Homeless
Her flip-flops slap the pavement alongside me as she pushes the cart brimming with my recent purchases. I struggle alongside with bags and together we make our way towards my dented green Honda civic with the blue “Long Live Longhorns Long Life Longhorns” bumper sticker. I rummage in my purse for keys, and she looks across the parking lot. Other Park Slope co-op volunteers assist shoppers to their vehicles. The woman’s mandatory orange volunteer vest sparkles in the sunlight, and her legs grow out of her shorts like two malnourished stalks of wheat.
“Beautiful day,” she says. I nod, unlock my door, and consider my remaining chores. Moving will probably take a total of four days.
“Thanks for helping me with my groceries.”
“You’re welcome,” she says and her sharp blue eyes smile among her sandy skin. I open my trunk, and she sees a folded wool blanket, some shoes, a hairdryer, and a box of dishes shedding their newspaper wrapping, with one dish already broken.
“Oh my God,” she says, and those blue eyes grow wide, and she raises her hands, decked in tarnished silver, to her face. “Do you live in your car?”
I laugh, partially to relieve the embarrassment I feel over the mess.
“I’m moving right now. Still need to drop off a few things.”
She nods, fingers resting against her lip, and for a second, I think she might even cry, but then she unloads the cart and moves my possessions to make space for the new items. She steals looks at me as she touches the books and shoes, and manages to squeeze produce and milk in between them.
I admire her efficiency and check my watch. My new roommate would meet me soon to give me keys. I wave, and the volunteer begins to roll her cart away. Suddenly, she abandons it, and walks toward me. She clasps my hand.
“I just want to say that it’s okay if you live in your car, and that I hope you find some place soon.” Without giving me a chance to shout, “How could I live in my car? I have frozen goods! I bought items that are refrigerate only!” she leaves, and I close the door on my Honda. I look around and wonder if this in fact would make a better home than my new shoebox in Bed-Stuy.
----
Her flip-flops slap the pavement alongside me as she pushes the cart brimming with my recent purchases. I struggle alongside with bags and together we make our way towards my dented green Honda civic with the blue “Long Live Longhorns Long Life Longhorns” bumper sticker. I rummage in my purse for keys, and she looks across the parking lot. Other Park Slope co-op volunteers assist shoppers to their vehicles. The woman’s mandatory orange volunteer vest sparkles in the sunlight, and her legs grow out of her shorts like two malnourished stalks of wheat.
“Beautiful day,” she says. I nod, unlock my door, and consider my remaining chores. Moving will probably take a total of four days.
“Thanks for helping me with my groceries.”
“You’re welcome,” she says and her sharp blue eyes smile among her sandy skin. I open my trunk, and she sees a folded wool blanket, some shoes, a hairdryer, and a box of dishes shedding their newspaper wrapping, with one dish already broken.
“Oh my God,” she says, and those blue eyes grow wide, and she raises her hands, decked in tarnished silver, to her face. “Do you live in your car?”
I laugh, partially to relieve the embarrassment I feel over the mess.
“I’m moving right now. Still need to drop off a few things.”
She nods, fingers resting against her lip, and for a second, I think she might even cry, but then she unloads the cart and moves my possessions to make space for the new items. She steals looks at me as she touches the books and shoes, and manages to squeeze produce and milk in between them.
I admire her efficiency and check my watch. My new roommate would meet me soon to give me keys. I wave, and the volunteer begins to roll her cart away. Suddenly, she abandons it, and walks toward me. She clasps my hand.
“I just want to say that it’s okay if you live in your car, and that I hope you find some place soon.” Without giving me a chance to shout, “How could I live in my car? I have frozen goods! I bought items that are refrigerate only!” she leaves, and I close the door on my Honda. I look around and wonder if this in fact would make a better home than my new shoebox in Bed-Stuy.
----
Victoria Cho currently resides in Brooklyn, New York. She graduated in 2005 from Boston University with a Bachelor of Science in Film. She has attended writing workshops with NYU, Sackett Street Writers Workshops, and Gotham Writers Workshops.
Photograph taken by Dusdin
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