No Place

  The weird thing was, sitting there in the car, it felt like a scene out of The Grapes of Wrath—the Joads pulling up to a Hooverville. All I could think was, They can’t really want me to live there, can they?

  “Just have a look, Dan.” Dad reached for the door handle. Mom gazed over the seat at me with obvious concern. “Try to keep an open mind.”

  “There’s no place else we can go?” I asked.

  “Not if we don’t want to feel beholden to whomever we’re staying with,” Mom replied.

  I couldn’t believe they were serious. So what if Uncle Ron’s house was filled with negative energy? It had to be a hundred times better than living in a tent.

  We crossed the street and went through the entrance. A big handwritten sign said:

  WELCOME TO DIGNITYVILLE

  We Thrive on Mutual Respect and Tolerance

  No violence is tolerated.

  No weapons are allowed.

  Sobriety is required.

  No verbal or physical abuse will be tolerated.

  Anyone who cannot respect these rules will be asked to leave.

  If they do not leave voluntarily, the police will be called to remove them.

  “Is Aubrey around?” Dad asked a heavyset guy with shaggy eyebrows and a thick bushy beard.

  “He went over to the church to get dinner,” the guy answered, then pointed. “There he is.”

  A dented old van had pulled up to the entrance and a couple of people started off-loading big pots.

  “Hey, Aubrey!” The heavyset guy waved and gestured at my parents and me. A tall, thin fellow with a neatly trimmed beard started toward us. Here in Dignityville beards and plaid shirts were definitely the go-to look.

  “So, you must be Dan.” Aubrey offered his hand. It was obvious my parents had told him they’d be bringing me over for a visit. “Come on, let’s take the tour.”

  I noticed right away that there was something earnest and welcoming about Aubrey, but it didn’t matter. This was seriously out of the question. Dignityville was basically a refugee camp: bottom of the barrel, end of the road. Maybe other people belonged here, but not my family. And not me.

  As if Aubrey sensed what I was feeling, he tried to lighten the mood by making jokes. The dining tent was the “Grand Ballroom,” empty campsites were “deluxe building lots,” and the washing facilities and row of tall blue portapotties were the “International Spa.”

  “And here are the meadows.” Aubrey led us around the portapotties to a plot of bare ground, weeds, and brush. “When I gave your parents the tour this afternoon, your mom thought this would be a good place for a garden, which would be a huge step toward making Dignityville self-sustaining.” He put his hand on my shoulder and led us back. “There’s a company that might donate some used solar cells. They’re not as efficient as newer models, but they’d do. We might even go with a small wind turbine. Imagine Dignityvilles all over the country, Dan. Self-contained, self-sustainable eco-villages where people who’ve lost their homes will feel welcome and good about themselves. Like pioneers in the new world.”

  “I thought Dignityville was supposed to be temporary,” I said.

  Aubrey gave me an appraising look. “You follow the news, Dan?”

  “A little.”

  “So maybe you’ve heard that conditions around the country are getting a little better? But unemployment’s still high. People are still losing their homes. Towns and cities are having a really tough time. Believe me, Dan, nothing would make me happier than seeing everyone get a job and be able to afford a place to live, but in the meantime shouldn’t we be preparing for the possibility that it might not happen? You can think of Dignityville as temporary if you want, but I wouldn’t be surprised if twenty years from now it’s still here.”

  I understood that he was trying to spin it in a positive way. Maybe he believed what he was saying, but I didn’t. To me Dignityville wasn’t the future. It was a bunch of tents and portapotties for unlucky people who’d otherwise be sleeping in doorways and old cars. My family may have fallen on hard times, but we weren’t like these other folks. I couldn’t say it to Aubrey, but we just didn’t belong here.

  By now the Grand Ballroom was crowded with people eating on plastic plates. A humming generator in the background provided electricity for the lights. The air smelled of diesel exhaust.

  “Hungry?” Aubrey asked.

  It was dinnertime and I should have been, had my stomach not been knotted anxiously at the prospect of moving here.

  “Come on, take a look.” Aubrey pulled back the clear plastic sheets that formed the walls of the dining tent. “Any different from lunchtime in the cafeteria?”

  It was, but maybe not as much as I might have imagined.

  “Let’s give it a try,” Dad said.

  I didn’t want to, but couldn’t figure out how to say so without sounding like a brat. We got in line. It was strangely quiet inside the tent. A few low conversations took place here and there, but mostly people were focused on eating. On the other side of the serving table a couple of volunteers in white serving aprons were ladling out . . . chili.

  I hardly ate, not because I knew what had gone into making that chili, but because I had zero appetite. I kept telling myself this couldn’t be happening. My parents couldn’t really be serious about moving to Dignityville. We weren’t these people. We were supposed to be the ones volunteering to help them.

  * * *

  By the time we got into the car to go back to Uncle Ron’s, I’d begun to prepare my arguments. But Mom had prepared hers as well: “I know you don’t want to do this, sweetheart, but I feel very strongly about it. It won’t be easy, but I truly believe it’s the best thing we can do as a family. There’s a positive energy there, and we can be part of it.”

  I said exactly what was on my mind. “If we go there, everyone’s going to think we’re homeless.”

  In the front seat, Dad and Mom glanced at each other. Then Mom looked back at me. “We won’t be homeless. Dignityville will be our new home. We’ll be on the forefront of a new way of living. You heard what he said. Someday, there’ll be lots of Dignityvilles.”

  “I get that, Mom, but that’s far in the future. Right now the people in Dignityville aren’t on the forefront of anything, except homelessness.”

  The wrinkles around Mom’s eyes deepened. “Are you worried about what your friends are going to think?”

  It wasn’t just my friends; it was everyone. We may have been having a tough time financially, but as long as we were at Uncle Ron’s, at least we had a home. “We just don’t belong there, Mom.”

  “That’s a mindset, sweetheart. You need to think positively about this.”

  Positive thought . . . yoga . . . meditation . . . those were her things, not mine. “Okay, you want to know the truth? Yes, I am worried about what my friends are going to think. I’m worried what everyone’s going to think. Because basically, they’re all going to think we’re losers.”

  “If they’re real friends, it shouldn’t matter,” Mom said.

  Just then Dad caught my eye in the rearview mirror. The look he gave me told me to stop arguing and go along with it.

  “Have we ever done wrong by you?” Mom asked.

  I sat back and didn’t answer. It was hard to remember the last time I’d felt this miserable. For most of my life—at least until I was twelve or thirteen—my parents had made the important decisions for me. Since then we’d shared decisions, or I’d made them on my own. But looking back, I couldn’t remember them ever deciding something for me that was so totally, absolutely misguided.

  11

  The next morning I got up early to clear brush and chop wood with Ron’s neighbor again. While in the bathroom I glanced outside and saw Mom and her brother strolling across the backyard toward the tennis court. I had a feeling they’d gone outside because Mom didn’t want the rest of us to overhear what would be said.

  As I watched, I tried once again to make sense of w
hat Mom was thinking. How was it possible that a home as beautiful as this, with its own swimming pool and tennis court, was filled with negative energy, while a tent camp of homeless people was filled with the positive stuff? And yet, if I was really honest with myself, I’d felt it too. Maybe because that Aubrey guy was so full of enthusiasm and hope, two emotions that were severely lacking in Uncle Ron’s household.

  But I still couldn’t see myself living in Dignityville. Living in a rec room sucked, but it was way better than a tent.

  While I couldn’t hear the conversation Mom and her brother were having, my uncle’s body language made it look as if he was arguing against Mom’s plan. Had I been asked to predict, I would have thought he’d pretend not to like it, but secretly be pleased to get rid of us (or at least rid of Dad). But Ron’s hands were on his hips and he kept shaking his head as if he absolutely wouldn’t hear of it.

  Go Ron! I thought hopefully.

  Finally, Mom put her hand on his shoulder and said something that ended it. Ron hung his head, and Mom hugged him. I could almost hear what she was saying. Something like: I appreciate you wanting us to stay, and no matter what happens, you’re my brother and I’ll always love you.

  Damn . . .

  * * *

  Later that afternoon we once again parked on the street across from Dignityville. Only this time the car was packed with clothes, camping gear, and supplies. The only difference between us and the Joads was that they’d had a beat-up old Hudson truck and we had a beat-up old Subaru.

  Mom looked over the seat at me. “Ready?”

  “No.”

  In the front seat Mom and Dad shared a quick glance.

  “We don’t have to do this today,” Dad said. “We probably have enough money to spend a few nights in a motel. The problem is, once we run through that we’ll still wind up here, only with nothing in our pockets.”

  Mom looked over the seat at me again. “I know this is difficult, sweetheart. I know it’s not what you want. But I want you to give it a chance. I promise, if you still hate it after a week or two, we’ll try to come up with something else.”

  “Seriously, Mom? Then why bother? I know I’m going to hate it.”

  “Maybe not. I’m just asking you to try.”

  I wanted to argue, but there was no point in it. Mom was going to have her way.

  Our new address was site number thirty-seven, a square plywood platform raised about six inches off the ground. Aubrey wasn’t around, so we were assisted by Wade, rail thin and scruffy with a red bandana around his forehead and long graying hair in a ponytail.

  “We don’t have a lot of rules,” he said as he helped us raise the tent and secure it to the plywood platform. “You probably saw the board when you came in. The only thing I’d add is no loud music or talking after nine o’clock. A lot of folks have to get up early for work. Aubrey told you about the hot dinner every night, right? As far as other meals, you’ll have to fend for yourselves.”

  “What do people do?” Dad asked.

  “The regular things. Some prepare their own on camp stoves. Some go to Subway or the diner. The hard-luck cases’ll eat at the church or the food pantry. And if you do prepare food here? Don’t forget to separate out your recyclables just like you did at home. Oh, and you get these.”

  He handed out three small booklets of bus passes. “Two free trips a day for work or appointments. And don’t forget to sign up for kitchen detail. Everyone volunteers at least once a week to either serve or clean up. Of course, you’re welcome to do it more often if you feel like it.”

  Wade left. To be honest, I felt paralyzed by the numbness of disbelief. My parents had both gone to college, and I was on my way next year. We’d had a house. They’d had jobs. This wasn’t supposed to happen to people like us.

  Mom and Dad rolled out their sleeping pads and bags. Having done a lot of camping in the past, we had our own gear, but we hadn’t used the tent in years and it smelled unpleasantly musty. My parents shot quick looks at me. I still hadn’t moved.

  Dad said, “There’s no rush, Dan.” Which basically meant, There’s no point in standing around.

  Despite the smell the tent was pretty spacious and had room for plastic shelving for our clothes, and stackable plastic bins for our personal stuff.

  “I wouldn’t leave anything valuable lying around,” Dad said, glancing at Mom to see if she agreed.

  She nodded.

  “Like my laptop?” I asked.

  “Can’t hurt to keep it out of sight,” she said.

  “Under your dirty underwear,” Dad suggested with a wink.

  That reminded me: “Where do we wash clothes?”

  “There’s a Laundromat about a block away,” Mom said.

  Right. I’d seen Meg with that laundry basket. Looked like I’d be joining her. I reached for my sleeping bag and unrolled it. This move was real. It was happening. And there was nothing I could do about it.

  For now.

  * * *

  “So,” Mom said once we’d settled in, “shall we go for a walk?”

  Dad and I shared an uncomfortable look. All along I’d sensed that while he was trying to be supportive of Mom, he wasn’t completely stoked about Dignityville either.

  “Remember what Aubrey said,” Mom reminded us. “Don’t look at this as a place for the lost and disenfranchised. Imagine a day when there are hundreds of Dignityvilles, and all kinds of people live in them not because they have to but because they want to.”

  I felt myself wince inside. It sounded like Mom had taken a big gulp of Aubrey-flavored Kool-Aid. Dad put his arm around her. “You’re right.”

  They both turned to me. “Coming?”

  “I have to do some reading for school,” I said.

  “It’s a little dark in here,” Mom said. “Why don’t you go over to the dining tent?”

  “This is fine,” I said, thinking, No way am I going over there.

  Dad turned on the LED lantern. The tent filled with light. “That better?”

  “Thanks.”

  “See you in a bit,” Mom said with forced cheerfulness as if telling me to feel better.

  They left. Feeling completely bummed, I sat down in one of the camping chairs. The tent may have been big, but it was still way smaller than my old bedroom. The low, slanting ceiling made me feel claustrophobic, and I kept getting distracted by the conversations of people as they passed outside.

  Mom had promised that if, after a week or two, I still really hated it, we’d try something different.

  I couldn’t wait.

  12

  At dinnertime I convinced my parents to let me treat them to Subway with the money I’d made working with Uncle Ron’s neighbor. They knew exactly why I was doing it, and I guess they went along because they sensed I could take only so much of Dignityville on our first day.

  It was dark when my alarm went off the next morning. I woke with the kind of confused jolt you feel when you think you’ve only just fallen asleep. But there was no confusion about where I was. I’d spent too much of the previous night lying awake, staring at the ceiling of the tent, to have any doubts. It was Monday morning, and today, for the first time, I would make my way to school . . . from Dignityville.

  Sleeping pads are okay for camping, but they’re not mattresses, and I felt stiff. I’d laid out my clothes so that I wouldn’t have to turn on a light when I got dressed. I knew the alarm would wake my parents, but I was hoping they’d just go back to sleep.

  I was half-right.

  “Where are you going?” Mom whispered from her sleeping bag.

  “School,” I whispered as I sat up with my back to her and pulled my pants on.

  “This early? What about breakfast?”

  “I’ll pick up something on the way.”

  “And a shower?”

  “At school.”

  I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. Pulling on a jacket, I went outside. The air was dark and chilly, but I wasn’t the on
ly one up. Light peeked out of other tents, and a few people were already out and about. A guy wearing a robe and flip-flops carried a towel and a toilet kit toward the showers. A dog trotted past. Heading down the path toward the exit, I found myself behind a construction worker with an orange hard hat and a lunch pail.

  Even though I had the booklet of tickets for the town bus, I wasn’t sure which to take and decided to walk the two miles to school. The sun was just starting to come up when I got there and the sensation of hunger had awakened in my stomach. The front doors were locked, but I knew the janitors used the side entrance behind the Dumpsters. Inside, the halls were empty and dim. My footsteps echoed on the tiles as I headed to the gym.

  With shampoo, soap, and deodorant already in my gym locker, I showered.

  A little while later I was leaving the locker room when Coach Buder came in. When he saw me, a scowl etched its way onto his narrow, lined face.

  “Here early,” he said.

  I nodded, not feeling like I had to explain. After being coached by him through four years of baseball, I still felt like I hardly knew him. He was retiring after this year and sometimes I got the feeling that he’d had enough of high school sports.

  “Everything on track for Rice?” he asked as he unzipped his athletic jacket.

  I nodded. “Just have to sign the letter of intent.”

  “How’s the arm?”

  “Still there.”

  He smiled. “You deserve it, Dan. You’re probably the most talented player to ever come through here, not to mention one of the hardest working.”

  “Thanks, coach.”

  “Stay on track now, you hear?”

  “Definitely,” I replied, but at the same time I wondered why he’d said that. Did he somehow sense that I was in danger of falling off track?

  Coach Buder nodded in a way that meant the conversation was over. He’d done his duty and dispensed his coachly advice. Now he could go into his office and dream about retiring to Florida or whatever his plan was. Some of the guys called him Buddha behind his back because he had that detached way about him. Even though I’d only met Coach Petersen from Rice once, I’d spoken to him a lot on the phone, and already felt closer to him than I ever had to Buddha.