Patrick Fealey in Esquire:
3:00 a.m., parked in a public lot across the street from the town beach in Westerly, Rhode Island. Just woke up, sleep evasive. It’s my first week out here. I pour an iced coffee from my cooler. I’m walking around the front of the Toyota I’m now living in when a car pulls into the lot, comes toward me. I see only headlights illuminating my fatigue and the red plastic party cup in my hand. Must be a cop. Someone gets out and approaches. It is a cop, young. I’m not afraid, exactly, but I’m also not yet used to being homeless.
“How you doing?” he says.
“Good.”
“Just hanging out?”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“Okay. Just checking. Have a good night.”
In the morning, I awake with back pain. Sleeping in the driver’s seat will be an acquired skill.
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