It is 4:11 as I begin typing.

This is not a significant number as far as I know, but if there are numerologists among you, please let me know if I am wrong.

I am at the guard shack. It is Sunday, I think. Day two of my two days here. The whine and chug and mournful horn of the train are whirling by the window. A strong smell of Lysol and window cleaner is still barely covering the smell of weed.

It’s dumb to smoke here. It’s kind of like the one thing I am not allowed to do, besides leave the premises. Maybe that’s why I did it. Look at me, so rebellious.

No, it’s because I have been stressed the fuck out.

Do you have ever have these moments where you notice your neck and shoulders are tight and your mouth is clenched and then you wonder, how long have these been like that? It feels like weeks. Like always.

Today something broke.

And yes, sure, that something was my car.
(More on that to come, I’m sure)

But also something inside of me.

Because of my almost obsessive anxiety levels, I always leave for work about 15 minutes earlier than needed. This gives me time to go to the QuickTrip for energy drinks and chocolate pretzels and then still usually about 5 to 10 minutes where I sit in the darkened parking lot of Las Americas Super Mercado, which happens to overlook a lovely view of the Tulsa skyline, before driving up to the gate at precisely 5:56 to clock in for work.

I mention this because it worked out for me today nearly perfectly. I realized my car was not going to start. Jumped on Lyft and started walking to the nearest intersection to wait for my car. I arrived here at 6:02. Which caused me a small amount of panic, but according to “the man” doesn’t even count as being late.

And then I sat in the dark guard shack and sat in silence for something close to two hours.

I moved into my very own apartment officially last Monday.

It’s been five years since I lived on my own.

The first year and a half of that were nomadic. Living in my car, on friend’s couches, weird smelling hostels, etc. Then into a bad-from-the-start “intentional living” situation in Tulsa, which got weirder and worse when Covid hit (but hell, what didn’t?). God, was that two and a half years? I think so.

Then it was hashtage van life. Then so long van, your engine died. A few awesome free floating travel for a couple of months. Then hey, Casey, is it cool if I crash here for a few weeks? Which turned into us living together in Cincinnati for a few months and then moving to Tulsa where we have been since May. And then us being jobless and miserable and stuck with each other constantly to finally both getting okay enough jobs where I could consider moving out. And then, whew, the stress and the conflict and the peace of it finally where we both felt good and together about the decision.

Sorry. Just saying, it’s been a long five years.

But I moved into my own apartment last Monday.
And I love the quiet of it. I love having my boxes of books and favorite art out of storage and ready to be placed wherever I deem fit. It faces the river and this big heavily treed hill that lights up with color in the fall and even now looks lovely in her nakedness.

My car was given to me after my van (which was also my house at the time) broke down. A 2003 Honda CRV. It had been sitting unused in a forest. It belonged to a magical forest widow in her 70s or 80s but still quite active running a llama farm. We spent an afternoon together reading and discussing poetry and God and the meaning of everything while enjoying her homemade bread and rather excellent tea. And then she gave me a car. She was about to donate it to charity. It had just sat there ever since she was given her daughter’s old car.

No air conditioning in the middle of the hot and humid Tulsa summer. 275,000 miles on her. A grand fine car. I love her so much.

But since I got her in June, I’ve had to take her to the shop three times for pretty major issues. The last of which was due to my catalytic convertor being stolen a few weeks ago. Merry Christmas.

Lately she's been doing this thing where she won’t start sometimes. But then hours or even sometimes minutes later, she’ll be fine.
(Incidentally, not all cars are ladies, but this one is. She is an old sage woman of a car with a tape deck and a bunch of old country cassettes and quite a few stories to tell).

I tested the battery and the starter and both came back as fine. Triple A will come out to tow the car, try a little jump start, and then she’ll start right up. Then will continue to start without a problem for a few weeks. Internet forums seem to be in consensus that this happens a lot with this year and make and model and it is almost surely a sign of the starter going out. Which can be a rather costly procedure.

And I love this car (which I have not given a name, for she is nameless and mysterious and still smells of hay) but I have already poured a little over 2 grand into keeping her running and I just know that her time is running out.

Which is why I sat in the dark this morning.

Which is why I honestly couldn’t tell you what I’ve done in the several hours since.

For years now, I have longed for a place of my own. Where I can cook what I want and be who I want and not constantly have anxiety about how much space I am taking up. Where I can relax my shoulders and unclench my jaw.

I want a place to breathe.

And I got it by a razor’s edge. With the deposit and mandatory rental insurance and the bed and all the small things that add up, the move nearly broke me. Just enough left to cover next month’s rent and a few meager groceries. It would be tight for a few weeks, but I could manage it as long as nothing bad happens.

I was actually thinking to myself how maybe I could afford to cook a semi-nice dinner for myself on my birthday tomorrow when I turned the key to the car and nothing happened. Happy birthday.

Oh, the snowball and slippery slope of poverty.
As of now, no money or know-how for repairs. Not enough income to cover a car payment.

Maybe the car will start when I get home. Maybe she’ll start tomorrow. I know it’s borrowed time regardless. But sure would be cool if I get a few more weeks out of her. Just so I can figure everything out.

Hard to choose when you can't afford either choice.

It will be alright, right? Everything will be fine, somehow, won't it?

God,
I know you don’t exist,
but I really don’t want to end up homeless again.

Fingers crossed.
Amen.

5:23 p.m. - 2023-01-22