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...
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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...
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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...
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"Where do you sleep?" "You know that overpass here?" He gestures behind him generally, his biceps twisting under his skin. He stands close to the door of my truck in his wife-beater, like a customer at a walk-up window. It's one of the rare unsolicited conversations I'm interested in entertaining. I look to where he's gesturing, as if I can see anything beyond the massive storage building. "Under the 405?" "That's the one." His name is A.J. and he straddles the thin line between home-free and homeless. He looks like the usual 30-year-old, his fresh buzzcut and brand new Trek bicycle, and that's the way he likes it. But when he beds down for the night, A.J. does so under the shadow of a highway...
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