I’ve noticed a certain response when people find out I live in my car. They wince. Their eyes get a little wider, and their spine gets a little straighter. Their muscles tense up.
They try hard not to appear judgmental. It might be easier for me if they just came out and said what they think: You live in your car? What a loser.
My PCP gave me some suggestions about nutrition. He assumed I have a kitchen. It’s normal. Most people have kitchens. And bathrooms and a proper bed to sleep in, a place to hang their clothes. I waited until our third meeting before I mentioned my situation. His response, after wincing, was to ask if I’d seen the clinic’s case manager.
What can a case manager do that I’m not already doing? Put me into treatment for a drug problem? Give me a bed for one night in a shelter?
I’ve been seeking low-income senior housing for over a year. I’m on three or four waitlists in various cities in Oregon. Recently I came to the top of a waitlist for a studio apartment in Veneta, Oregon. I started to feel a glimmer of hope. After talking with the property manager, I thought chances were good I might be housed by October 1. I started thinking about what kind of bed I would build, what kind of mattress I would buy. Getting my paltry stack of belongings out of storage.
After our conversation, the property manager left over Labor Day. Another property manager took over. She called me for clarification on one of my references. During the phone call, she asked me what move-in date the previous manager had promised. I said October 1. She asked me where I was currently living. I said, in my car. I couldn’t see her face, but she said, oh! in a way that made me think she might be wincing. Like, what kind of loser old person lives in a car?
We had a phone conversation last week about my financial situation. She walked me through the form, box by box, line by line, and things were going well, I thought, until we got to the box about other income. I told her I was semi-self-employed and that I had a job as contingent faculty for an online for-profit education college. The process stuttered to a halt.
“I don’t know how to handle this,” she said. “I need to talk to my supervisor. I’ll call you later today, tomorrow at the latest.”
That was Tuesday. Today is Saturday.
She could be out of the office with Covid. Maybe she just went out on maternity leave. It could be she reached a breaking point trying to wrangle elderly tenants who can’t fill out forms and walked out of her job. It takes a lot of patience to work with elders. When I told her she could text me, she sounded pleasantly surprised. Like, wow, an older peson who can text! Maybe unicorns exist after all!
There’s nothing I can do to make housing happen. I’m over it. Even if something comes through, I have other things to do, other places to be. Scottsdale in November, Quartzsite in January. I’ve got a lot on my dance card. It’s all a lot more fun and interesting than hanging around Portland waiting to earn non-loser status.
Meanwhile.