Today, with housing shortages, soaring rents and outlandish home prices, more Americans than ever are living in vehicles. In response, cities across the nation have passed ordinances prohibiting sleeping in cars. Supporters of these bans, like the one recently reinstated in LA, say they’re necessary to ensure “safety” in their city’s neighborhoods, but I bristle at the implication. Living in a van never made me dangerous. And, yet, I got kicked out of Starbucks once under that assumption.
***
With my mouth in full lather, I heard a jingle of keys before the heavy Starbucks bathroom door swung open.
“What are you doing in here?” The supervisor yelled more than asked.
“Brushing my teeth,” I answered clumsily, the way people talk with toothpaste in their mouth.
Despite my obvious innocence, she peered toward my open toiletries bag and the items splayed across the sink, as if she were expecting to find more than just dental floss and face lotion.
I spit as politely as possible, rinsed my mouth and explained, “I bought a steamed milk with vanilla and got a token for the bathroom.”
I wondered if maybe she thought I’d snuck in behind someone and had forgotten she herself had served me the latte an hour before.
“Well this isn’t your personal bathroom,” she scoffed. “There’ve been complaints.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” I said, both shocked and embarrassed by the offense I imagined I caused. She held the door ajar with her hip and shoulder, never taking her eyes off me as I quickly packed my things to leave.
A block down the street, I slid the van door closed behind me and shocked myself by bursting into tears. “I just got kicked out of Starbucks!” I cried to John.
“Wait. What happened?” he asked, sliding his long body off the platform bed to console me. We hugged in the kitchen, meaning, in front of the mini-fridge and tiny stove situated between the bed and the two captain’s chairs.