The Girl's Guide to Homelessness (13 page)

I didn't lose my job that day, as I'd feared. But it did set everyone at that table to thinking, and I was glad that I could at least do that. And they all wanted answers to the usual questions—how I came to work looking clean, looking
normal
. I'd allowed my coworkers to learn a little more about me, and I guess at least I was able to challenge the preconceived notions of a small group of people, made them question their initial perceptions.

 

Matt and I were also learning more and more about each other, opening up the darker sides of ourselves. We wanted each other to know all our flaws and weaknesses. I had plenty of skeletons in my closet, obviously. Besides “Oh, hey, I was a sexually and physically abused cult member for the first eighteen years of my life,” I also had to open up to him about the other traumatic events in my past.

I had been date-raped at nineteen, I explained to him when I felt ready. I thought back to the event. I had met the guy—little more than a kid—out swing-dancing with a friend in my performing swing troupe. The friend was blonde and gorgeous, used to soaking up attention from men everywhere she went. For some reason, though, this boy had kept coming back to me for more and more dances. I couldn't fathom why he took an interest in me, but I agreed to go on a casual date with him the following week. We saw
Spider-Man 2,
and ended the evening with a chaste peck on the cheek and a handshake.

I didn't expect to hear from him again, and was surprised when he texted me and invited me out to lunch at a nearby rib joint. I agreed, but over the meal explained that I didn't feel ready for a relationship at the time, and hoped we could just be friends who hung out. He amiably agreed, and then invited me back to his apartment to watch a baseball game with his roommate. When we arrived at the apartment, the roommate was nowhere to be found. We watched the baseball game, and I stood up to go afterward. He stood up with me, grabbing me and roughly kissing me. I started to protest frantically and push him away. He was stronger, a former athlete in high school, and I found myself dragged into his room and pushed facedown onto the carpet as he pulled off my jeans and ran his fingers
up the back of my legs, the softness of his caress in direct contrast to the other hand holding me down by the back of the neck in an iron grip. I began to cry, and he ripped off my purple lace underwear with pink edging. It was a cheap, ninety-nine-cent thong and the strings snapped like they were candy floss. I would never wear thongs again. He threw his entire weight onto me, thrusting roughly into me, and I began to scream, begging him to please stop.

The screaming rattled him, I think. He pulled out hastily, mumbling apologies and running into the bathroom, presumably to finish himself off. I scrambled to my feet, snot pouring from my face, and pulled my jeans on, stumbling toward the door. I bolted, jumping in the Honda Magna that I drove at the time and speeding away, never hearing from the guy again. I drove home, changed my clothes and then went to a swing dancing lesson with my performing troupe in the park, pushing the day's occurrences deep down into some far corner of myself. We had a show coming up in a month and it was important that I be at practice and not let them down.

For months, I convinced myself that it was my fault. I didn't go to the police because I had doubts as to whether what had happened even counted as rape, or was it just a matter of a dumb kid losing control and making a mistake? I had somehow led him on. Because of me, he had gotten carried away. He hadn't
meant
to rape me; it had just happened. It was a holdover from the old Jehovah's Witness implication that the woman is always asking for it. If a Jehovah's Witness woman is raped and doesn't scream, then the elders at the judicial committee must not count it as rape, but adultery, and the woman is considered to have consented. She is then held to be at fault just as much as if
she had chosen the path of fornication, and she's punished accordingly. I
had
screamed, true, but the dubious mentality still held. I was unsure as to whether I had screamed loud enough, or if putting myself in the situation of being alone with a “worldly” boy was, in itself, enough to condemn me. By the same token, I was afraid of condemning
him,
of being a female accuser pitting her word against a man's. The submissive-to-all-males mind-set was—
is
—more deeply ingrained than I'd ever realized.

The other part of my past that I wanted Matt to know about, because it was something I was ashamed of—and I wanted him to know everything about me, to make sure he could really love me warts and all—was a threesome I had taken part in when I was twenty-one. I had spent a year and a half in North Carolina, desperately trying to escape my past. While there, I befriended a couple who, I later learned, were looking to experiment with their first ménage-à-trois. When they made the proposal to me, I laughed it off. Despite no longer being a virgin, I still held onto many vestiges of JW morality, plus there was no way I wanted to put myself into a can-of-worms situation like that. Besides, I had never been attracted to women, and the “girl-on-girl” scene just wasn't my cup of tea. I was slowly overcoming the antihomosexual prejudices that the Watchtower Society had embedded in me from birth—even had a few gay friends—but the idea of the act itself was still repugnant and would take a couple more years to get over completely.

The couple did what any self-respecting couple would do, I guess. They smiled and said that they totally understood, no biggie, we could still hang out and be friends. Then, a few weeks later, I went through a bout of depression (rural North Carolina was absolutely the most isolating
place I have ever lived, and it was taking its toll on my psyche). They invited me over to watch movies. We put on
Cinema Paradiso
and they plied me with Smirnoff Ice wine coolers. After four or five of them, I was feeling pretty happy. Before I realized fully what was happening, the man was grazing up against me, kissing my neck, stroking my body. The girl joined in, and I guess you could say the whole thing just sort of happened. I was lonely, I was isolated, I was unloved and suddenly there was some sort of human contact. No matter how much I objected to the form that human contact took, when it came down to it, I was simply incapable of refusing it at the time. I'm not proud of the frame of mind that led me to that point, but there you go. At the same time, I'm no longer ashamed of it. It was what it was—a lost kid experimenting a little. Hardly unique or earth-shattering.

A week later, the couple, who had been together for two years, broke up. I was miserable. I was sure that it was somehow all my fault. I felt I tainted everybody I came into contact with. I moved back to California soon afterward.

Now I was in therapy dealing with all the crap in my past as best I could. The clinic provided services on a sliding scale. I'd been seeing my therapist, Lindsay, since before I became homeless, but once I began living in a parking lot, my therapy sessions went from $20 an hour to free! Lindsay was remarkably nonjudgmental. I had been skeptical of therapy, but slowly I came out of my shell with her. I credit her with helping to mold me into a far better, stronger person. I'm in no way perfect, but I made tremendous strides under her guidance, and became far less of a blubbering, nervous wreck than when I had first entered counseling.

Matt handled most of this in stride, but the threesome threw him a bit.

“I just can't imagine you as that sort of person,” he said. “That's not how I imagine you. I believe that true intimacy can only be experienced between two people.”

I knew polyamorous people would disagree with him there. But I understood what he meant. I, too, felt most comfortable experiencing intimacy within a monogamous relationship. But this hadn't been about intimacy, I tried to explain. It was about sex. I wished I could somehow make him understand how isolated I'd felt, how much I'd craved some kind of contact.

“I do understand what led to it. I don't blame you. I went through a similar situation, right after my marriage ended, and I slept with a lot of people at work—my boss, some coworkers—it wasn't pretty, and I'm not proud of the place that I was in. It's not something I ever want to do again.”

I was a different person now than I was then, but I was still afraid that that was how he would perceive me forever. I was terrified that I'd blown it. But my fears were unfounded. He understood; he loved me for who I was. The past was the past. He quelled my doubts by assuring me that now that he'd found me, he had no intention of ever letting me go.

I
was on Craigslist perusing the job listings when I stumbled across an ad seeking writers and fashionistas to participate in an advice columnist competition. Specifically, they said, they were looking for “the Next Carrie Bradshaw.”

OK, I have to admit, at that point, I'd never seen a single episode of Sex and the City. Yes, I'm a traitor to my gender. You may sling your Manolos at me now.

In any case, I figured I'd send in a quick letter anyway with my story, and see what happened. I didn't see myself as a writer, as much as a blogger, but I have always loved writing, and I love fashion, or at least I love vintage clothing. I could out-cute Sarah Jessica Parker and her super-overpaid stylist any day.

It was a shot in the dark and I was quite certain I'd never hear back from them.

And then I did.

I had no idea, until the phone call, just who these people were. What I thought might be a dinky little unknown show, which might present me with some small opportunity
to escape the dreary world of executive assistant for a few weeks, turned out to be a show by Fremantle Media. The
American Idol
guys. The guys with all the clout. With millions of viewers.

The casting director told me more about the show being cast, and I learned that the winner of the competition, if the show was picked up, would receive an internship with E. Jean Carroll, the advice columnist for
ELLE
magazine. I was stunned. I had read her column for nine years, and admired her verve and practical advice, mixed with glamorous, over-the-top Old Hollywood–style wit.

 

Knowing how big this could be made me incredibly nervous. A swarm of random actors sat in the lobby of the Fremantle Media office, waiting to try out for a different project (a TV sitcom or something). I wore the most adorable, bright grapefruit–hued vintage '50s dress I could dig up. I got a lot of funny looks. A tall, rail-skinny chick stood in the corner, gesticulating and mouthing lines. I was the only one there for the advice columnist show, so I started to fill out my application and waited for the casting director to come get me.

This scary actor lady came into the lobby and sat next to me. She was a bit older, in her forties or fifties. She was like Carol Brady on
crack.
It looked like her plastic surgeon had had a field day with her—her eyes were open too wide and her smile was frozen in place. She talked
way
too loud. In the quiet lobby, her voice reverberated and echoed and people started staring at her.

“OH AREN'T YOU ADORABLE! WHAT A PRETTY DRESS! EVERYONE LIKES TO GO OVER THEIR LINES WHILE THEY'RE WAITING, BUT I'VE FOUND THAT IT'S BETTER TO JUST STAY
MYSELF AND INTERACT WITH THE OTHER ACTORS!”

I mumbled that I wasn't an actor, hoping she'd go away, or at least take the hint and talk at the room level, which was at about a whisper. After interrogating me about what I was there trying out for, and making sure the entire room knew that I was (a) a “reality girl” and (b)
not
an actor—never acted in anything besides a high school play—she
grabbed my half-completed application
and started reading the questions aloud.

“LET'S SEE…‘WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?'”

She looked at me with great anticipation, and I realized that she was actually expecting me to answer. I drily informed her that I was crying on the inside, right now. In a way, it was more true than she could have realized, but she laughed and took it as a joke.

“OK, HOW ABOUT THIS ONE: ‘WHAT ARE THREE THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF THAT YOU
NEVER
REVEAL TO SOMEONE YOU'VE JUST MET?!'”

I slouched a little further into my chair and tried to imagine myself far away, in some place really beautiful and inspiring and, most important,
not with this chick
. Maybe in Czechoslovakia or Italy. “‘NAME A TIME WHEN YOU GAVE BAD ADVICE.'”

At this point, I was thoroughly psyched out and ready to either break down in tears or else kill this woman with a smile on my face. Luckily, I was saved by Peter, the casting director, who came out and called me back.

“OH MY GOD, I LOVE HER! SHE IS JUST SO CUTE! SHE JUST TOLD ME SHE'S CRYING ON THE INSIDE RIGHT NOW!” she informed him as I walked through the door.

I could have died.

Peter was very nice, sat me down in a chair and turned on a camera and a spotlight—which was a tad intimidating and very “Tell me where you were on the evening of March 6.” He asked me a few questions, which I struggled to answer. My mind kept blanking; I was so completely freaked out. He was very sweet about trying to gently guide me into showing more of my personality, but I just sort of shut down. Later on, I would obsess over all the better answers I could have given, or ways I could have let my personality out more, but in the moment I was just completely stone-cold petrified.

I totally bombed. I mean, how could I not? I was so overwhelmed and nervous just realizing the magnitude of even getting called in to screen-test with such a company.

Poor dude. He was clearly regretting wasting his time calling the homeless chick in. In any case, after it was over he told me if I heard anything from them in two weeks to two months, that would be good news.

“It all depends on the executives, you know? Don't worry, though. You did well.”

(He
had
to say that to everyone, I was pretty sure.)

“Anyway,” he continued, “I tend to look for interesting people over model types. Not that you're not beautiful or anything. You're very pretty.”

OK, so he was completely bullshitting me, but still, yay for nice casting directors!
Even though I bombed, at least I can still feel good about it now.
Thank God I wasn't in a room with a nasty Simon Cowell wannabe or anything. I think I would have completely crumbled.

I went into the lobby and pushed the Down button to call the elevator. Insane Carol Brady Doppelgänger cornered me.

“DID YOU JUST GET DONE?! I JUST GOT DONE! I'LL TAKE THE ELEVATOR DOWN WITH YOU…YOU DIDN'T WEAR YOUR GLASSES FOR THE SCREEN TEST, DID YOU? YOU TOOK THEM OFF, RIGHT?!”

Ouch.
A tiny dart of sadness pricked me in the eye.

I
like
my glasses. They're a
part
of me.

 

After the abominably disastrous screen test, I went back to work and laughed it off that evening with Matt. I never got a phone call from Fremantle, and I hadn't expected to, after the showing that I put on.

But a couple of days later, on a whim, I fired off an email to E. Jean Carroll through her personal website. I gave a brief rundown on my situation, and joked about the screen test I had botched. I didn't suppose that she could use her goddesslike influence to pull a couple of strings and get me a second shot, could she?

I hit the Send button, fully expecting nobody to ever read the email, and never to hear back. But, hey, it was an opportunity, right? A whim, a joke. You just never knew. I didn't even mention it to Matt. It was one of those random little things you do but never think anything will come of it, like dialing the radio station on the off chance that you might be caller #9 and win the Evanescence tickets.

 

A few days later, I would face a much more serious issue. During my lunch hour at work, I logged onto gtalk to see if Matt was around. This had become our regular routine, stealing time together wherever we could—during lunch, breaks and the six to eight hours between closing time at work and the two hours after closing time at the local Starbucks, when my laptop would finally die and I
would drive back to the trailer, which I had restored to the Walmart parking lot upon boarding Fezzik, and fall into a restless sleep for five or six hours before I had to be back up and get ready for work again. I barely felt tired at all, though. I was in love. Nothing could bog me down.

“Hey, sexy!” I typed exuberantly at seeing the little green circle icon next to Matt's username. “I'm on lunch, are you busy?”

“Hey, beautiful. Listen, something has happened, and I need to talk to you about something serious tonight.”

Uh-oh.
This did not sound good. Had I done something wrong? Was he leaving me before he'd even met me? Everything had seemed wonderful the previous night: There had been online kisses and cuddles and proclamations of eternal adoration and rhapsodizing about finally getting the chance to meet each other, once my damn retroactive unemployment checks finally arrived in the P.O. box.

“What's wrong, darling?”

“I don't think we should talk about it on your lunch break. It's pretty serious. It's going to take a lot longer than an hour to discuss.”

“Well, now you've got me worried. You can't just leave me hanging here for four more hours! Please, at least just tell me what it's about. Please. Are you breaking up with me? What's wrong? Please don't make me suffer for the rest of the workday worrying.”

There was a pause. The longest pause of my life.

“I don't want to break up with you. The thing is…there's talk, apparently, that I may soon be a father.”

I immediately masked the violent hurricane that had just taken up residence in my gut.

“Ah. I see.” Pause. “Who is she?”

“It's Lori. I swear, I had no idea until today. Her brother just showed up to tell me. I haven't seen her since we broke up. She's a couple of months along. She didn't know how to tell me, so she sent him to do it.”

I took this all in and proceeded to freak out, tears of panic streaming down my face, though I continued to phrase my words carefully, sending messages as calmly and placidly as I could.

“I see. You guys were only dating for a few weeks, weren't you? I was under the impression that you used birth control.” We had had discussions about potentially marrying and starting a family down the road. Birth control was important to both of us in the meantime, though. I had already started the weeks-long process to obtain an appointment with Planned Parenthood and get an IUD put in. When I had a kid, I wanted it to be on my terms, and definitely not while I was living in a trailer.

“I was. I was using condoms. She wasn't using anything. One night, about a week before we broke up, the condom broke. She said that she'd take care of it and get the morning-after pill.”

I could feel the hysteria rising in me, clawing its way up my throat. I fought it back down.

“I see. Babe, I'm not trying to judge you, but did it occur to you to take her to the pharmacy yourself?”

He hadn't. He'd trusted her to take care of it. The poor guy was clearly miserable, and I felt awful. I wasn't making the situation any better—what was done was done, there was no going back. I didn't want to hurt him, so I tried to refocus on how much he must be freaking out at the moment.

He was mostly numb, he said, but he needed to meet with her soon. The baby was his and he took responsibility for it. I dreaded what that would mean for us, but he told
me that was entirely up to me. I was the most important thing in his life and he didn't want to lose me. He was terrified that I'd walk out, and he understood if that was what I opted to do. But he hoped that I wouldn't. He wanted me to stay; he wanted us to be together.

My heart broke for him.

I decided to stay.

It wasn't as though he had cheated on me; it was just one of those unexpected things that happens. Just another obstacle we'd have to work around.

My most pervasive fear was that he'd eventually feel as if he needed to leave me and go back to Lori once the baby was born. He loved me now, but would that change? Tears spilled from the corner of my eyes as I imagined how much more painful it would be to keep nurturing our relationship, become so much more attached and in love, only to have it end inevitably a few months later when he decided to be with Lori for the baby's sake.

He was vehement and defiant, though, when I suggested that.

“That will NEVER happen, whether you decide to walk away or not. I left her because I didn't love her. I could never love her. There was no future with us. When I meet with her, I'm going to make it clear that my responsibility lies with the child and the child only.
You're
the one I'm going to marry and spend the rest of my life with. Nothing could ever change what I feel for you.”

He was adamant. If I stayed, he could promise me that I'd never again have to wonder whether I was loved—not even once.

And, just like that, I trusted him with my life. It was that simple. He'd never once lied to me, and his complete, naked honesty even now, under the most strenuous
of circumstances, made me realize just how much I wanted to share my life with this man.

“OK then. Let's do this.”

 

I gasped with joy as I opened my P.O. box. A beaming, glowing ray of light fell on the envelope from California EDD. The angelic chorus sounded. For a brief moment, the world was eminently lovely. Finally,
finally
after hours of fruitless phone calls trying to get through, several emails begging for a response, with only maddeningly robotic (and clearly deceptive) “We will get back to you within forty-eight hours” automatons to appease me…
finally!

My claim forms for my retroactive unemployment benefits had arrived. I'd waited a long time, and the back benefits I was owed would make a world of difference. With trembling hands, I ripped open the envelope to find…a (second) “approval” notice, letting me know that, yes, I
was
eligible for extended unemployment benefits (well,
duh,
it was the same exact notice I'd already received waaaaaaaay back when this crap saga started)….

There were no claims forms included.

None.

Zilch.

I knew the EDD was backed up because, besides Michigan, California was the current poster child among states for insanely skyrocketing unemployment rates. But seriously,
what did a girl have to do to get paid?