I’m parked on Nevada street…

Nevada street, garden and condo lined, sweeps up the hill from the main thoroughfare of Bridgeway Blvd…one of the many clean scenic streets that weave into the hills of tony Sausalito. Nevada street, nondescript in a bucolically descriptive setting is one of my stealth parking spots.

Night cars whizz by occasionally. Just often enough to notice if I’m lulled awake or drifting off. Not enough traffic to ruin my sleep, certainly. But enough to remind me of my other stealth spots where only the hourly glide-by of a security guard breaks the quiet.

See that white suburban truck across from me? Van lifers. A Hispanic family. I don’t know exactly how many they are. The camper shell windows are taped crudely with black tape. You might catch them mornings with the tailgate down and kids spilling out. A glimpse of a woman cooking on a Coleman stove. A pack of them shuffling around. Quiet as mice. Makes me feel privileged…

See the yellow windows atop the hill there? That’s the lone house with a line of sight on us and other cars parked here at the mouth of Nevada Street. The people who live in that citadel ignore us. Maybe we’re not scraggly enough to command their attention. None of us are screaming in the night, firing weapons, dumping piles of garbage on the curb. The Hispanic family in the white suburban makes nary a peep. So I imagine as long as we maintain a respectful comportment we’ll remain ignored.

No parking rules are attached to Nevada street. No signs determine the hours of your legal presence. You may park here for days or weeks or even longer…ignored until a meter maid makes a rare appearance and marks your tires, and a couple days later returns again to inspect your immobility. In that case you may be in danger. But only if you’re stupid enough to remain immobile. Simply move your car across the street and you’re good again until the meter maid makes another appearance, next week, next month, next year…the timing of which determined by city budget constrictions.

This is the new world we live in. Even here in Upscale Sausalito. The world of strained city budgets and white suburban Truck dwellers. Car dwellers. Van dwellers. Rebranded, Van Lifers. All kinds of Van Lifers. Don’t know how many kinds, frankly. There’s the old codger kind, the kind lives in a Toyota Mini Van…goes by the tag GLOOMY BOOMER. I don’t know how long he plans to Van Life his life.

Maybe until he finds himself a decent floating home.

One that stays afloat…unlike the Titanic.

Van Life’n can be a tough life. I mean it feels tough at times. But then again…

I just had a wild thought.

I might’ve been standing beside John Jacob Astor IV as the Billionaire went down with the Titanic. In that moment some kind of angel of death (or Life, rather) might’ve plucked me from my fate and deposited me in the rear seat of a Toyota minivan. A van lifer’s home.

How fucking lucky would I feel?

Military Discipline

Thursday morning, 5 a.m….As I’m driving off to the office, where I’ll wile away the morning…where all the Barista’s know me. “Hey Gloomy!” Where they’re grateful to see me cuz I tip at least fifty percent…where I spend my morning pondering the Titanic and other artifacts of History, and my other preoccupations…as I’m driving away from Nevada street…I take a little detour, as I often do, a detour in the 5 a.m. night, to inspect my two or three adjacent stealth spots. I do this mainly from a sense of Van Lifer curiosity. To see what’s what, you might say. To observe the tranquility of others, still camped. Because, well, because I only camped on Nevada street on a calculated whim. I could’ve just as well have picked the fed express parking lot. Or the Post office parking lot. Quieter spots for sure. I mainly picked Nevada street last night for regimen’s sake. That’s to say, I rotate. I never stay in the same spot more than once. I rotate my spots…out of a kind of almost you might say military discipline.

Anyway, as I’m rounding the corner to the Fed Ex parking lot, normally vacant, except for two or three van lifers, parked and still snoozing, I’m surprised by an unusual scene.

It’s a sweep. The regulars are not visible in their usual sleeping spots. They’ve been swept. Chased off by the cops. Meanwhile the cops are hanging around like they usually do. I don’t mind cops when they’re friendly.

I do mind them if they happen to be sweeping my ass.

It seems I escaped the sweep. Thanks to Military Discipline.

I drive by the scene a couple times. Switch cars. Drive by again. What the hell. Nobody around but the cops…hanging around. Like they do.

I head to the office.

Maybe tonight I’ll park on Nevada street again. Where it’s safe. Avoid the private parking lots. Maybe park in my marina parking lot. That’s usually safe. If not, I’m always good on Nevada street. To hell with military discipline…

Hopefully, I’ll get through another night unmolested.

Knock on wood