Homelessness

I slept on a bench last night. It is a true story, though you might be wondering how a man of my stature and considerable means came to be sleeping on a bench. It is a curious tale, but of course, the fault is all my own. I do swear it to you dear reader, that as weird as this story gets, every minute of it is true.

The countryside of England is full of the stuffiest people. They own castles; what a bastardization of class, for the 11th generation of castle owners did not earn their castles through noble deeds. Merely being born is not noble! I shall return to these parts someday and lay siege to a castle. Then the castle shall be mine through noble deed. But I digress, I do swear the fault of the bench situation is all my own.

For I did not book a castle soon enough! Unbeknownst to me, there are no Super 8 in the countryside of England! Only fully booked castles and inns, which are suspiciously like bed and breakfasts. I despise bed and breakfasts. Far too intimate. They can hear you shagging. Do they listen? Probably.

I am on a bicycle when the sun begins to set. I am perhaps thinking about how poorly written the Book of Mormon is. The real book, not on Broadway but on paper. The Bible is an epic. God is a good writer. The Book of Mormon says Behold and And So a lot. Though Mormons are the most cheery and open people, so I'm quite sure Mr. Joseph Smith must have had many positive qualities besides writing! Why, just the other day I encountered two Mormons, the cheeriest people, and this is how I know that fact about their book...

But if I continue to detour, I shall never explain how I came to be homeless on the bench. In the morning, I tried to take a picture of the bench but it was still too dark, so you may use your imagination.

It had three wooden planks for the seat and two wooden planks for the rest. It overlooked a stub of a beach, but it was up a set of steps so the tide couldn't reach it. It had concrete "bench shoes", and was situated near a dirt and gravel path 20 meters off the road, a car parking lot with a 30 minute limit, a open mouthed trash can that would haunt me until the moon rose and I could finally see into it's mouth, the aforementioned steps to the beach, which I never descended. Some tall grass, which became a source of much fear, particularly when my backpack fell into it, and a slatted wooden fence behind the bench, in clockwise order. Picture it! Reread and picture!

The moon is a friend, even though it does not provide heat. The encounter with the cat required a quick draw on the flashlight, I believe the cat never would've dared if the moon was out. But the moon does not provide heat, and that was a thought I'd never thought before.

Oh but you must also picture the town! You must hear about the town! It had an old flour mill, which had a windmill but was closed. A sewage filter building, which was closed. A cafe 200m down the road which I didn't check, but I assumed was closed. It was late in the evening. When I saw it in the morning, it didn't strike me as a cafe people go to as a cafe, but rather more like Playa del Carmen. It is merely the platonic shadow of a cafe, performing the same function but lacking essence.

Now you may be ready to put this story down in bewilderment and confusion, as why would I have entered upon this town in the first place. Behold, there was something in the town you don't yet know about, but before you judge, recall I was on a bicycle with the sun going down; a man short on options.

The last thing the town contained is two "Holiday Parks" which is in quotes because that phrase makes no sense to any independence loving American. An American or Netflix watcher may more aptly recognize the phrase as trailer park. Except, recalling the stuffiness, there is no poverty or redneckery in Great Britain. So same same but different. Love that shirt.

Perhaps the best way to explain a Holiday Park is to tell you what I saw when I tried to stay there. I will warn you, even though where he was sitting looked like a hotel check-in desk, I only met with their security, who reminded me repeatedly that he was only security as a way to be stuffy, perhaps gaining valuable work experience to one day guard a castle. If this is the case I do believe my siege shall be ridiculously successful, for he didn't strike me as the type of man who expects battering rams.

Regardless, it became abundantly clear that holiday parks were not for me, but rather trailers marketed to middle class families as vacation homes. And while it hypothetically might be perhaps possible to rent one, may I remind you that despite sitting behind a desk so mistakable for a hotel check-in, he was just security. Security cannot help you, for they are not usability. They can only move you along.

Biking down the hill toward the bench and the beach, I spied two cops. Like bears, they did not seem particularly interested in me.

I locked up my bike by the parking lot and walked down the path. The bench was perpendicular to and just to the right of it. I placed my pack on the far side as a pillow and laid with my feet near the path.

Laying on the bench, the first people I encountered were a couple who paid me no mind. I felt relieved, as it struck me as odd that someone would be laying on a bench in the middle of nowhere. I struck myself as odd, but even when the cop in his absurdly bright green neon vest shined his flashlight on me I didn't strike him as odd. He asked me if I had seen a 15 year old boy in a hat. I said no.

There were families in the holiday park, and this reminds me of the fact that most people, particularly adults, are quite dumb. Is this place, with the beach stub, the unused windmill, the Playa del Carmen cafe, and the bench truly a vacation spot? Perhaps I don't understand vacations. The cop left.

I was confused, but I said I'd keep an eye out. I was sleeping on a bench, and there was, I presume, a 15 year old on the loose. Was he going to attack me in my sleep? I don't know if I'd thought this yet, but I did when the cop came back.

He asked if I'd been speaking with three boys earlier. I said no, for surely I would have told you this fact. Where would I have met three boys? I am only now considering the security man may have been three boys in a trenchcoat, but when you are speaking to the police you don't think of such stupid things.

He then asked to take down my information. I perhaps too cheerily said yes, but anything to distract him from the fact that I was sleeping on a bench, which was surely illegal, except for the fact that it wasn't.

Who was the kid? Did he run away from the Holiday Park? Was I somehow involved with the kid? I couldn't have been, I'd just arrived! But I had visited the holiday park. This was all too odd.

Sometimes I feel like I am suspicious even when I did nothing. Do cops know this?

Oh what a wonderful world a panopticon would be! He'd *know* I had nothing to do with the kid. Did Amanda Knox kill her roommate? I remind myself that she is rare, many people come home to a dead roommate and are not accused, they just aren't on Netflix.

That is, assuming he is rational. Irrational people scare me, and to think they control the means of violence. Does he know Bayes rule? Was the copping procedure written by someone who does?

He said it was okay to be sleeping on the bench, but said it would be cold. This didn't yet concern me. He took down my mobile number, and asked if I had that phone with me. I said yes, which was true, but it was on airplane mode. Is that true? Talking to cops is hard. I turned off airplane mode after he left. Would he call? I turned back on airplane mode because otherwise I would never sleep from anxiety. Phones are anxiety.

But perhaps he will be tracking my phone! He will see my travels and know I have nothing to do with the kid situation! Heavens I am saved!

I know nothing about the kid I swear! I swear I didn't kill him! Perhaps he dashed to bits on the reef like in that Brand New song? I am not van der Sloot! The holiday park was begging to be run away from. I have no idea if this is the story. Did the kid get home safety? How long was he lost for? Will I ever know? What sort of town had I stumbled into?

A father and two kids passed. They weren't the kid, too young. One kid asked why I was sleeping on a bench. I didn't hear the father's reply.

I was alone.

I looked up at the sky. Oh the stars! You can see so many out here. Heavenly stars, and stars between stars! We are so small!

The Big Dipper! I don't know much about the constellations. This is sad. Will I ever find time to learn?

We are all going to die. Unfathomable sadness. I wept for humanity. We still had so much to explore.

I rejoiced, for I was alive. I was all alone on a bench in the freezing cold but I was alive.

I watched the clock. Time moved only forward, but it wasn't linear.

Did I ever sleep? I tried, but I'm not sure if I did. I'm sure I looked crazy. Dropping the bag off the far side freaking out and waving the flashlight after the black cat.

At 2 I was cold. It was unbelievably cold. I realized I take the sun for granted. I made a note to not in the future.

The red moon peeked into a corner of the sky. It provided no heat, and not enough light to travel by. But it was something that showed time was passing. As it rose and whitened, it blinded the stars in between the stars.

At 3 I was shivering badly. I had triple bagged my socks and was wearing five shirts, but nothing helped. I regretted ditching my sweat pants in Cambridge. The cold seeps through denim like nothing. I imagined mylar trees. Space blankets.

I tried to control the shivering. I could, to an extent. Will I ever be warm again?

Oh civilization how I miss you! To see it but be locked out. Is this how the homeless feel?

Was the kid out in the cold?

At 3:30 I wondered about dying from exposure. I didn't Google it.

I miss Brownie. Why now? Ketamine girl in Berlin brought him up. We toasted to him. I still miss Brownie.

I mourned the death of the family and realized I will probably never own a dog. I thought my parents should get a dog, but maybe they travel now or something? Logistics.

Thinking burns calories and calories are energy and burnt energy is heat. I am grateful to know how energy works. Sitting up was unbearably cold from the wind. Laying down was unbearably cold from the bench planks. I was so cold and had nowhere to hide.

A little after 4, I saw the light from the sun peek up. I watched it for a bit. I left the bench. It was probably not yet light enough to leave, but I couldn't stay. Anything else.

I pity the children of the future who will never be forced into a situation by circumstance.