Bio - 38 in My Bio

We spent about six hours loading the rental truck we would drive down to Sacramento, attaching a trailer to pull our own vehicle behind. By 3:00 p.m., we finally left Oregon for the last time on July 25, 2007.

Moving such a long distance without unlimited funds made me anticipate some challenges, but I didn’t expect the journey to be a near-disaster that would threaten our lives. It began as nothing like I’d envisioned; my expectations had never included poverty, hunger, homelessness, or sheer chaos. Had I known what lay ahead, I’d have felt sick to my stomach on the spot. The hardships we endured would make my previous challenges seem minor. It would end up being the third most scariest moment of my life.

Though the drive felt endless, I was excited to see the first palm trees as we approached Sacramento. We stopped to eat in Redding and didn’t reach the Clarion Hotel until 10:00 p.m. There, a group of youths played loud music in the adjacent room and practically took over the hallway.

Exhausted, we moved to an Econo Lodge. The room was spacious but pricey for a place with no amenities. After two nights, we transferred to a different Econo Lodge downtown, storing our belongings in a 10x10 storage unit. This motel had internet, but it was unreliable, making it a struggle for Tom to apply for unemployment online.

Our worst decision was spending a week at the Motel 6. The noise level was unbearable, reminiscent of a past experience I’d had in the projects 15 years earlier. The flimsy floorboards trembled whenever someone walked by, waking me up constantly. Someone seemed to be dealing drugs nearby, adding to the chaos. The frustration reached a boiling point, so we relocated to Best Western in Roseville. Though expensive, this hotel offered a spacious room with a mini-refrigerator, microwave, and coffeemaker.

Amid this chaos, two bits of unfortunate news surfaced. First, our property management withheld our $450 deposit, citing bogus repair charges. We had left the house spotless aside from a few minor issues, so I was disappointed that my instinct to leave the place “as is” was overruled by Tom’s wish to leave it clean. Second, Tom’s unemployment claim was denied. He had left his job to find work in a city with better access to doctors for my medical needs, but they didn’t give a shit.

With no deposit refund, no unemployment, and Tom still jobless, my stress turned into fear.

On August 12, Tom found a temp job at a warehouse in Rocklin. Although the pay was only $10 an hour and his coworkers were unpleasant, his boss was supportive. Two days later, we settled in the best extended-stay motel we could afford, though it wasn’t in the best part of Sacramento. The room, on the top of three floors, had a full-size bed, recliner, dresser, small table, and kitchen. While the space was cozy and functional, the decor was drab, and the walls were thin. The air conditioner malfunctioned, the microwave carousel didn’t work, and the refrigerator leaked. Noise from slamming doors and blaring TVs was an ongoing nuisance, along with frequent disturbances from the friendly but overly active staff performing maintenance and inspections.

Had we been in an end room, things might have been quieter, but that larger room was more expensive. I had no idea we’d end up living there for over eight months. Although we could come and go, it felt little more than a glorified jail cell.

Our expenses were astronomical. Gas prices had skyrocketed, the room cost $320 per week even at a discounted rate, and our storage unit was $87 monthly. While I enjoyed the warmer climate and proximity to stores and restaurants, I disliked the crowds.

Shortly after settling at the motel, we lost our beloved Tinkerbell to a tumor, which only deepened my despair and anger. I loved that rat dearly.

Over time, we became familiar with the motel staff, though a few, like one office worker and a housekeeper named Prasaad from Fiji, weren’t our favorites. Prasaad, originally friendly, became a bit cold, making me wonder if something had happened. Seeing someone immigrate here only to treat the natives poorly just wasn’t right.

Nonetheless, two of the people we met there became my favorites: Michelle and Kissum.

Michelle worked days in the office. She was a year younger than me. Although it was dyed, like my own long black hair that reached past my waist, I admired her fiery red hair and friendly eyes. Michelle was a bit heavy, but overall, she was good-looking. She was always quick to help us in any way she could, and I looked forward to seeing her whenever I went to the office, whether to drop off mail or for anything else.

Then there was Kissum, my favorite housekeeper, who was also from Fiji. I never would’ve guessed she’d become one of my favorites since she was so quiet the first few times she cleaned our room. But over time, she turned out to be quite chatty, and I looked forward to her visits. Her upbeat energy and humor did wonders for my otherwise sour mood.

There were a few other housekeepers as well: two from Thailand, one from Mexico, a new one hired right before we left from India, and Josephina, who was originally from New Zealand. Josephina was young and attractive and even tried to help us when things were at their worst by attempting to get us into a rooming house. But eventually, she called to tell us she hadn’t been able to reach anyone there. She worked on rooms during our first few months but later moved to the laundry department and I never saw her again.

Satish, another one from Fiji, was the head maintenance guy and friendly, though he deflated our hopes almost as quickly as he raised them. He had offered to rent us his three-bedroom house in the city for a thousand dollars a month. But when housing prices started plummeting, he backed out. At first, I felt hurt by the letdown, but I couldn’t really blame him—I would have waited, too. Still, it was tough to feel like we were finally close to finding a home, only to be left once again wondering where we could go, who would take us without perfect credit, and how we could escape constant noise, barking dogs, and loud stereos.

Mike, the manager, was also kind and offered us a slight discount on the grand-a-month monthly rate they started offering right before we left. But by then, we were too close to moving on to take him up on it, though the discount would have helped tremendously if it had been available earlier.

As the weather cooled, things worsened.

Our truck was broken into, and Tom’s birth certificate, some tools, a laser printer, and a few other items were stolen.

I started gaining weight and feeling stiffer from spending so much time cooped up in the room, struggling to work on the computer amid the constant noise. I wasn’t winning many sweepstakes, which I blamed partly on the unreliable internet we had for the first couple of months.

Eventually, the DMV stopped giving us temporary permits after our ’79 Dodge failed emissions, and Tom had to drive with expired plates. Later, the truck’s insurance expired, and we couldn’t afford to renew it, which only added to his stress on the road.

Then came October, and with it, a nightmare. To say I felt like we were being taunted is an understatement. Imagine a deranged person holding a gun to your head, saying, “Maybe I’ll pull the trigger, maybe I won’t.” The terror of that uncertainty was exactly what we felt daily, especially between October 4 and October 15—an 11-day stretch that was unrelentingly stressful as hell. Our survival was on the line, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. We felt trapped between the streets and despair.

On Thursday night, October 4, I had a dream that we had no money for food or rent. The next morning, October 5, Tom left early for work. When I woke up, I texted him about the dream, saying it had left me with one of my bad feelings, the kind we’d both come to recognize as forewarnings of trouble.

That afternoon, Tom came back to the room earlier than usual, carrying no groceries and looking grim. “Bad dream premonition,” he said, confirming the uneasy feeling in my gut. He explained that his paycheck had been directly deposited as usual, but we couldn’t access our account. Our debit card had expired while we were still in Oregon, and the bank had sent a new one to our old address. When it was returned, they hadn’t bothered to call or email us.

The next day, with no other options, we loaded up the truck in search of a campground. But we couldn’t find any; the directions people gave us were vague and led us in circles.

In desperation, we considered ending it all in the back of the truck by lighting charcoal to produce carbon monoxide. We wanted a quiet, secluded place with no chance of intervention. But even that seemed beyond our reach.

After wandering aimlessly and wasting gas, we began pulling items from storage to sell or pawn: Tom’s Xbox, the GPS, a couple of electric guitars I’d won, DVDs, CDs, and more. I was sick of the humiliation of being reduced to struggling, starving, pawning this, selling that—just to survive. While some items were things we had planned to part with, we wanted to do it our way, not forced in a rush, taking whatever we could get.

The money we raised bought us gas and a little food. Surprisingly, those “little wins” I used to complain about helped save the day. Without anywhere to go, we ended up at a rest stop heading towards Reno, but it was cold, so we turned back and parked in the Thunder Valley Casino lot. Making as much space as we could in the back of our beat-up truck, we spent part of Saturday night there. I climbed in first, and Tom, after making sure no one was watching, followed, pulling the hatch shut behind him. We lay huddled together, shivering, trying to stay quiet. People couldn’t see in well, but we could see them. Did any of them know what it was like to be broke and homeless? Did they take their homes and food for granted? Did they think only the lazy, the alcoholics, and the addicts ended up like us? Did they think their worst fears could never come true? What made them more deserving? We worked as hard as anyone, maybe harder.

Tom was afraid to sleep, worried his snoring might draw attention, and I was too cold, uncomfortable, scared, and angry to sleep myself. When he went to use the restroom in the casino, I lay there shivering, mentally cursing a God I wasn’t sure existed.

Eventually, I couldn’t take the cold and had to pee, so I went inside, used the restroom, and had Tom paged. Without money to gamble, we tried to blend in at the restaurant; he got a soda, and I ordered coffee. God only knew how much longer I needed to be awake. Our waitress, Dee, noticed our situation and told us about Kampgrounds of America, even offering soup on her tab. We declined the soup but thanked her for the KOA information. Unfortunately, it wasn’t free as she’d said, and going to a campground just wasn’t an option without a tent or money. Everywhere we turned, we seemed trapped in a real Catch-22.

By 4:00 AM, knowing we wouldn’t get any real sleep, we left the casino and headed for Walmart, where Tom browsed the store while I mostly stayed in the truck, lying down to calm my nerves. Around 7:00, we returned to storage to pull more things to pawn—the digital camera, a diamond I’d won, and finally, our laptop. While Tom was inside, I managed a 45-minute nap in the truck’s front seat.

The pawnshop didn’t open until 11:00, and as we waited, exhausted, I couldn’t shake the feeling of doom. The thought of not getting enough money to survive until our new debit card arrived was overwhelming.

Finally, when the shop opened, Tom went in first to see if they’d accept what we had. A moment later, Tom returned with good news—the pawnshop would give $65 for the diamond. I used my ID to complete the sale since Tom had left his at the casino the previous day. We’d laugh later about how he didn’t want to mention this in front of the pawnshop workers, knowing they might judge us less favorably if they heard the word “casino.”

We now had enough for one night at the motel. After pawning the laptop, camera, and diamond, we returned to the motel, where I finally met Michelle, the person I’d only spoken to over the phone thus far. Mixed feelings hit me as we re-entered that familiar room. I didn’t want to be there, but we desperately needed to shower and do laundry, even if it meant washing clothes in the tub. Also, it was more comfortable to sleep in a real bed, as opposed to the back of a pickup.

The room felt enormous compared to the cramped truck. We set up our remaining things, including a desktop computer from storage, and took showers. With only 45 minutes of sleep in over 30 hours, I ended up sleeping on and off for 14 hours, despite waking frequently from stress. The whole time, I wondered if we’d get our new debit card or if we’d be back on the street the next day. I was afraid of what I’d see in my dreams but more afraid of reality. Sleep, however fitful, was my only escape.

The next day, Monday, Tom couldn’t work because he had to figure out a way to get more money. He sold a gun sight I’d won, buying us another night’s stay but not enough for gas or food.

When Tom called the temp agency and card company, they gave conflicting answers, saying a new card could be expedited, but only if it didn’t arrive by Monday. After calling his boss Tuesday morning, she surprised us with her generosity, giving him $100 for gas. But even with the $100, we were far from stable. It bought us a room for Tuesday night, some food, and a little more gas. But after those expenses, we were back to square one—completely broke.