The Ghost

A homeless camp in Los Angeles County.  Our society is in steep decline, which isn't really the end of the world.  Empires come and go.  But as the bottom drops out, each person who falls is a real human, an individual with their own story.  

The following is an excerpt from a series of letters written by a homeless man.  He was married at one time, a father of two children.  Then he became addicted to opiates.  

He lived for nearly two years in his own hidden camp in the dunes, just off the beach on St. Simon's Island, Georgia.  He died of an overdose.

***

“The Reason.”

“What?”

“What is the reason and incentive for what you are doing?”

I respond simply, "Just to see if it can be done."

I break from my conversation and peer down the trail, looking again to see if they have arrived, “they” being the Glynn County Police.  I do this every five minutes of every day, knowing they will inevitably pay me a visit, but only if a complaint is made. 

They know nothing about any of this and when they find out I will be arrested, and the oceanfront oasis I created in the heart of a 30-acre county owned parcel will no longer exist.

“Someone in the dunes is doing God knows what,” they would exclaim with context only limited by imagination.  "He’s probably cooking meth, growing weed or both, running around naked, high as fuck with a dribbling penis, covered in war paint or shit or whatever it is.  It's  probably illegal and requires the attention of the Glynn County Sheriff's Office.”

I think about that and what I would do if I was one of the neighbors less than 500 feet away in a multi-million-dollar three-story house with a view of the ocean over the treeline that I call home.

What I would do if some dirty hippie fucker was living down there, closer to the beach than I, for free.

Not only free from a mortgage payment and the property taxes, the power bill and all the other utilities, the staff required for daily maintenance - down there in the woods running around barefoot and naked, high on dope, eating lizards and wild rabbits, talking to frogs.  And shit like that.

Maybe he has a loin cloth on - nah that's too primitive.  He's probably wearing dirty board shorts or old navy cargo shorts pulled from a salvation army pile, something like that.  But it doesn't matter because he's free, and good for him. 

I'd like to think this particular neighbor would be as forgiving and optimistic, but I'm projecting.  I know exactly who he is, his name, where he's from, how he made his money, when he's in town, what he drives, where he goes when he is not here, the home’s lighting schedule, and most everything else I need to know about him.  

He's nice, but not that nice.

Oceanfront homes on St. Simon's Island.

Volunteer Public Beach Access Monitor

The other neighbors as well, I collect intel on all of those in eyeshot, important enough to keep tabs on, all except for the lady who lives in the house owned by an LLC. 

I know nothing about her except that she lives alone, is retired and usually at home.  Probably sitting in the living room watching her shows, only looking away to see who is traveling to and from the beach on the path adjacent her home.

Her adopt-a-pet vanity plate indicates that she is compassionate about animals and she has several long large cats, a wild bird's nightmare.  

I'm almost certain if a call of concern is made it will be made by her.  She definitely fits the description of a volunteer public beach access monitor, as it would be irresponsible otherwise.

I pass her sometimes when she is out in the yard watering her flower beds and I always wave.  Big toothy smile, head up, shoulders back, pretending I belong there in the neighborhood, riding my bike out of the tunnel of wax myrtles due west from the beach.

She looks directly at me but never waves back, as if to say “Waving back might give you the wrong idea.”

Whenever I see her I want to stop and say hello, say something nice to convince her that although frequent, I'm not anyone of concern.

I made up a story I'll hopefully never tell her about a girlfriend - my girlfriend that I don't have that lives on Ninth Street.  She is going through a messy divorce and asks that I travel to her house the back way so her nosey neighbors do not see me, get the wrong idea, and tell her soon to be ex-husband.

They were all part of the same peer group prior to the scandal that led to the separation and subsequent filing and he wouldn't be too thrilled about her moving on so soon.  She doesn't want any more drama so I cut down the beach from fifth street like she asks.

I even wrote a subplot to my bullshit girlfriend story in the event I am toting construction materials in my dock cart and questioned as to why.

“I'm remodeling her bathroom,” I'll boast with a humble eagerness because I'm a good guy of course, unlike her soon to be bastard ex-husband who is having an affair with his secretary, ensuring the beach house was not his in the divorce.

I can imagine calmly explaining all of this to the LLC house lady, and her nodding in acceptance, familiar with the circumstances as decades earlier she was subjected to an outcome eerily similar, minus the rebound.

I would then offer to fix her damaged birdhouse, a big multilevel one designed for house finches.  Last year a storm blew it from its unstable flimsy mast and placed it on the porch steps, waiting to be reseated.

I would be more than happy to repair and set it back on its pole.  But for now I'm just the frequently observed stranger with dirty shoes, if any at all, that uses the beach access probably more than anyone else.

She either thinks I go to the beach a lot, or knows I am living in the dunes and doesn't care enough to report me.  Whatever the case may be, I'm always conscious of her concern just like I am about everyone else's.

I don't want anyone in my shit.  I want to be as invisible as possible, a ghost.

 

Words of Wisdom:

"You can spend the money on new housing for poor people and the homeless, or you can spend it on a football stadium or a golf course."

- Jello Biafra