I’ve been wondering how to write about being a nomad. I’m using couchsurfing.com to roam the couches of San Francisco while I look for a job and a place to live. I’ve met some amazing people.
Sometimes its easy to tell the glamorous stories, like the night I got to stay in a penthouse. But reality is always lurking. I still have to figure out how to live out of a backpack, and laundry is always lurking. Bags get heavy, and sometimes its raining when the bus inexplicably fails to stop for me.
Sometimes my days feel like I’m watching a bad eighties movie. The kind where the hero starts out trying to pick up the dry cleaning, but winds up deeply involved in a drug cartel. Cross dressing usually provides a pivotal plot point. Other parts of the day feel like sitting in a Laundromat while aging members of the Homeless Alliance fellate each other.
Zany, yes, but also gross.
So I thought I’d write about the last two days, and let the events speak for themselves.
Day One
My new friend, Dan, suggested that we do a massage trade. He recently bought a massage table, and wanted to practice with a professional. It all went well, until about halfway through, when I realized that the oil bottle he’d tossed my way was a KY product.
“Dan? Is this… lube?” I asked, bemused.
“Well… Somebody left it here a few years ago.”
“So. Stale lube?”
We decided we should really go and get beer.
Dan, bless him, rides a moped.
And I think mopeds defy most universal physical laws, including math. As he was strapping a ridiculously outsized helmet onto my head, I kept waving my arms around and yelling about high centers of gravity and lack of gyroscopic force.
Also: We were both covered in lube.
We took off, and I learned that, regardless of whether my eyes are open or squeezed shut, I tend to emit high-pitched noises when riding a two-wheeled internal combustion vehicle.
I also developed a move I call the “clinch”. What you do is lock your arms around the driver, and attempt to deliver a pre-emptive Heimlich every time something startles you. I told Dan he should consider himself lucky that I at no point clambered onto his shoulders and held my hands over his eyes.
Nor did I throw poo.
I was comforted by the idea that, should we crash and explode into a fiery ball, we’d at least slide really well. So I was feeling a lot better as we pulled up in front of the bar. We discovered that the door was locked, and the lights were off.
Dan made a phone call.
As we walked in, one of my first thoughts was,
“Wow, I’ve never seen anyone tip with a rolled up dollar bill.”
Apparently, Dan’s roommate worked at this bar, and was hosting a private party. And by “Party” I mean, “Eight People Snorting Cocaine off the Bar”. And by “Private” I mean, “None of Them Were Cops”.
I shrugged, sat down, and got a beer.
Then I remembered that I had job training the next morning. And no way am I stupid enough to stay out the entire night before getting employment. So, after I gracefully spilled half of my single beer *, Dan gave me a ride back to my couch. **
Day 2
I had to be up and in an obscure location for job training early the next morning. I’ve been hired to make coffee at a tiny, ridiculously popular shop. After hand pouring boiling water for four hours and sampling the results, I was so wired I barely felt the second-degree burns.
This was also a moving day. I had to pack my worldly possessions into a backpack, and schlep them across town to my next couch. I also had to fight a Disturbed Inner City Youth for a seat on the bus. I eventually won, but only after I showed him my scald marks.
The couch turned out to be a floor.
After engaging in some high-pitched twitching, I met my dear friend at the San Francisco Opera. Sarah works as the assistant to the musical director, and sometimes comps me in to see the shows.
And I adore opera.
She told me once that our seats cost upwards of two hundred dollars.
That means that the San Francisco Opera is the site of some of the most expensive naps I’ve ever taken.
While we were waiting for the show to begin, I realized that my coat has something like six moth holes in it. Also, one of my socks exploded when I tried to put it on that morning. I remarked that a moth-eaten, one socked nomad rarely makes it into the orchestra section.
The singing was, of course, gorgeous.
I walked home through Civic Center***, and arrived back at my host’s house and into the middle of an enormous house warming party. He didn’t have any furniture yet, and the mostly empty rooms held upwards of thirty drunk couchurfers.
I slept on the floor that night.
* Graciously avoiding the piles of cocaine
** Half a beer has been scientifically proven to be the perfect amount of alcohol for me to drink before getting on the back of a moped. Squeals were reduced by a remarkable 40%.
*** Politely declining the numerous offers of heroin
