My homelessness was mercifully brief, but its sharp message about the fragility of the places that seem most secure was sobering even for a New Orleans native
I interviewed by phone for graduate writing programmes from my car in a grocery store parking lot, because that’s where I lived at the time. Of all the places you can set yourself up, I found grocery store car parks to be the best of all mediocre options. Outside a Schnucks in St Louis, there were always other people waiting in cars, which helped me blend in. Unlike mall lots, there were few police. The only patrolling presence, teenage cart-pushers, preferred to ignore me as much as I did them. At night, the store kept the lot lit – but thankfully, not too well lit, for sleeping was difficult enough in a car too laden with belongings to recline the seat. And, at least until the grocery closed, it was easy to grab a meal. So I’d drive there in the evenings, after showering at the YMCA.
My time in the car was short, considering: not more than a week and a half. It came about because of the sudden end to a long-term relationship, coupled with living in a city far from family and home, which left me thin on choices. I had a nine-to-five job at the time and, each day after work, I filled out tenant applications, but the process had been dragging. I was building the courage to ask a co-worker for a place to stay, dreading the embarrassment and added uncertainty that comes when others discover you aren’t managing well.
