Urban Camper

I struggled onto the bus with my two bags.

The driver yelled, “You need to pay your fare.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I know.

The bus bolted forward, and I fell into the nearest seat, next to a woman looking at her phone. I arrange my possessions at my feet.

The bus driver barked again, “Hey, pay your fare.”

“I know,” I said as I rummaged through my pockets to find my bus pass.

When the bus stopped at a red light, I scanned the card. The magnetic stripe on the back of the pass is the only technology I own.

The bus bucked forward again, throwing me back into the seat by the back door. The bus driver’s attitude left me rattled. I began to chant to calm myself. My hands conducted my words as I spoke. I did not notice, I was getting louder, and the bus driver yelled at me again. Although, I was not the only housing insecure person on the bus, she had become laser focused on me.

“Quiet down back there; you are disturbing the person next to you.”

I turned to the person seated next to me, she no longer held her phone. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“No need,” I like listening to your poetry.

There was something about her tone of voice that led me to believe she was sincere, not patronizing like the do-gooders at the shelters. I do not like going to the shelters.

“I’m an urban camper,” I said, keeping my voice down as I spoke. “Have been ever since I left college after my first semester. “It’s becoming more difficult to camp now that the city has put up fencing around most of the places I’ve been staying.”

“Seems like a common practice,” she said.

“The more progressive cities are the worst,” I said. “Those hypocrites.”

“You’re right about that,” she said, sincerely.

I liked her, she seemed to understand that I was not looking for money, or food, or pity. I just wanted someone to talk to—someone to listen to me. To engage in conversation. She had warm eyes and a nice smile. I had a nice smile once, before I lost most of my teeth.

“Tell me about yourself,” she said.

I wasn’t sure why she wanted to know about me. My bus stop was about thirty minutes away. I figured she would get off at the next stop or two, even if she intended to go further. Happens all the time.

“I’m the youngest of five children. I have four older brothers. The oldest is a generation ahead of me. My parents had me when they were older. Guess I was a surprise. They were very conservative and did not have the energy for a boisterous child, a girl with a propensity for trouble, and a talker.

“I guess you could say we were middle-class. We lived on three acres. As a girl I rode horses, now, at sixty, I ride buses.”

“I prefer the bus,” she said.

I could not tell the woman’s age, but based upon her clothes and her bag, it did not seem to me that she had to take public transportation. We had gone about half a dozen stops and she still made no attempt to depart. Now I became curious about her. Did she just ride the bus all day? I wondered. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been doing all of the talking. What do you do?”

“I’m retired.”

“What did you used to do?”

“I was a librarian.”

“I like going to the library.” Most of the librarians were cordial, but the security guards could be nasty. I get it, so many of the unhoused go into the library to bathe in the sinks in the public restroom and then try to sleep. “I like to read,” I said.

“So many books, so little time,” she said.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“What do you like to read?”

“I like reading about other women in other cultures, places like Botswana. Lately, I’ve been learning about Malta. I would like to live in Malta. Sit on the beach, talk to the women there.”

“Sounds nice.”

“This is my stop,” I said. Republic Square is where the unhoused and day laborers congregate. The Methodist Church hands out free breakfast if you get there before 9:00 a.m.

Several other people were getting off the bus and this gave me the opportunity to gather my things and leave through the back door. Once on the curb. I turned and waved at my seatmate. She smiled and waved back.

“You almost missed breakfast,” the volunteer in the red vest said curtly and handed me a brown bag with an apple, a breakfast bar, and a box of juice with one of those sippy straws. I looked around, all of the benches were taken. I found a sunny spot on the grass and sat cross-legged on the ground. I thought about the kind woman who had spoken with me on the bus and the women of Malta sitting in a circle in the warmth of the day.