When my landlord was kicking me out—oh, I forgot to mention I got kicked out of my apartment—I was all:
"Big Mike, wanna buy a couch?"
"I have no need for a couch."
"Well what about all this furniture? If I sell it to you, can you give me another month?"
"I can give you six days."
"Six days? For all this furniture? That couch is an antique!"
"I have no need for a couch."
"Right, I got that."
"You can sell it at the thrift store. By the AIDS clinic. What happened to all your money, Miss Lauren?"
"I spent it on an art project."
"Was it a mural?"
"No. It was not a mural."
I pet Big Mike's chihuahua.
"We'll be sorry to see you go, Miss Lauren."
"Me too."
I stand.
"But that's ok. I'm on the way out anyway."
I didn't tell anyone. I didn't tell Kristi, I didn't call Shelly Kind. I was too proud. I'm a private person. I probably wasn't thinking straight.
I showered at the 24 Hour Fitness.
I slept in my car at first but it was too dangerous: people would see me and bang on the windows. They were looking for people in cars.
I found places—like behind the Cinerama Dome—where you can sleep in Hollywood without anyone noticing. And in case you've never been to Hollywood, forget everything you've heard about it on TV. It's a bad neighborhood. It's a city. Someone on our crew got stabbed in the neck at Burger King. Not robbed. Just stabbed in the neck for no reason. Now his hand shakes. And it will shake for the rest of his life.
When you're homeless every day is very, very long.
You never want to leave work.
You stay in diners for hours, playing Words With Friends with old boyfriends from back home, knowing those cocksuckers are using cheat sites.
You lose your pride—like you're the director of a multimillion-dollar movie and you find yourself offering to help out the costume department with sewing.
You never get enough sleep but you're never tired, either.
It's like you're always on edge, always looking out for something dangerous. Because that's what you have to do at night—you see the world as risky. New people as creatures that might end your life.
And what if someone raped me and made fun of my granny panties? To be raped and made fun of at the same time..it would be too much.
You might not believe that a director of a film can be homeless. Impossible, right? I mean this is America, right? But you'd be wrong. Homeless people are all over—you might not even know who they are. I know because they used to come into Starbucks in Portland. When people think of homeless people, they think of brown-looking blobs huddled in alleys. But at Starbucks they would come in dressed for office work and they'd be the first people to arrive and they'd only ask for hot water and when they made that request they'd look at you and beg with their eyes not to be pressed for further details. And you wouldn't, because you cared. And later they'd come in with their workmates and that's when they'd spend their money—but they'd be the ones ordering tea instead of lattes.
It's just a fact of life here. A corporation doesn't care whether its employees have houses, homes, apartments, tents, health care, or a place to live at all. "We take care of our people" is a lie. The people at the top get bigger houses. But yeah, it's the top of a pyramid.
I was petrified that I might run into others. I learned how to be invisible.
But a man found me.
He didn't rape me.
He was probably too old to get it up.
I heard him one night, humming the theme from Star Wars, and he surprised me by climbing into the space behind the Dome. He just about climbed on top of me. The guy was wearing a white suit, star-shaped sunglasses, a red top hat, golden shoes. Oh, and he carried a cane. He was like:
"Whoah, young lady! What you doing in my spot?"
"I'll go."
"No!"
He pokes me with his cane.
"I'm just kidding with ya! Ha ha ha. I don't need to sleep. I slept in my youth. Now I'll be awake till I die."
"Is that drug-induced?" I ask.
"Every drug you can think of!" he says. "Alcohol, cigarettes, tobacco, firearms..you ain't a fed, are you?"
"I'm not a fed."
"I do everything," he says.
"Seriously, I'll get out of your spot."
"Lady, I ain't used this spot in six months. If you don't mind, I'll just sit right down at your feet and you can tell Ole Jeffy a story."
"You wanna hear a story?"
"Yep."
I sit up.
He settles in.
"And they call you Ole Jeffy?"
"Yep. What do they call you?"
"Well. They call me Miss Lauren, but I prefer just Lauren."
"Alright, Just Lauren, tell Ole Jeffy your story."
"My story you want to hear?"
"Yep. That's the only story ya got to tell."
"Alright.."
"Let me stop you right there. You want a swig of this?"
Ole Jeffy produces a bottle of gin—it was some generic brand, I don't remember.
"I'm trying not to drink while I'm homeless."
"Everybody's homeless," he says. "That's the first thing you've got to know. You want some of this?"
He pulls out a crack pipe.
"No thanks, I don't smoke crack either."
"Then how do you know what a crack pipe looks like?"
"The internet?"
"What's your line of work, Lauren—you sure you're not a fed?"
"I'm not a fed. I'm trying to be a director."
"Have you ever done LSD?"
I laugh.
"No!"
"You call yourself a director and you've never done LSD?"
"I suck, right?"
"I don't know, I haven't heard your story."
So I take a swig of gin, and I tell Ole Jeff my story. My life story, my movie story, breaking into the men's restroom, renting a dress, meeting Shelly Kind..everything.