: living like a refugee :

trebleSomewhere, somehow, somebody must have kicked you around some
Who knows, maybe you were kidnapped, tied up, taken away, and held for ransom
Honey, it don’t really matter to me
Everybody’s had to fight to be free
You see, you don’t have to live like a refugee

— Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers / Refugee

parking-lotUh, yes, I do. I’m sleeping in my car in the parking lot.

Granted, the new accommodations are by choice and only temporary, but I’m still displaced. Not by war or threat of violence, but noise. It counts. Temperatures were in the 40s overnight, that’s cold. Not chilly. Cold. Getting to the bathroom is a trek. I’m surrounded by floodlights and monitored by security cameras. What’s that, if not living like a refugee?

I’m not exactly sure how to classify my situation, truth be told. I doubt I’d be considered homeless since I’m paying rent and have a physical address, keys to the door, furnishings, all the earmarks of an honest-to-God resident. Just none of the privileges. The dictionary defines ‘home’ as a place where one lives permanently, so where does that leave me? Neither one is permanent, not the parking lot and not indoors.

I only wish it was August (or June) and I’d cottoned on to this sooner. It’s as close to habitable as I’ve found here. Quiet, restful, and, with enough blankets, warm. The seatbelt buckle jammed into my back is annoying and the lack of privacy is awkward, but, meh, both are better than the noise. I’ve enjoyed more continuous hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep than I ever did inside. So score!

Besides, in three weeks, the nightmare ends and I’ll be on top of the world. Okay, on top of a new apartment building, same thing; the eleventh floor. My upstairs neighbors will be birds and raindrops and snowflakes. Not Sasquatch, not Babar, not a thundering herd of elk.

Woohoo. Come on November.


copyright © 2016 the whirly girl

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