my home on wheels

I awoke Monday morning, particularly more groggy than usual. It was my last day in Los Angeles until I left for Las Vegas for another temporary checkpoint in my journey to find a home. By this point, I’d gotten used to dragging my body off of the stiff twin mattress in the pod that counted as my room amidst the chaos of the hostel. I needed to go move my car since I had parked in front of a meter that would start charging a fee of four dollars at 8am sharp, that or I could face a parking ticket. I’d already managed to win my first parking ticket along with the generous fee I needed to pay to get my car out of the famed Virteli’s Towing lot. All on account of me misreading a parking sign the night before. And that, my friends, was on the first morning of my stay in Los Angeles. I’d learned my lesson. I’ll never let that happen again, I told myself. 

So, at 7:45am, I threw on a sweater and a jacket, ignoring my curls that defied gravity in every which way, and headed out. With a small crust of drool still on my cheek and eyes still puffy from sleep, I crossed the street to reunite with my car. Except, I couldn’t see it. All I could see were trucks, wide open, revealing… film equipment? I squinted, not having bothered to put on my glasses. As my feet found the sidewalk, I realized, yeah, those were unmistakably light stands and those giant boxes reserved for storing lighting equipment. As I kept walking I realized the whole street lined with these cumbersome trucks and trailers. Grips and best boys were lounging on the trucks waiting for their next instructions. An important woman was walking up and down, using her radio to find someone by the name of “Aaron.” A woman with oversized sunglasses and an oversized fur coat walked up to a group that immediately helped her with her oversized bags all while she balanced her green juice in one professionally manicured hand – a starlet if I’d ever seen one.

Confounded, I stopped halfway through the street… all I could see were trucks, film equipment, and people too busy to look me in the eye. I glared at the parking signs, my eyes crazed and desperate for answers. There I saw a brand spanking new, blindingly white sign, had added amongst the array of parking signs I had become comfortable deciphering.

NO PARKING 7AM TO 6PM MONDAY ONLY – TOWING ENFORCED

Fuck. 

I turned around, not even bothering to go to the end of the street. I felt my face get hot from anger and embarrassment. It would normally delight me to see a film crew a mere feet outside of where I was staying in LA. I mean here I was in LA! But these could not have been worse circumstances. Fuck them, fuck their stupid film, fuck their goals, fuck their dreams, fuck their moms! But I wasn’t angry with their moms. I was angry that I didn’t see that damn sign. Not last night when I parked, and not again when I went to my car to retrieve a Bluetooth speaker in order to get a group of people at the hostel to watch the Oscars with me. I was blind to the possibility of friendship and Bong Joon Ho winning Oscars. Only one of which happened.

I drive a Fiat 500L. It’s a beautiful primary red color, with enough space to hold the last remains of my past life – my favorite overalls, the Harry Potter books box set, my A24 blu-rays and blu-ray player (of course), the journals that hold all the progress I’ve made as a human being for the last three years, amongst other things with different degrees of embarrassment. My Fiat has a sticker on the back that proudly declares I’ve run a [half] marathon, finally after enviously seeing all the cars in Dallas with their bragging stickers I got one of my own. I have a Spider-Man figurine hanging from my rearview mirror because it matches so well with my car and the only hero in my life is fictional. There’s a busted button on my radio that has been there since I first got my car over two years ago. I have to jam it about three to five times to get it to switch over to my Spotify.

Despite all this, and because of all that, my car is my home. It has been even before I moved out of my apartment and found myself jumping between temporary places to sleep. The moment I saw it on 5Mile, the reselling app on my phone, I knew it was the one. It was less than a week after that that I claimed it as mine. It was an immediate love affair. at the time living with my parents it was the only form of privacy I could find. When I would drive to or from work, I would not mind the traffic one bit. I relished the moments by myself, not doing anything but driving. It was a time when I was alone, not feeling like I should be doing something – meal prepping, writing, applying to jobs, planning every second of my day, week, life – no. In my car I can just drive, and then I can really think. I’ve had many revelations in my car, giant and life changing ones to little ones that might dictate a new playlist to create or what to watch that night on Netflix. I’ve cried many times in my car, an innumerable amount! I’ve felt the joy of telling someone I had feelings for them and them telling me they felt the same, the uncertain energy infusing my car. I’ve felt my heart break after my mom told me a dark truth about her life, both of us parked in front of the bright glow of a Kroger. I’ve felt hopeful and nervous during a phone interview for a new job while on the floor of the back seat of my car, I doodled with a pen I thought I lost but ended up finding under a seat, as the interviewer asked me if I minded relocating to Los Angeles. I’ve felt comfortable eating meals in my car while in a rush to a new location or if I wanted to extend my time alone. I’ve felt unadulterated joy while driving with my music blasting, windows down, me singing at high volume, unfazed by the people driving past me, sure that they too are living in their little home, unfazed by me. I’ve laughed loudly to podcasts on long drives, feeling as if I’m hosting a party with the wittiest people I know. You can know my life by taking a tour of my car.

My little red joy is the only friend I could keep with me on my journey to Los Angeles. I worried it wouldn’t make it, despite how well I take care of my car and despite making sure I took all the precautions before leaving, like buying new tires and changing the oil. But she did it! I felt I would worship the ground it drove on for the rest of our time together.

But my car was gone. Again. The first time it happened I was unemotional, probably because I wasn’t sure how to process something that had never happened to me before. With that level-headedness I was able to call around until I found out where my car was without the anxiety sweats tickling my armpits. This time the sweat was everywhere.

I was going to leave for Las Vegas the following morning, crack of dawn if I could muster it, yet I still had to finish an article for a job I had, that I hadn’t even begun, figuring out where it went and then having to go fetch my car was no doubt going to take away a good portion of the day, and no telling what my bank account would look like after retrieving my beloved red wagon. Sigh.

I could feel the headache throbbing from my right temple, threatening to make its way across my forehead as I waited on hold for someone to tell me where the hell my baby was. I was waiting for 30 minutes before I decided to hang up because I had not done the morning duty of visiting the bathroom yet. I ended up showering and spent the whole time cursing my luck for even coming to this wretched town. I get it! I don’t belong here! It wasn’t until someone knocked on the door that I realized my pity party had run long.

I figured that my car was probably towed to the same place as last time since it was only a block over on a different street. After calculating my expenses, with a chagrined expression on my face, I grabbed my keys, my wallet and my phone. I figured I’d call Virteli’s Towing first, if they didn’t answer I would Uber there anyway and look them in the eye as they tell me what I already knew. This time it was an immediate pick up.

“Hello, Virteli’s Towing, what can we do for you?”

“I wanted to know if my car was taken by you guys?”

“What’s the model?”

I told him the model along with the license plates – Texas, a detail that was significant last time.

“Hm. I don’t see it. Where was it picked up?”

I told him the address.

“Let me call Manuel, he might still have it on the truck. Hold on.”

He didn’t put me on hold. I heard his entire conversation with Manuel. The verdict had my brain going a million miles an hour jumping to a million scenarios when—

“Yeah, I’m sorry we don’t have it.”

“You don’t…?”

“No.”

“Ok… thank you.”

He hung up before I did.

Was my car stolen? DID I NOT LOCK THE DOORS?

There was a guy that shared the sidewalk with me while I made that phone call; he was lethargically smoking a cigarette. I wanted to knock it out of his hands and take a hit or whatever you call it. Instead, I walked past him in what I hoped was a calm manner and towards the street my car should have been on. I kept my head held up, simulating a confident stroll through the neighborhood. I’m sure anyone who saw me at the time would have thought I looked cool enough to know how to smoke a cigarette.

I crossed over to the sidewalk on the opposite side of where the film crew fuckers were to try and catch a better view of the “scene of the crime”. I must admit, my heart was pumping hard. It was erratic and painful.

So you can imagine the relief I felt when after passing about five large trucks I saw my candy red Fiat, the 13.1 sticker smugly displayed on the rear window. You tiny, sneaky bitch. I was too morning-stupid to think it was a good idea to walk all the way to the end of the street to make sure the ginormous vehicles weren’t blocking my little clown car. I crossed the street with no regard for the rules taught to me at five years old (maybe the stupid doesn’t just apply to the morning). I nervously looked around and saw traffic cones and a large rack holding C-stands blocked my car. I pretended to be nonchalant as I walked to the front of my car, desperate to see it free of a parking ticket. I looked at the windshield. Nothing! How did I get that lucky?

I looked over and saw two people, a man and woman that looked suspiciously like the meter police with neon safety vests and little palm sized devices. I saw the man get close to the meter and use said device. Confirmed. I was immediately distrustful of them. Were they going to let me go free or hand me a ticket right to my face. I consoled myself with the thought that most people try to avoid confrontation at all cost, so I took my chances.

“Hey, are you guys the meter people?”

The man scurried off – probably to avoid confrontation. The woman walked over with a smile on her face… not sadistic, but friendly. Okay cool.

“That’s my car, I seem to be blocked in, I don’t know if I should leave it there now—” 

“Oh no, we need you to remove it, we’ve been looking for you all morning!”

Sheepishly, I confessed to her how I assumed towing took it before I even walked all the way over to see. I also told her how I spent the whole morning trying to figure out where it was. She seemed amused by my story (or my stupidity) and volunteered to help me move the obstacles in my car’s way. The entire time I remained nervous she’d end our interaction with a parking ticket, because that’s the best time to confront a stranger: when you will never see them again. But as is the trend, I was wrong. God does exist. She’s a woman, and she was present before me that Monday as a meter maid. Bless her.

The next morning I drove to Las Vegas, the incident from the previous morning almost entirely forgotten. I was happy to be hitting the road again, my little red car and me, zooming down the highway. I feel more comfortable in it then I felt in the hotel, or the hostel, or even here with my aunt and uncle. It has experienced things with me in my solitude that would be impossible for anyone else to be a part of. It knows where I came from, it understands the journey, and it is my only home. For now, that’s more than enough.

But my car was gone. Again. The first time it happened I was relatively unemotional, probably because I wasn’t sure how to process something that had never happened to me before. With that level-headedness I was able to easily call around until I found out where my car was. This time I was frazzled.

I was going to leave for Las Vegas the following morning, crack of dawn if I could muster it, yet I still had to finish an article for a job I had, that I hadn’t even begun, figuring out where it went and then having to go fetch my car was no doubt going to take away a good portion of the day, and no telling what my bank account would look like after retrieving my beloved red wagon. Sigh.

I could feel the headache throbbing from my right temple, threatening to make its way across my forehead as I waited on hold for someone to tell me where the hell my baby was. I was waiting for 30 minutes before I decided to hang up because I had not done the morning duty of visiting the bathroom yet. I ended up showering and spent the whole time cursing my luck for even coming to this wretched town. I get it! I don’t belong here! It wasn’t until someone knocked on the door that I realized my pity party had run long.

I decided that my car was probably at the same place it was towed last time since it was only a block over on a different street. After calculating my expenses, with a chagrined expression on my face, I grabbed my keys, my wallet and my phone. I figured I’d call Virteli’s Towing first, if they didn’t answer I would just Uber there anyway and look them in the eye as they tell me what I already knew. This time it was an immediate pick up. 

“Hello, Virteli’s Towing, what can we do for you?”

“I wanted to know if my car was taken by you guys?”

“What’s the model?”

I told him the model along with the license plates – Texas, a detail that was significant last time.

“Hm. I don’t see it. Where was it picked up?”

I told him the address.

“Let me call Manuel, he might still have it on the truck. Hold on.”

He didn’t put me on hold. I heard his entire conversation with Manuel. The verdict had my brain going a million miles an hour jumping to a million scenarios when—

“Yeah, I’m sorry we don’t have it.”

“You don’t…?”

“No.”

“Ok… thank you.”

He hung up before I did.

Was my car stolen? DID I NOT LOCK THE DOORS?

There was a guy that shared the sidewalk with me while I made that phone call; he was lethargically smoking a cigarette. I wanted to knock it out of his hands and take a hit or whatever you call it. Instead, I calmly walked past him and towards the street my car should have been on, head held up, simulating a confident stroll through the neighborhood. I’m sure anyone who saw me at the time would have thought I looked cool enough to know how to smoke a cigarette.

I crossed over to the sidewalk on the opposite side of where the film crew fuckers were to try and catch a better view of the “scene of the crime”. I must admit, my heart was pumping hard. It was erratic and painful.

So you can imagine the relief I felt when after passing about five large trucks I saw my candy red Fiat, the 13.1 sticker smugly displayed on the rear window. You tiny, sneaky bitch. I was too morning-stupid to think it was probably a good idea to walk all the way to the end of the street to make sure the ginormous vehicles weren’t blocking my little clown car. I crossed the street with no regard for the rules taught to me at five years old (maybe the stupid doesn’t just apply to the morning). I nervously looked around and saw traffic cones and a large rack holding C-stands blocked my car. I pretended to be nonchalant as I walked to the front of my car, desperate to see it free of a parking ticket. I looked at the windshield. Nothing! How did I get that lucky?  

I looked over and saw two people, a man and woman that looked suspiciously like the meter police with neon safety vests and little palm sized devices. I saw the man get close to the meter and use said device. Confirmed. I was immediately distrustful of them. Were they going to let me go free or hand me a ticket right to my face. I consoled myself with the thought that most people try to avoid confrontation at all cost, so I took my chances.

“Hey, are you guys the meter people?”

The man scurried off – probably to avoid confrontation. The woman walked over with a smile on her face… not sadistic, but friendly. Okay cool.

“That’s my car, I seem to be blocked in, I don’t know if I should just leave it there now—“

“Oh no, we need you to remove it, we’ve been looking for you all morning!” 

Sheepishly, I confessed to her how I figured it was towed before I even walked all the way over to see, and how I spent the whole morning trying to figure out where it was. She seemed amused by my story (or my stupidity) and volunteered to help me move the obstacles in my car’s way. The entire time I was still nervous she’d end our interaction with a parking ticket, because that’s the best time to confront a stranger – when you will never see them again. But once again, I was wrong. God does exist, and she’s a woman, and she was present before me that Monday as a meter maid. Bless her.

The next morning I drove to Las Vegas, the incident from the previous morning almost entirely forgotten. I was happy to be hitting the road again, my little red car and me, zooming down the highway. I feel more comfortable in it then I felt in the hotel, or the hostel, or even here with my aunt and uncle. It has experienced things with me in my solitude that would be impossible for anyone else to be a part of. It knows where I came from, it understands the journey, and it is my only home. For now, that’s more than enough.