It was an hour before the Saturday night darkness gave way to the morning sun–4:40am, to be exact–and I was sleeping soundly under the camper shell of my truck. I was parked in a new spot for the night, near Los Angeles’ La Cienega Boulevard, eager to cut down on travel time between to closely scheduled work shifts. That night’s shift ended at 2:00am, so I hustled back to my truck, pedaling furiously on my Novara 18-speed to finish my night and catch as much sleep as possible before my 10am shift the next morning. I locked my bike up to a wrought iron fence ten feet from my parking spot and crawled into bed. By 2:45 I was fast asleep. So far, so good.

Because it was a warm night I slept with the passenger side window cracked, welcoming into my sleepspace both the calm evening breeze and the nearby hum of passing cars on the boulevard. While the noise of the street aggravates some, I’ve grown to enjoy it. My usual parking spot abuts the constant stream of an uninterrupted freeway, elevated high above my place of rest, the flow of cars whizzing past like the racing waters of a river’s eddy. In the absence of pure silence, whispering winds, or the crashing waves of an angry sea, the high-speed rhythm of a nearby interstate is man’s best answer to Mother Nature’s soothing sounds of slumber.

At twenty to five, however, a different noise crept through my disguised mobile mini-home. The clanking noise of metal on metal. Coming from where my bike was locked up. A sound I had feared but hoped would never come. I sprang up to get a better look.

The downside of living home-free is that a full-night’s sleep isn’t always guaranteed. Lately, I’ve been roused on a few occasions from an otherwise pleasant slumber, mostly by unassuming kids thinking they’d found a secluded parking spot wherein to smoke weed while leaning against their mid-level luxury sedans. The office had similar instances of sleep shake-up, from a rattle-happy front door to unexpected visitors, even an attempted break-in. This noise, the metal on metal interrupting tonight’s sleep, felt an awful lot like the latter. My heart started racing immediately. I knew what was happening before I saw it.

Someone was trying to steal my bike.

As I peeked out of the cracked passenger window into the darkness, I saw a man working a pair of bolt cutters on the curve of my U-lock. That thief bastard!

“Hey!”

It’s all I could muster. A single word, belted out with an air of authority I wasn’t sure I had at this hour. I suppose I was as angry at him for trying to steal my property as I was at having such a necessary and wonderful sleep interrupted for any reason other to inform me of imminent riches, spectacular sex, or best, more sleep. Those closest to me know better than to interfere with my daily A.M. resurrection, understanding the precious nature of my non-waking habits. The unconscious life is the life for me. I sleep well and sleep often, each nightly slumber as intense as the last, birthing a pupa-like transformation as vital and intense as the restructuring of a larvae to a butterfly. Disrupt me from the natural progression of my life cycle and risk the consequences. Rouse me from my chrysalis too early and brace yourself for a venomous plague of toxic rage.

“Hey!”

The man spun around. He looked young, dressed in baggy clothes with a bag strapped to the shoulder of his six-feet-plus frame. At first he didn’t see me, suspecting my voice was coming from the street–perhaps from the getaway vehicle idling next to me, which I just then realized was there–or maybe somewhere along the sidewalk. I pushed the window of the camper shell open farther, pressing my face against the opening. The little coward. He was lucky I hadn’t yet gained the energy to leave the damned thing. Not that I had any idea what I’d do to confront the guy; he was larger than I, carrying a heavier potential weapon, possibly not alone, and certainly less asleep. But in my half-conscious fantasy realm I harbored no fear. The man finally saw me staring out from the unassuming space.

“This here your bike?”

He seemed flustered. His face darted around, looking for others who may have been watching. The bolt cutters hung at his side, as if to suggest he was browsing instead of stealing, admiring the ergonomic fancy of my lock-to-fence execution instead of actively trying to snap the thing as I’d just seen him doing.

“Yeah,” I replied, not as strong as the hearty ‘Hey” I’d offered moments ago. I was showing my fatigue, and perhaps inadvertently convincing him I meant no harm in the process. My tone said, ‘You’re free to go, old chap. Run along now.’ I should’ve gotten out and kicked the fool in the balls, it just wasn’t in me. What I wanted more than anything was to be asleep.

“All right,” he said, turning from the bike. “My bad.”

He ran off. Behind me the sound of a truck accelerated past and out of earshot. I looked at my bike, its U-lock still intact in its rightful place, and felt grateful I was able to wake up in time. I could hardly afford to buy a worthy replacement.

I couldn’t get back to sleep. Every noise offered the possibility of further intrusion. I had trouble sleeping, yet I couldn’t imagine leaving at this point. I doubt I’d sleep better elsewhere, and the sun would soon cast its crime-deterring rays onto the street. The night was a wash. I’d waste the next hour or two lingering in a sleepless purgatory, mostly wondering what was going through the guy’s head when I startled him. Probably not much. I’d caught him in the act; sticking around to finish the job would’ve invited undue risk compared to the relatively easy option of fleeing unharmed. But I wondered if he considered the ethics of stealing from someone living in his vehicle. I’d like to think that left an impression on him, to think more about the people his actions were effecting, and that not all might be as well-off as he thinks. I’d like to think it sparked a certain flame in his moral conscience. But probably not. The guys is probably just a desperate coward looking to make an extra buck.

People ask me if I ever feel unsafe on the street. I always say no, having rarely encountered a serious threat to my well-being. While that still feels true, Sunday morning was a reminder that living in unexpected places exposes you to unexpected things. The discreet appearance of my truck means most people leave me alone, but that same lack of awareness that I’m inside of it brings about some poor-intentioned people as well. After 900+ days living home-free, though, I’ve been relatively safe from threats. Yet one concern does remain: If I get woken up again at 4 in the morning by another discourteous bastard, will I be able to refrain from slapping the shit out of him before he gets a chance to run off?

Only time will tell:)

-TOH