Why am I living in this parking lot? Search me.


Ask me why I would like to give up living in my truck and go for something a bit more conventional, and I could give you any number of reasons. So I will leave the individual’s positions as to my surroundings and its appropriateness at bay.

One particular reason, many others — of course — exist, that I hope to soon find a place to live is not having to look over my shoulder frequently for a cop car. It may be some time before I ever describe exactly where I have been staying as one might understand.

But I can tell you that it has been in a parking lot which is seen most days by a decent number of people, especially those who work in an adjacent office building. And while I can’t tell you that I have the owner’s express permission to be staying there in my temporary state, it is assumed to be the case. (And “assume,” here, doesn’t necessarily mean making an “ass” out of “u” and “me.”)

A local cop approached me Sunday afternoon for the first time in which I have stayed at this particular location. I had pulled up beside a mostly unused minivan and was sitting there enjoying a few rays of sun by which to read and I heard the slow gravel crunch of an approaching gendarme cruiser.

This young police officer first approached me as I sat inside the cab and asked me for my license and proof of liability insurance. Although I complied promptly, the cop quickly requested that I exist my truck and put my hands on the tailgate of my pickup. He then began frisking me. He said that he did so because he saw a knife inside my truck. All I could think of at that moment was a little pocket knife that I keep in the boot of my gearshift. But I later saw that I had left my sizable Buck knife sitting in one of the mostly useless plastic orifices inside my Toy-coma pick-em-up.

I remember thinking while he frisked me that I didn’t like it very much at all. It was not the first time I had been involved in a pat-down search. Bur regardless, I was particularly irritated although I wisely kept my tongue civil for once. Another cop soon joined in the fun and the first cop then asked if he could search my truck. I had to hesitate for a minute.

I could have flatly said “no.” He may then have requested for the police dog to do a more thorough look or he might have just said: “The heck with it.” But I let him go for it.

It wasn’t that I was worried he would find any contraband other than the Buck knife and a lot of beach sand on the carpet. But I am one of those persons who doesn’t like the idea of a cop searching something of yours just because he can. Sorry, it goes against my views of what the Constitution of this great union is about.

The cops — who have that genetic trait of requiring they get the last word — eventually said before leaving that the neighborhood in which I was residing along with a fellow traveler is not the safest in the city. I told the two officers that I was clearly aware of that and that had I the money, I would not be where I was standing at that particular point in time.

Looking back, I bear no grudge against the cops pulling up to investigate my presence at that mostly empty car lot. The first officer said someone saw me pull in the driveway and not leave, thus reported this as suspicious activity. (They ought to see the suspicious activity to which guys are heading to and from crossing that property each night.) And I can also see his reason for physically searching me. But, I thought the officer’s examining the inside of my truck was a bit excessive. Oh well, oils wells that ends Wales, I like to say.

Hopefully, my version of life on the streets won’t be running much longer. I leave Monday for two weeks of training in our nation’s capital for my new part-time job and hope I can get a place soon after returning to Southeast Texas.

Events like a cop searching your car are not big ones over which one should get angry, pout, send a letter to the editor, or react in an outwardly negative way. It is merely a facet of life which I find unpleasant which goes along with my temporarily living conditions. It is all the more reason to find a “real” place around Beaumont, Texas, to reside. If you know of any good affordable rents, especially bargains, I would appreciate an e-mail. Until then I guess you will find me out on the city streets, just a homeless, part-time, bureaucrat-cum-freelance writer. It’s by no means the perfect life, but it beats shoveling horse stalls.

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