or Ill. Because I live in a park, in my van, I am constantly in the public eye. Old people are avoidant, crossing the street when they pass “the guy living in a van”, parents fear the kidnapper lurking in the van, and the homeless envision a good chat with another guy on the streets. I’ve had one middle aged woman come check on me and my well-being offering help, but I politely insisted I was doing just fine as I stuffed myself with an unusually large breakfast. Once a well-to-do family from Texas came by and the dad squatted between his two young daughters wearing matching pink jumpsuits and said “look girls, that guy lives in there” as if I were some animal specimen at the zoo. I’m too sure after I was out of ear shot he said something like “see girls, if you don't stay in school, if you do drugs...blah,blah,blah you’ll end up living in a van too.” Little did he know I graduated college, live a healthy lifestyle and am being financially responsible with my bi-weekly stipend.

The plentiful homeless folks I encounter, perhaps are the ones who don’t stay in school and/or have drug problems. Actually most seem to be quite drunk or intoxicated when they come and chat with me during my 0730 breakfast. The homeless folks treat me well though, they are nice people, but have an issue or two. (For their respect, I have changed their names). There was Mike, a young Native American young man who stumbled upon me bright and early, he was already or still was, cross-eyed drunk. He didn’t like that I called him “amigo”, insisting he was not Mexican. I then pleaded my case that I only meant it as a friend and was not calling him a Mexican. By the end of our brief chat, Mike stumbled away, informing me that he was a 21 year-old doctor. I congratulated him before he took off and I went to work.

There was “the zombie” another young fella who once again, had been alarmingly drunk in the early morning hours. He made me watch as he pulled his camouflage mesh bandanna up over his face and acted out his best zombie, although he wasn’t far off to begin with.

A sharp rapping of the knuckles on my driver window awoke me from my much needed slumber. “Shit! I’ve been found out!” The first thought that crossed my sleep riddled mind. I gathered myself, jumped into a pair of shorts and slowly, regrettably, pulled back the curtain to accept my fate from an upholder of the law. Oh!? But what’s this?! An older woman, perhaps 67, but she’s partied a bit...so 67 on 76. An acme explosion must’ve just happened for her hair is blown back and three inches straight up. She was a human “Beaker” from the muppets. I groggily ask “yes? Can I help you?” And to my appaulment she slurs out “I know it’s terrible, but do you have a lighter?” while raising a butt of a snubbed out cigarette, strikingly resembling her appearance. I answered with an annoyed “no, sorry”. Although I did have a lighter, but if you’re waking me up at 6am on the weekend, you’re sure as hell not getting my lighter! As I closed my curtains to get some more sleep, she sauntered off towards the next unwilling victims.

I’m enjoying my weekend breakfast at a table in the park, two tables over two women, roughly my age, are talking about how guys with cars impress them and other superficial attractions. I turn the pages in The Alpinist and read of mountaineering feats and hardships, pour myself another cup of coffee from my french press and enjoy the cool early morning. A younger fellow walks up to the girls and asks them for money for coffee, they reply “no, we wish we had money for coffee!” and giggle as he walks away. The man goes to pass me and I pipe up, “Hey, need some coffee? I made too much, my palms are already sweating.” He comes over and smells his gallon jug before he decides that it’s his new coffee mug, I pour him the remainder of the coffee. I ask him some general questions, find out his name is “Cloud” and he unloads his plot of the day on me. His plan, to go to walmart, steal a phone charging cable (apparently they don’t persecute for such an insignificant item) and come back to the public charger. He says this will take him a whole day, I don’t say much, knowing walmart is about two miles away. He must be a slow walker. Cloud then rants on something about a zen master showing him the way, his sentences broken as he misses several words to complete each sentence. Cloud must’ve been on a cloud, or dropped form one, his sentences seemed to short circuit somewhere near the middle and he would sputter out the last few words as if he made complete sense to his audience. He holds up his right leg and pretends he’s balancing a stick with the same arm. “See, some zen master shit.” He suddenly remembers he has coffee in his bag and says he could’ve eaten some, but he forgot and needed to get some coffee before he “lost it”. Hmmm, lost it over not having coffee? Interesting. I ask him what he does “well, i’m trying to get some alcohol because i’m an alc...alcho...alch...alchomoholic” he stutters out and giggles with a sheepish smile as if it is funny. I don’t wish to open that door so I pass it by as if he said he was a fast-food employee. Then something calls to him and he must go, I wish him luck and he heads away.

Now you may be thinking, how are you assimilating?

Unintentionally, I have been gaining a somewhat grubby appearance. I’ve claimed a favorite outfit that I only change out of for work or sleep. The shirt I wear is a salt and dirt-stained grey merino wool T-shirt, it is also littered with holes in the shoulders where it has been worn out. I haven’t shaved in three months and I shower once a week. My appearance isn’t the most homely “I live in a home” display. And that brings me to “Eagle”, a retired activist, “self-employed”, and vet who graced me with his company.

Eagle strolled by one morning, leaned on my van door while I was cooking breakfast out of the back and we began to talk. He commented “That damn COVID got ya living out of your van now, huh?” “No, I’m just doing it…” I replied as he cut me off and told me he was living a “stone’s throw” from the Pueblo reservation boundary with the elk and wild dogs. He went on about the wild dogs, saying he enjoys letting them come and sniff around his tent. Then as two homeless guys do, one began recalling life stories and releasing a vocalized novel to the other “How FUCKED is America?...my brother’s in a drug house...Bigfoot stole a pig, plucked it up like it was nothing...and stimulus checks.” I mentioned the coming of the second stimulus check and his humanly feathers ruffled in delight, this guy likes money.

He mentioned how helpful a second stimulus check is going to be, but that there is a secret one, apparently any US citizen can get, for $6,000. I feigned interest in this secretive, massive stimulus check and this only promoted his enthusiasm. He knows “a guy” ...of course he does...that is helping him fill out the papers for it (the can of worms is now fully open). His eyes glow with promised treasures as he points to the steakhouse across the street, exclaiming “...And when that big fucker comes in, i’m taking the guy right there for a big fuckin’ steak. It’s the least I could do”. Now Eagle is alive with a new idea “I tell ya what man” he says “I’ll get Alex (“The guy”) to help you do it too!”. I kindly decline, stating that I'm not self-employed. “Oh, well sure ya are! Why not?”. Eagle is doing his best to persuade me to this magical six grand check. Before he could go any further another tall lanky homeless fella with a big nose, big ears and harboring an east coast accent wanders in. “Where is all the money? There used to be people giving money here?” He directs towards Eagle. His attention then sways towards me, “hey, you got a cigarette I could buy?” as he extends a dollar towards me. Eagle jumps in before I can say anything “you think this guy smokes? He’s not the smoking type. He’s smart.”. The cigarette behind his ear wiggling as he speaks. The tall Boston man complains some more about how “no one's handin’ out money like they usta.” and then leaves.

Eagle gets right back to business about the almighty six grand check. He goes for several minutes as I slowly recede into my skull. He must’ve noticed and once again said “I’ll get Alex to help you get a slice of the cheese.” he takes a stride to leave, pauses, and asks “Ah, but before I go, do you have a light?” I clamber back into my van, retrieve my cheap 7/11 lighter and hand it to him. He goes to return it, I tell him “you can keep it, I have another” he then leaves with “Thanks brotha, we’re in this together!”. He giggles as he walks away, presumably excited for the “El Dorado” of stimulus checks.

That is how I began my assimilation into the culture of the street vagabond, the bum, the homeless. Perhaps an honorary guest, for this lifestyle won’t continue into winter. I do get some kicks talking with such imaginative folks, but also I do realize that I am fortunate. Unlike them, the homeless, I am choosing to live in a van, homeless, while they are down in life and are forced into these circumstances. On the scale of homelessness, or houselessness as I've heard PC folks refer to it as, I live a lavish life with a bed, warm shelter, stove, sink, and even a sewing machine. These conversations and encounters make me grateful for what I have, although little, I still have more than I need. I am lucky to have a living family, wife, healthy body and mind, and even a few dollars stashed away. So when the true people of the street do stop by, I treat them with my best respect (as long as they’re respectful) and do what little I can to help. When they have asked for food, I have fed them. When they ask for water, I pump a glass full from my sink. When thumbing for a ride, I’ll pick up the trustier looking folks. Because in the end we’re all human, some of us just sink lower than others and a little act of kindness can help someone a lot.