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Lizandro rests his arm on the brim of his classic Volkswagen van’s driver’s side door, taking in the cool winter air of the Mar Vista Rec Center. A group of men congregate nearby, drooling over what will soon be a tasty ceviche dinner. One of the men asks for the tomato and Lizandro points to the picnic table. He should know where it is—he was the one who bought the food.
Not that Lizandro is rich. In fact, he’s homeless. Voluntarily homeless.
Lizandro and is one of a growing number of Los Angeles residents living in his vehicle. According to last year’s Los Angeles Homeless Services Authority census, over 6,000 vehicles were being used as residences, an 85% increase over the previous count. Due to a dearth of affordable housing in L.A., that trend is growing, led by folks who are fed up by paying ballooning rent costs.
It’s a trend called “home-free” living, distinct from typical homelessness because of the crucial element of intent.
Lizandro made the decision to live home-free, parking his Volkswagen van-home near the local Whole Foods where he works, after a divorce. Suddenly he was on his own, working a job that barely paid his rent. But instead of getting a place further from his job, Lizandro moved into his Volkswagen. A 43-year-old bachelor living in his vehicle, he is perfectly content.
“I can live somewhere else and pay more,” he reasoned, “but then I waste more on commute. I love playing soccer, I love being at the beach. Everything kind of for me is right here.”
Unlike most Angelinos, Lizandro is saving money. He’s able to send money home to his family in Guadalajara, Mexico, and enjoy his top priorities–eating healthy and attending concerts. Thanks to his employee discount–and frugal lifestyle–he can afford to eat well without breaking the bank. He even feeds his friends.
“I used to be stressed,” Lizandro says. “‘Oh fuck, I’m paying too much,’ Then I didn’t feel good. I didn’t have energy. Believe me, there’s a big difference. I was sacrificing my health.”
What seems like a harmless lifestyle choice was, until recently, against the law. The 9th Circuit Court changed that in the summer of 2014, striking down Los Angeles Municipal Code 85.02 banning vehicular dwelling. It was criminalized homelessness, and the courts ruled it unconstitutional.
Lizandro is keen on doing right by the court decision, acting as a model home-free citizen. He talks about the painstaking efforts taken to keep quiet around housed residents and dispose of his waste responsibly, and encourages others to follow suit.
“I go to the gym, I have insurance, I work. I pay taxes,” Lizandro affirms. “I don’t go to the neighbors with my music blasting, or talking loud. I’m not causing any harm.”
Yet enemies to the lifestyle remain. Groups like the Venice Stakeholders Association act as gadflies against vehicular dwellers, using every opportunity to push an agenda of gentrification by vilifying those living in their cars. Without putting forth tenable solutions, Venice and other neighborhoods now enforce strict parking regulations to fight the trend, requiring permits for street parking or limiting overnight parking for oversized vehicles. These measures represent a de facto criminalization, treating the symptoms of the issue rather than the cause.
Lizandro is aware of the tendency to misunderstand his lifestyle—and the resultant consequences of misguided legislation. Still, he remains resilient, maintaining his positivity as well as he maintains his finances, persisting with his choice in the face of criticism.
“Society don’t pay my bills,” he says. “I can go back and prove to you that I’m not homeless. I can go rent me a place and be accepted into society. Oh, now I’m okay, you pat me on the back, I’m not homeless anymore. I don’t care.”
For now, Lizandro and others like him hope the city continues to not care, either. As for those who do, maybe stopping by the park for a taste of Lizandro’s famous ceviche dinner might change their minds.
– TOH
“Man must be made conscious of his origin as a child of Nature. Brought into right relationship with the wilderness he would see that he was not a separate entity endowed with a divine right to subdue his fellow creatures and destroy the common heritage, but rather an integral part of a harmonious whole. He would see that his appropriation of earth’s resources beyond his personal needs would only bring imbalance and beget ultimate loss and poverty for all.”
.
It will soon be time to call it quits on my Calabasas experiment–or will it?
Dawn’s downtown library project is underway, and I’m proud to say that my involvement has been the spark that’s kick-started her back into action. By helping design, organize, and help labor through organizing the over 10,000 books she has laying around to make the library a success, Dawn’s been re-motivated to make regular trips down to the center to ensure the facility is prepared for their arrival. The books will soon be ready to be transported downtown, and we’re hoping for a grand opening before the holidays.
There’s much work to be done yet, but I feel satisfied I’ve done my part to help Dawn realize her library dream. My plan has been to move out of Calabasas come mid-month and I’m now considering my options. Living there this summer leads me to report the following:
One thing is for sure, answering the common question, “So where do you live?” has not gotten any easier. In fact, as I transition out of summer it’s becoming as trying as ever. It’s only because we’re so socially accustomed to long-term, contracted living situations that we feel so tied down to that statement, as much as we are to our homes themselves.
I never got to feeling completely at home in that house. Living there as I did, I never took the steps to move in–didn’t decorate, didn’t put my stamp on the layout of my room. I kept my bathroom stuff in a backpack and kept my fridge belongings in one confined corner. I’ve heard of homeless being housed and feeling uncomfortable in their new apartments, to the point of having to set up tents in the living room, sleep on the floor, or even spend an occasional night on the street. My situation is not as drastic as these. But I do understand a deep seated reluctance to settling into a place. Or maybe it’s just the opposite. Maybe I’ve grown fond of the whimsy of the nomadic life, trotting off to homestead in a new place every once in a while, just to see how that inspires me.
We’ll see where that leads me next.
-TOH
This doesn’t seem stupid at all.
We thought we were going the right way.
My friend Paul and I had set out on a plan to hike up Shepherd’s Pass in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, with the goal of climbing both Mt. Williamson and Mt. Tyndall on the same three-day trip. Physically, we were prepared, having independently tailored our workouts to the rigors of the 30+ mile roundtip topping out at over 14,000 feet of elevation. Our route was mapped out, too, along with precisely how much food, water, and equipment to bring along for the trip. As long as the weather held up–and it appeared that it would–the only thing standing between us and the summits were, effectively, ourselves.
“What could possibly go wrong,” I said to Paul.
We were about to find out.
We’d scheduled ourselves to begin hiking around 2:30pm. After a bit of confusion about where to store our in-vehicle scented items (so bears wouldn’t be tempted to break into my truck), we found ourselves deep on Foothill Road, a two-way path of graded gravel winding through the arid underbrush, heading towards the trailhead. It seemed odd to us that there’d be concerns about bears in this country. It was desolate, almost desert. In fact, Death Valley itself is only a hop, skip, and a jump east of the 395. It seemed like an odd place to have unloaded all our non-backpacked food, just for bears. We forged ahead, looking for the trailhead sign.
When we finally saw it, it indicated we turn right on Forest Road 14S102.
But soon that road dead-ended, leaving us wondering what went wrong.
Turn right, people. OR ELSE.
There was no parking lot, no cars. Just a lump of sugar sand at the end of a spur road. And a whole lot of manzanita bushes.
“Where’s the people?” Paul said.
Thousands of people climb Mt. Williamson each year. So why, on a prime-weather weekday in August, was no one here?
We decided to turn around. In a million-point turn. Carefully.
Hiss…
Not carefully enough. The sound came to me like a haunted serpent, swirling air ricocheting through the walls of a waking nightmare. Either a very angry rattlesnake was shadowing my front driver’s side wheel as I inched forward, or…
Courtesy of your local manzanita root, sharper than a fourth-grade spelling bee champion.
We had ourselves a flat tire.
One instant-ass, flat-as-a-board strip of formerly inflated strip of rubber between us and safety.
It was already 4:00. Well beyond our 2:30 projected start time.
After the usual obscenities, my first thought was to dig into the extended cab and get the jack. I knew a spare tire was hanging from under the bed of the truck. But when I opened the compartment for the jack, every piece was there BUT THE JACK ITSELF. I guess the previous owner had taken it with him as a fucking parting gift. Brilliant. Word to the wise: Check your safety equipment before heading into the wilderness.
Hey, you got a jack, rabbit??
I had Paul ready our gear for the hike while I called AAA. Fortunately I had phone service, otherwise we’d have had a long hike ahead of us–back into town. Unfortunately this turned into a series of conversations with the dispatcher with more twists and turns than a telenovella. It went a little something like this:
AAA: We’ll have a flatbed out for you right away.
AAA: Wait, no one is willing to drive down those roads.
AAA: Wait, someone is willing to drive down those roads. But it’s going to take 4 hours.
Me: Fuck it, we’re just gonna leave the truck here. Can we call you when the hike’s over?
AAA: Um… okay?
“Night hike it is,” said Paul.
Five hours later than scheduled, worn down from the ordeal with the flat tire, Paul and I set out to bushwhack northeast towards the trail. A hike starting out with such luck ended exactly how you might imagine. We’d expected the first leg of the hike to take 6 hours; instead, it took 11, getting us to sleep around sunrise. The rest of the journey went a little something like that. Paul and I are relatively experienced at this too, having completed several mountains together and separately, from the Grand Canyon to Mt. Shasta to Longs Peak and the Cactus to Clouds superhike. But luck was not on our side this time.
By the time we returned, we’d logged over 30 miles of strenuous wandering, nearly forgetting that we were returning to a tilted mess of truck-home disrepair. We hobbled into camp at sunset and put a call into AAA. Again, the series of calls resembled an Emmy-winning soap opera:
AAA: We were mistaken. The driver who originally said he could come says he can’t.
Me: I am wild, I am fierce.
AAA: Shit, okay. We’ll send him.
Merciful Driver: I could get fired for doing this. I’ll meet you halfway as a compromise. At 11pm.
Me and Paul: (walk a mile downhill to meet him)
Merciful Driver: (pissed, gives us 30 lb. jack)
Me and Paul: (walk a mile uphill back to truck)
Jack: (breaks)
Tire: (remains flat)
Me: Hey, Merciful Driver, wtf?
Merciful Driver: I’ll get my brother to help. Walk back to me.
Me and Paul: (walk a mile downhill back to meet Merciful Driver)
Merciful Driver’s Morbidly Obese Brother: How far to the flat tire?
Me: Um… Oh… like a mile-and-a-half
Merciful Driver’s Morbidly Obese Brother: (narrowly survives mile uphill walk to truck)
Flat: (becomes fixed)
Thanks: (Given)
Hint: Pay CLOSE ATTENTION to the letters at the end of the signs when navigating shitty forest roads.
Walking 30 miles up and down 9,000 feet of elevation gain might seem hard, but try tacking on a 4-mile back-and-forth after doing all that. I guarantee it will help solidify a few lessons for you.
One: CHECK YOUR SAFETY EQUIPMENT before heading into the wilderness.
Two: Don’t expect flatbed drivers to drive along graded, gravel roads. And understand that this is completely reasonable–when our guy did, he nearly lost his toolbox because it was rattling loose on the drive in. Sympathy for that guy.
Three: Shepherd’s Pass is stupid. If you have to choose between hiking this route and punching yourself in the face repeatedly for seven hours, CHOOSE THE LATTER.
And finally, FOUR: There are no bears at the Sierra foothills. So bring your food cache with you. You might need it when you blow a tire on a manzanita root.
Keep surviving, y’all.
-TOH
I stroll up the stairs to my place, using the soft hum of guitar strings to guide me in the right direction. It is the perfect way to put a night cap on the last night of my vacation in Belize, a place I might not have had the time or money to visit had I chosen to keep a full-time job and an apartment. The cool breeze of the Caribbean swayed tickling validation all over my smiling face. This was exactly where I wanted to be.
Where I was is a place called Caye Caulker, and island known for its proximity to world class barrier reefs and a motor-vehicle-free dirt strip that breathes life into the islands’ only town. I couldn’t have taken my truck-home here if I wanted. So instead, I snatched up a shockingly cheap beachside Air BnB from a nice woman named Chila. She called her place “Chila’s Cabin”, conjuring images of a log-stacked getaway in the middle of nowhere. I was about to learn why that made sense along this pedestrian-heavy thoroughfare.
After taking a night snorkel tour of the surrounding reefs, I ran into Chila again on the stairway. Like most residents on the island, Chila has a warm, welcoming aura. She stands at a tall 5’1″, her middle-age smile resting perpetually on the state of laughter.
“Terry, how was your tour?” she comes out, arms open for a hug. “Sorry, I was just practicing the guitar.”
Chila has lived most of her life on Caye Caulker, and was a long-time owner of one of the island’s most important businesses–Caye Caulker’s lone supply barge. The town imports nearly all of its goods to keep the residents–and thriving tourism business–afloat. Before Chila’s barge business, each shop and restaurant would import their goods independently. Chila helped consolidate that shipping, lowering the cost for everyone–but placing incredible demands on her time.
“When the ship arrives at 1am with the supplies, who’s going to pick it up?” she asked. “You. After a while, you look at this beautiful island and wonder if you’ll ever get a chance to enjoy it.”
After years of providing this service, Chila started to save her money. She started to question ceding the best parts of her life over to long hours and fancy belongings. When she finally left her job, she left her house and took up renting out a quaint one-bedroom apartment–albeit with a balcony overlooking the Caribbean–on Air BnB, staying with her family when it’s rented. Now, in her free time, Chila has started picking up the guitar, teaching herself new chords as quicker than I ever could. Walking by her place, you might mistake the melody of Israel Kamakawiwo’ole‘s “Over the Rainbow” for a radio song. Asked about her talent, Chila is much more modest than she could be.
“Oh, I’m no good at that thing,” she said. “But at least now I have time to practice!”
If you visit Caye Caulker one day, you may see Chila performing at one of the local seaside restaurants, showing off the fruits of her newfound free time. It will be Chila’s way of sharing her home-free energy with those around her, something I doubt will be lost on the inhabitants of this lazy island. The irony will be that what will have brought her to that stage is anything but laziness. Just a healthy mix of hard work, self-awareness, and the boldness to choose the life she wished to lead.
We should all be so lucky.
-TOH
I’ve decided to accept a room for the summer. In a house. For no rent.
It’ a deal too good to pass up.
A friend of mine, Dawn, has been offering to allow me to stay in her extra bedroom in Calabasas for some time. Initially, I was unwilling, out of principle, to accept her offer, either for rent or for free. Renting, save for a few moments of weakness when the endeavor seemed ever-so-briefly palatable, is something I’ve eschewed since December of 2012. The hefty budget line item has simply not been worth the commensurate time and energy needed to devote to it, particularly when focusing my efforts on so many (speculative) film and writing projects. Plus, Dawn’s home is a long commute from my work and friends. Every rent dollar would come with the added cost of commuting. Conversely, taking the room simply for free seemed out of the question as well. A primary goal of this experiment-turned-lifestyle was to utilized neglected space, not prey on the sympathy of others.
Recently, a few things changed to make this opportunity more attractive. For one, my daytime income possibilities, working with kids, has vanished for the summer. While this income is not crucial to my survival, not having it means living more strategically–at least for a couple of months. Secondly, the sizzle reel I’ve been working on for my show concept is lagging in post-production, now a few weeks behind deadline. As project Creator and EP, it needs my attention around the clock. In this unique circumstance I find myself wanting for round-the-clock access to electricity and facilities. This makes a temporary base of operations more attractive. Finally, Dawn has a project of her own that’s struggling. For months I’ve been supporting her efforts to build a library at a homeless center downtown. But that’s stalled, too. Because I have a background in project management and organization, I’m an ideal person to help Dawn get this project moving.
So after a discussion, we decided I’d take the room for a bit in exchange for helping Dawn establish her library.
It may seem strange coming from a vocal proponent of the home-free lifestyle–or it might seem wholly unstrange–that I would embrace the opportunity to live in a traditional home for any amount of time. And I admit the decision was made with a symphony of sighs and foot tapping, wondering if I was undermining my message by making the leap. But the reality is simple–mine is a life of intention. Living home-free is a vehicle (no pun intended) to achieving greater ambitions. It is what I consider a viable option for anyone looking to gain more independence in their day-to-day, whether on a temporary or long-term scale. Obligation is exactly what I wished to subvert.
So this is a logical extension of my journey. Just as my two desert ranch writing retreats and many pet/house-sitting ventures and slew of vacations have been not a distraction from but a ringing endorsement of the benefits of the flexibility inherent in the decision to live home-free, rent-free, this period of housing will only further allow me to spread the word of this lifestyle. And to do so while working for positive change in the homeless population right here in Los Angeles. It’s a win-win.
An added bonus, I’m (finally) purging the remaining items in my storage unit, ridding myself of the burden of un-needed belongings and an extra monthly bill. It’s another vital step on the path to downsizing towards a clutter-free life, and less time and money spent securing material possessions. I’m just as excited for this purge as I was about the initial office move! Now I just need to make sure my sentimental ass can get rid of it all…
Looking forward to updating everyone with more soon.
-TOH
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
Occasionally I use space on this page to endeavor to update you, my valued reader, on what the heck is going on in my life. On a public diary/blog, no less! So novel! Ah, so after a long layoff, here I go…
It was the Friday before I submitted my completed article to Salon.com, and I was driving from South Los Angeles after a long day of work. My destination was due north, to the nightclub where my evening shift would start a few hours later. The asphalt sweltered under the 90-degree high as I peeled off my work clothes and drove through Central Los Angeles, desperate for a spot to pass out.
With a 5-hour intermission between a 13-hour double shift, I needed the rest. LA’s urban greenhouse was hardly the place to do it, trapping a swath of heat beneath its ceiling of smog. Finding a strip of shade beyond the hounding roar of traffic and prying windows of residences was a challenge. But I managed. Winding my way up the hills of Baldwin Village, I settled under a sprawling tree on a headrush hill and crawled into the back of my truck-home for a sweaty nap.
These are the days that test my home-free will.
Fortunately, these days are few and far between. Besides that marathon workday, I had only two other shifts on the docket that week, totaling a too-long 25-hour workweek of on-the-clock drudgery. More hours than usual, but only three days of work in total. The rest of my free time went to my creations. Not just the Salon article, but bigger, more grandiose conceptions.
I am a solitary thinker. My ideas flourish best while alone, far from the rush and bustle of the urban routine. The city arouses my energy, but solitude inspires my thoughts. Working less means creating more, and this few-week period was no different. On most mornings I’d wake up slowly, under the skyscraping cedars flanking my usual parking spot, teasing my brain by reading a chapter of some literary journal–Zyzzyva being my latest love, for those keeping score at home. A writer who doesn’t read is doomed to failed creations. I have experienced this myself in the past, and have vowed to change that. Lately, I have set up a routine of creation. It is in these weeks around the drafting of my Salon article that I composed the greatest yield of poetry than I have in years, when I read the most books and submitted the greatest number of works to literary journals. It is also when I conceived of my newest concept for a television show.
Without giving away too much… The concept is an Anthony Bourdain style series championing alternative lifestyles, featuring those taking seemingly unpleasant situations and turning them into fruitful, sustainable, even profitable ones. I am curious about others out there living in bold and innovative ways. With the reality of financial struggle looming for many Americans, I think others are, too. Driving around from one library to the next, I found myself obsessing over the idea. So I called my friend John in Austin, Texas. John works as an environmental advertiser and owns a home in East Austin. Right around the time I moved into my office, John moved into his backyard tool shed, which he converted into a tiny-home-style living space, complete with roll-out bed and hardwood floors. We talked about the lifestyle diaspora and the momentum for the show grew. By the end of the call, I was convinced I had to go to Austin to shoot the concept. So I booked the trip smack-dab between two scheduled overnight dog-sitting gigs and readied myself for the task of preparing a film production.
Taking a show concept from zero to reality in a matter of weeks is a full-time affair. It simply cannot happen while working a full-time job. Aside from taking the time off of work to travel for the shoot, there are an incredible amount of details to arrange beforehand. I had to secure the help of story and field producers, expert cameramen, imaginative editors, and the genius participants which would drive the show. Oh, and the money to fund it. Film projects are notoriously expensive. And despite how frugally I live my life, encouraging a talented crew to devote their full attention to a project requires pay, or at least perks to encourage the hard work necessary to finish such a task.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had a grand idea, but it is the first time I’ve been able to take one this big and convert it into a finished product. The process is still underway and it’s been nothing shy of exhilarating.
As I wait for the footage to be edited, I sit with Sparta, the terrier/dachshund mix under my supervision, and am grateful for the opportunity to lead a life commensurate with my passions. Even for a little while. Not long ago, such an existence seemed so out of reach; I assumed it was impossible. Although I work as hard as I ever did, now my actions feel as if they have more meaning. Despite those sweaty summer days spent jockeying for a cool place to rest my head.
-TOH
I pulled up to the corner lot and pulled into one of the few spaces in front of the building. It was a nondescript place–a closed garage door with an unmarked door, next to a corner store selling canned food and liquor. Maybe I had the address wrong. I’d given myself enough time to stop in and say hi before leaving for my flight at nearby LAX, but in a neighborhood like Inglewood, one can’t be too sure. As I picked up my phone, the garage door swung open. There stood my friend, M. in the doorway.
“Morning, amigo,” M. said, waving me in. “I saw you pull up. You learn to watch your space closely here.”
M. and I had been neighbors years ago in Venice Beach, friendly acquaintances in a building full of beach bums and pot-heads. It wasn’t until I had moved out of the apartment when we hit it off–to the point he’s now willing to keep watch over my truck while I’m out of town for the week. We were relaxing in a mutual friend’s place a few years back when M. asked where I had moved. “Into my office,” I said, more cavalier than usual. He chuckled and replied, “I know the feeling.”
We’ve been close ever since.
The “office” M. occupies is actually a carpentry shop, and he’s been living there home-free for about six months longer than me. After a work layoff following the economic downturn in 2008/9, M. took on over $60,000 in credit card debt to sustain his lifestyle. Like me, he started by subleasing his apartment, trying out a few months living in his Volkswagen Westfalia. But he couldn’t hack it. Life on the street, even in the relatively comfortable confines on a VW, took a toll on him.
“Not having a home can fuck with you,” M. says. “I missed having a place to go back to at night.”
M. admits he could have made different decisions to better position him for a comfortable transition into his 40’s, but he’s taking his situation in stride. Three years later and his debts are nearly all paid off, thanks to his transition into a lifestyle of simplicity. M. asked me not to take photos of his place, but the lighting wouldn’t have made for great photos anyway. His is a crammed space, with tools and machinery parts scattered about the space like a one-track yard sale. Crammed in one corner of the space is a small Airstream, where inside M. can sleep, change, and relax. Above his office in the back is another resting nook, nestled above a desk courtesy of a loft space tucked well under the high ceiling. It’s far from glorious but it’s allowed M. to meet his goals.
“I’m starting to save up to buy a place,” M. said.
After three years of living where he works, he’s most definitely earned it.
–TOH
This segment is an extension from a recent series of posts on how I constructed a home in the back of my truck. Click here for Part I and Part II.
After detailing the construction of that tiny home in the back of my truck, it seems only natural to explore the benefits and drawbacks of living within it. Naturally there are many of both. On any given day, I might sway one way or the other, but in general these dozen or so factors are what keep me motivated–or complaining.
1. It’s stealthy.
Everyone who sees my truck from the outside is surprised it’s livable. I’ve awoken to people leaning on my truck, talking with a friend as they smoke. They had no idea I was inside, listening to them debate the likely size of their boss’s genitals. For better or worse, they’re fooled into thinking leaning on my car is okay because I couldn’t possibly be inside.
Currently, Los Angeles law legalizes living in your car. This wasn’t always the case (read more here) and may not always remain the case (details here). If the legality of the situation changes, I doubt I’d be pestered anyway. I’ve slept in the truck in nine states and never been bothered. Should I choose to sleep where vehicular dwelling is frowned upon–which I believe is unethical and inhumane–it’s unlikely anyone would be the wiser. Unlike RV’s, fifth-wheels, oversized campers, and vans, my truck is inconspicuous. What I give up in space I gain in privacy.
2. It’s easy to manage.
My necessities are generally close at hand. Particularly with an accompanying storage space–far from essential, for those living simpler than I–it is easy to switch necessaries in and out between storage and the truck. The small space forces me to simplify. I can afford to purchase prepared foods and random nick-knacks, so the situation is ideal.
3. The space is still expandable.
My truck has room to grow. My driver’s side wall has yet-unused space and my ceiling is mostly bare. My roof has yet to be used. Other spaces can be re-situated to include new items. In a way, the truck is still a work-in-progress, ready to meet new needs that may pop up in the future.
4. Keeping it tidy is a cinch.
Having a small space makes it easy to clean. Except from the fact that I eat where I sleep–which sometimes results in spills needing to be cleaned–the truck-home requires little in the way of custodial duties. I just make my bed and I’m off. I wash sheets when I do laundry, I vaccuum occasionally. It’s rarely a mess in there.
5. I take pride in my custom build.
It’s nice to step into my home every day and know I built it. Well, not the entire truck, but the part I sleep in. It brings me joy to share it with others, a pleasant reminder that my lifestyle was a planned one, not a consequence of squalor as some might first assume. That’s important when defying the status quo and remains a fringe benefit of home-free living.
6. It saves me a fortune in rent.
No need to beat a dead horse on this point, but it’s both the greatest cause and greatest effect of my lifestyle, so it’s worth another mention.
1. Limited power sources.
I explored this a bit in the previous post, but I have yet to fully solve my power source issues. My original plans included a large solar panel to be installed to my roof, powering a deep-cycle battery attached to a small fridge and an outlet for lighting and electronics. That hasn’t happened. My enduring fear of theft supercedes the need. I worry that having a solar panel strapped to my low-rise roof and left unattended in the city would simply be too easy to lift.
Instead, I’ve piecemealed my power sources. I gave up the idea of running the fridge full-time, running a cigarette-lighter-plug power cord to the back for use on road trips. For temporary use, it’s fantastic. My lights are battery powered and my devices are usually charged in public libraries, at work, or in cafes. On occasion, I will use the car battery to charge devices–keeping a power inverter on hand for just that. I also have a folding solar panel, with accompanying battery pack, for iPad-and-smaller devices.
I will post updates should I find better solutions that work for me.
2. Ventilation on hot city days is a problem.
In the wilderness, airing out the truck is a cinch–just open all the windows and let the breeze blow through. In the city, though, solutions are harder to come by. Preferring to remain concealed, opening my windows is more evidence of my presence inside than I care to advertise.
The solution thus far is a meager one. The battery-powered fan helps circulate air entering from the camper’s side windows. The portal to the cab, with cracked windows flushing through air, gives a touch of air flow. Shaded from the sun, this is usually enough to keep me cool. But in the absence of shade, it simply gets too hot in there.
I’ve toyed with introducing alternatives–from portable a/c units to a full moonroof to a smaller RV-style pop-up vent. Each has drawbacks that have deterred me, whether by over-reliance on energy use or threat of leakage. Meanwhile, I just jockey for shaded parking and or leave the truck entirely. But when it’s hot and I need a nap, I yearn for a solution.
3. Leakage can sometimes be a challenge.
Removing the windows between the cab and shell, as discussed here, has created some problems for me. Recently, I seem to have solved this with the right kind of silicone caulking adhesive. But I’m ambivalent to call that a long-term solution. The fact remains: Making modifications to a factory-sealed auto body risks leakage. Were I living in a more dynamic climate, I’m afraid this would be a more pressing issue. As it stands, it’s merely a sometimes-nuisance.
4. Holes in truck bed let in unwanted guests.
The bed of a truck is not designed to be air-tight. While this is great for ventilation, it can be a problem when foreign objects enter the camper shell interior. This is rare but does occur. The most common threat comes from dirt and limerock roads, such as the barren rally-tracks of Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, a favorite haunt of mine for its low visitor attendance and free dispersed camping. But a trip through the more remote parts of Anza generally leads me to a wholesale cleaning effort upon return, dusting every surface and vacuuming every nook.
That’s the easy one. The nightmare happened last summer: Ants. Last May, I had found a slice of shade under a low-hanging tree and was loathe to give it up. So I stayed parked there, walked to the store, biked to the gym, and enjoyed a couple days of shade. I kept as clean as usual, but did store some food–bread, rice cakes, etc.–neatly packed away on the inside. One night, laying my head down to bed, something felt off. I shined my light on the inside to discover a veritable ant farm in the back of my truck. Hundreds of the stupid bastards. For someone who keeps his place neat and tidy–for anyone, probably, but for this fact especially–this was horrifying.
After a deep cleaning effort, I was back with a clean, ant-free home. But I did learn my lessons: Don’t stay parked in one spot too long and beware of creeping summer critters.
5. Limited bathroom access.
Men can relieve themselves in a variety of convenient ways. But occasionally, we, too, need a toilet. Instead of packing one of those portable toilet doohickeys–my space seems too small for that–I just remain aware of my nearest Relief Posts. Disaster has yet to strike. But in the wrong situation this could be a serious, um, emergency.
6. Space is always at a premium.
I can’t keep my sweet canvas print of Seattle’s Black Hole Sun sculpture on the wall. I have to run to storage to pick up my hiking gear. Or my bike. In truth, living simply means giving up a lot.
While this is a drawback, it’s also a benefit. Needing so much less means having time for so much more. With only a few options on hand, I make quicker decisions about what clothes to wear. Free from great clutter in the bedroom, I slide more easily into a routine of relaxation. There are as many perks to downsizing as there are drawbacks. Occasionally I miss using my croc-pot. I wonder what it’d be like to jam out right now with my electric amplifier or slide across the wooden floor in my tube socks. For now, that’s just not possible.
At this point in my life, I have decided that perks are not the point. I live this way so I have the time and money to achieve more important goals. As those ambitions come to fruition, my prioritization makes more and more sense. It’s likely that one day I’ll live in a larger space again. It will be then that the sweetness of the details of a larger space will mean that much more to me, no longer taken for granted as necessary.
Until then, the Pros outweigh the Cons. And I suspect will continue to for some time.
– TOH