Life #96: That time Harry and Tom were homeless
Skid Row, Los Angeles, USA, 2013
Harry woke up lying on a filthy sidewalk with a police officer looming over her, vigorously rubbing his knuckles over her sternum.
"Hey, hey, you with us?" Officer Mike asked while he removed his hand and sat back on his haunches. "You're lucky I had naloxone, girl, or you'd be a goner."
Licking her dry lips, Harry blinked up at Officer Mike as she tried to make sense of the many, many memories that rushed through her mind.
She'd died. That was the only way to get her memories back without meeting Tom. And she knew exactly how she'd died. A fentanyl overdose. Squeezing her eyes shut, Harry pushed herself up in a sitting position with trembling arms. She was a fucking fentanyl addict. What a shitshow this life already turned out to be and it had barely even started.
"I'm fine," Harry mumbled, looking around while her eyes refused to focus. Getting clean from an opioid addiction was a fucking nightmare and that was exactly what awaited Harry.
"Inez, you almost died, man," Dylan said, staring at her with hooded eyes. He sat against the wall a few feet away, face slack from his recent hit of fentanyl. Dylan was her 'boyfriend'. Well, what passed for a boyfriend between two young addicts stuck in a hellhole like Skid Row. Mostly they stuck together for safety and to score together. "Lucky thing Officer Mike was patrolling this street, 'cause you stopped breathing and everything and I didn't know what to do."
In other words, Dylan had been so fucking high himself that he'd watched his 'girlfriend' die without lifting a finger to try to help her. Yeah, that relationship, if one could even call it that, was well and truly over.
"I'm fine," Harry said with a bit of a slur when Officer Mike tried to stop her from getting to her feet.
"Take your time, Inez," Officer Mike said, giving her a stern look. "Is this your first time OD-ing?"
Harry nodded as she stood on unsteady legs. "And it's gonna be my last," she quietly vowed.
Officer Mike didn't look like he believed her, but then again, he must have heard that particular promise thousands of times before from Skid Row's inhabitants. Very few ever actually stuck by that promise. There were quite a few police officers that regularly patrolled Skid Row, but most of them had little sympathy for the homeless population there. Officer Mike, a black man who stood well over six feet tall, was one of the exceptions. He cared about what he saw around him and he always approached everyone he met with kindness, unless they gave him a reason to be unkind.
Harry stared down at the sidewalk as the reality of her current life sank in. She was a homeless fentanyl addict. She had nothing to her name, except the clothes on her back. She didn't even have a bag with some extra clothes and personal stuff anymore, since she'd gotten mugged a few days earlier.
"Try to get in a program," Officer Mike said with a smile full of careful optimism. "There's a lot of rehab places around the city. Go to the connection point to sign up for one." And with that, Officer Mike turned around and continued his patrol of Los Angeles' containment zone for the homeless, the addicts and the mentally ill.
Because that is what Skid Row was. An open air prison without walls or fences for those the rest of the city rather didn't find themselves confronted with. It sat smack dab between the more desirable districts of downtown Los Angeles. It was a run down area with little housing and few thriving businesses. Every sidewalk was lined with tents and other makeshift shelters constructed from blue tarps and whatever the owner could find lying around the street. There was garbage everywhere, so there was plenty to use for those seeking construction materials. And since there were very few public bathrooms, there was human waste everywhere. You couldn't walk down any sidewalk without stepping in human shit.
Honestly, Harry and Tom had stayed in third world refugee camps that were cleaner and better equipped than Skid Row.
There were a variety of shelters and charity organizations around. The shelters usually filled up fast and were often overcrowded. They were depressing places to stay, but Harry realized that her best bet was to get a bed in a shelter for the coming days anyway. She'd be going through opioid withdrawal soon and that wouldn't be pretty.
As Harry stumbled through the filthy streets of Skid Row while looking for the nearest shelter, she took stock of her life so far. She'd been born Inez De La Fuente to an abusive mother and an absent father. Harry had worked her arse off in school, knowing that getting into a college was her best chance of escaping her horrible mother, who blamed her daughter for every little thing that went wrong in their lives. Harry had a younger brother, Ramon, who her mother treated better than the average lackey treated their sovereign.
Thankfully, Harry had received a partial scholarship for UCLA. Working a parttime job in a high end restaurant waiting tables made it possible for Harry to attend college without taking out a loan.
But three months in, as Harry cycled across the campus, she slipped in a puddle and crashed against the sidewalk. She blacked out briefly and one very expensive ambulance ride later, she learned that she had a broken collarbone, which hurt like a bitch. They gave her a sling and a generous amount of prescription medication to deal with the pain.
And those pills, those amazing little pills, made Harry feel better than she'd ever done in her entire life. She went back to her doctor's office for refills a few times, until they cut her off, saying they were worried about addiction.
Yeah, they were a bit too late with that.
At that point, Harry was well and truly addicted to Oxycontin, the prescription opioid responsible for the epidemic of addiction that was sweeping across the nation. Harry came across a few enterprising students who sold Oxy tablets, and she spent every dollar she had buying more and more of them. Because that was the thing about opioids. The more you used, the more you needed to feel good. And after a while, you didn't even feel really good anymore whenever you used. You just needed it to keep the pain of withdrawal at bay.
Soon enough, the Oxy tablets became too expensive and Harry was introduced to fentanyl, the synthetic opioid that had basically driven heroin out of the marketplace. Heroin came from plants that had to be grown and processed and then smuggled around the world. Fentanyl was made in a laboratory and because it was up to fifty times stronger than heroin, it took up a lot less space while it was smuggled across borders.
But therein also existed the real danger of fentanyl. It was so strong that only a tiny bit could kill you. And when buying it on the streets it was impossible to say how strong it was exactly, so every time you used you played fentanyl roulette.
For four months, Harry had gotten extremely lucky. Until that luck finally ran out and she found herself lying dead on the shitty pavements of Skid Row.
It was terrifying how fast Harry's entire life had collapsed around her until nothing remained. She'd lost her job, her student housing, her scholarship and her position at UCLA. She'd lost everything she'd ever owned. And now, she'd even lost her life, all because some rich, white people were determined to become even richer by flooding the country with a highly addictive painkiller that was being subscribed for any kind of ache or pain, no matter the chance of developing an addiction in the patients.
Harry shook her head. What was done was done. Now she needed to think about her future, such as it was, and the first step to that was dealing with her withdrawal. She'd been addicted to heroin before so at least she knew what to expect. At least a week, if not two, of sheer, physical hell, the kind that made you promise your first-born to anyone just to make the pain stop.
Yeah, Harry was really looking forward to that. Not.
Harry reached the connection point, which was an initiative from some of the bigger charities that worked around Skid Row. It was a central place where those in need of help could sign up for a number of programs that were available.
There was a line to get in that went around the block. Sighing, Harry got in line because she didn't have anywhere else to go anyway.
As she stood there, surrounded by the people society had cast aside, she realized she'd probably never been in such a miserable situation before in any of her lives. Harry and Tom had lost homes before. Once a fire had destroyed their home and everything in it. But they'd been able to stay in their parents' house until the insurance came through and paid for temporary housing until their home could be rebuilt.
Harry and Tom had also faced last minute evictions, but during those times they'd been able to live in their car for a few weeks until they found something else.
Even the times they had to flee their homes for a number of reasons, from political to natural disasters, there had always been hope. A light at the end of the tunnel.
Now, Harry couldn't even see a tunnel. All she could see in front of her was a big, gaping black hole that offered no hope whatsoever. She had nothing. And she had no one to fall back on. She refused to get in contact with her abusive mother. She'd rather starve in the streets than subject herself to such psychological and physical abuse again. And the few friends she'd made in college had dropped her once it became clear she'd become an addict who cared only about her next hit.
And most importantly, Harry didn't have Tom. She was in a world of misery and trouble, and she didn't even have her soulmate to help her through it.
There previous few lives had been very ordinary. Their last life they'd both been female and they'd opened up a very successful tattoo shop in Luxemburg where they were born. The life before that they'd been wizards in Sri Lanka in the 1700s. And the life before that they were British and Harry met Tom when he'd been in the process of setting up a social media start-up in the 2000s. They'd worked their behinds off for that company but in the end they'd ended up billionaires. That had been a very fun life with lots of excesses.
So yeah, Harry figured that they were due a shitty life. They happened every now and then, nothing to do about it but try to make the best of them.
Harry stood in line for hours, the sun bearing down on her while her body ached more and more. The naloxone Officer Mike had given her had erased every trace of fentanyl from her body so she was well and truly going into withdrawal.
Someone handed out care packages to everyone who stood in line. It was a plastic bag with a few personal care items, an apple and a banana, a few granola bars and two bottles of water. Harry ignored the food for now, since she was already starting to feel nauseous, but she opened a bottle of water and took a few large gulps.
By the time Harry got to the door of the building, hours had passed. She'd emptied both water bottles and desperately had to pee.
"I'm so sorry," the lady behind the nearest desk said as Harry shuffled inside and asked for the loo. "We don't have public bathrooms."
Right, so holding it was the only option. Harry sat down in front of the desk of someone named 'Florence', according to the nametag on her blouse. She was a pale woman in her forties, who looked very much like she'd lived in suburbia her entire life.
"What can I help you with today?" Florence asked in an upbeat voice while giving Harry a bright smile that definitely didn't reach her eyes.
"Er… everything," Harry said, because she had nothing. She needed everything. "The most pressing thing is definitely rehab."
Florence shuffled a few papers on her desk. "When did you last use?"
"Today, earlier. I overdosed and got naloxone from Officer Mike. Now I want to get clean," Harry said, bouncing in her seat. She really had to fucking pee.
"Right," Florence said with a dubious look. "I wish I could help you, but all the rehabs have waiting lists. Most for about a year and a half."
Harry blinked. "Excuse me? I have to wait one and a half years for a spot in rehab?" When Florence nodded, Harry said, "How about a spot in a shelter? For a week or so?"
"I'm sorry, but shelters don't want people going through withdrawal," Florence said, again with that fucking condescending look. "We can look for a place after you're clean, if you like?"
"How about food stamps? Or some other state benefit? Affordable housing?" Harry gave Florence an expectant look.
"I'm sorry. They're not accepting anymore applications for food stamps this year. You can try next year. I can give you the location of a nearby foodbank," Florence said with a sad little tilt of her head. "There is a fifteen year waiting list for affordable housing in Los Angeles. I can help you to sign up for that, though."
Well, that was just absolutely great, wasn't it? There was nothing available to actually help her. "I really need to pee," Harry muttered, giving Florence a desperate look. "Can I go outside real quick and then come back?"
"I'm sorry," Florence said, and Harry wanted to punch her in her fucking face for all those useless apologies. "But if you leave you give up your turn and you'll have to get back in line."
"Jesus," Harry sighed and squeezed her thighs together. Her entire body was aching at this point while her head was pounding. "Okay, I need to sort out my documentation. I've lost everything."
"We can help with that," Florence said while sitting up a bit. She seemed happy enough to finally be able to do something. "What do you need exactly?"
"Birth certificate, driver's license." Harry bounced in her seat again. A spasm shot through her body, leaving a trail of pain behind.
"You have to visit the DMV for your driver's license," Florence said, shuffling more paperwork around. "But you can fill out a request for a copy of your birth certificate online." Florence pulled the keyboard of her computer closer and started tapping the keys while staring at the screen. She worked about as fast as the average tortoise, much to Harry's frustration.
Another spasm wrecked Harry's body and she doubled over, gritting her teeth. The next thing she felt was warm liquid running down her thighs and calves. For fuck's sakes, she'd pissed herself. While her entire body flushed with instant embarrassment, Harry jumped up and ran out of the building like a whole herd of dementors were on her heels. She didn't stop running until she was a few blocks away.
Well, that had been absolutely useless. Harry stood leaning against a wall, head tipped back as she stared up at the clear sky. In her hurry she'd forgotten her little care package, so now she didn't even have anything to eat. The last time she'd showered was at least two weeks ago and her clothes hadn't been washed in months. And now she had pissed all over herself, just to add to her misery.
Harry squeezed her eyes shut. She would not cry. She'd lived through worse things. She'd lived through World War One and World War Two. She'd lived through the Black Death. She'd lived through famines and natural disasters.
And yet, standing there, filthy and alone, Harry didn't think she'd ever felt worse before. Because during all those other horrific situations, she'd always been regarded as human by those around her. As someone worthy of help and support.
Now, she knew only too well, she was seen as subhuman. An addict. Homeless. Someone with mental health issues. Someone society would sooner forget about than offer any substantial help to.
Harry was well and truly on her own, with nothing to her name but the soiled clothes she was wearing, and with no one to fall back on.
That is what made this situation so deeply miserable and depressing.
Eventually, Harry pushed herself away from the wall and found a recessed doorway of a boarded up building. She sat down there, pulling up her knees and waiting for the real pain to start. It started after midnight. Harry buried her face against her arms, gritting her teeth while desperately ignoring the whispered words of her addiction in her head.
Just one Oxy would take the edge off… you could just use Oxy until you found Tom, that wouldn't be so bad, Oxy is far less bad than fentanyl…just get one Oxy and then you could get clean after that…Oxy is expensive, though, so you could also do some fentanyl, that's much cheaper… just until you find Tom, just to keep yourself together, once you find Tom it will be easy to get clean…
It went on and on and on, the whole fucking night as Harry's body was shaking and trembling, her stomach rolling and her head pounding. One moment she got sweats so bad her entire shirt soaked through and the next she couldn't stop shivering.
The sun rose and Harry stayed put, willing herself to stay put, telling herself in the harshest language she knew to stay put, to not go looking for anything or anyone. Just stay there.
All she had to do was find Dylan, he'd have something to take the edge off…just one hit, just once more, just one pill, just one needle, just this once, to take the edge off, to take the pain way, to make you forget the abuse, to make you feel human again… Dylan would have something, he'd share it with you, all you have to do is go find him…
Harry stayed put, shaking and trembling and groaning and fighting. It was a battle, make no mistake, and Harry was determined to win it.
Because Harry couldn't bear to meet Tom in this life and have to explain to him that Harry was addicted to drugs. Again.
Just one Oxy, just find Dylan, just this once to take the edge off, you can get clean later, Tom isn't here now, he would never have to know that you used again even after you got your memories back…just one Oxy…
Harry wasn't sure how much time passed. She stayed put and she fought and day turned to night, and night turned to day.
"Would you like a care package?" A middle-aged man offered a plastic bag to Harry. His shirt held the logo of some church that did charity work in the area.
"Yeah," Harry managed to say, her throat dry and her voice hoarse. "Thanks." Harry wasn't hungry in the slightest, but she was absolutely parched. She found two bottles of water in the bag and she downed them both, one after another.
Time passed and the next thing Harry knew was Officer Mike crouching down in front of her, his uniform tightening around his biceps as he gave her a long look. "Inez. You look like shit."
"Feel like shit, too," Harry said with a slow grin, her dry lips cracking. "But I'm still clean."
Officer Mike's eyes brightened at hearing that. "Good girl. You been here the whole time? Why didn't you go to a shelter?"
"Wouldn't take me," Harry mumbled. She could only imagine how badly she must smell and she pitied Officer Mike that he had to put up with it.
"Bullshit," Officer Mike said, standing up. "Come with me, I'll get you a spot at the Mission. Get you something to eat and a nice shower. You earned that."
Inexplicably, Harry's eyes filled with tears and she quickly looked down as she pushed herself up. Her entire body still ached but at least most of the shaking and trembling had stopped. "Shower sounds good."
Officer Mike led the way and Harry stumbled after him. It was dark out, but lots of people were still out and about on the streets, complaining and hustling and dealing drugs. They didn't care that a cop walked by, as cops generally didn't go after drugs in Skid Row. Officer Mike led them to a side door of the Mission, Skid Row's biggest shelter. He knocked a few times and gave the woman who answered a charming smile.
"Mike, good to see you," the woman said, clearly pleased to see Mike again.
"Got a girl here that needs a place to stay. She just got clean." Officer Mike gestured at Harry, who stood to the side, slightly hunched over. "Can you hook her up with a shower and some clothes? As favour for me?"
The woman gave Officer Mike a knowing look. Apparently this wasn't the first time he'd used his charms to get something from her. "Yeah, all right. What's your name, girl?"
"Inez," Harry mumbled as she shuffled closer.
"I'm Patty. Come on in. Bye, Mike." Patty was a no-nonsense kind of woman, which Harry appreciated. "I can get you a shower, a meal and a sleeping mat on the floor. All beds are full. Also, we have clothes if you need them."
"I need everything," Harry said, refusing to feel shame for her situation. She was clean now, the worst of the withdrawal was over and she was determined to stay clean and fix her life as soon as possible.
Patty first led Harry to a room full of piles of clothes. Harry dug around and selected jeans shorts, one pair of regular jeans, a few shirts and a hoodie. She also found a few pairs of new socks. She then selected a pair of sneakers in her size that seemed barely worn, since her own shoes smelled like piss. She also found a backpack to put everything in. Next was the bathroom. The shower was basic but absolutely heavenly. Harry used the shampoo and soap from her care package and washed herself top to bottom multiple times. Afterwards she got dressed in clean clothes and she used the simple comb Patty gave her to comb her long hair.
She felt like a new woman when she left the bathroom. It was amazing how good you could feel from simply getting clean again after being filthy for a long time.
Dinner was a bowl of chicken soup with a few slices of buttered bread. Harry devoured it all because she hadn't eaten in days and her appetite was slowly returning. Since her body was still going through the last stages of withdrawal, Harry retired to the mat she'd been assigned in a crowded dormitory. She crawled under the simple blanket, clutching her new bag with all her possessions to her belly. Even the crying of a child didn't keep her awake and she succumbed to some much needed sleep.
The next morning, Harry used the bathroom, which took a while. Nothing gave you constipation like using opioids did. Now that Harry had stopped using, her bowels seemed ready for a much needed cleaning, which would have freaked Harry out if she wasn't already familiar with the process.
Afterwards she washed up and brushed her teeth and then went to the main dining hall where they served oatmeal and coffee for breakfast. And then everybody was expected to leave, but Harry was determined to get back there in time for securing a bed again that night.
Once Harry stood on the sidewalk in front of the Mission, she was at a loss of what to do. First, she needed to make money. Secondly, she needed to secure herself some transportation, so she could find a real job and make even more money. And eventually, she could buy herself a cheap car to live in. And then she could get the fuck out of Skid Row.
No, no, she was getting ahead of herself. First she needed to get her paperwork in order. How the hell was she ever going to buy a car when she didn't have a valid driver's licence on her person. Harry dreaded going back to the connection point, though, after having pissed all over their chair and floor. But there must be other charities around that could help with stuff like that.
Harry wandered around for a while, looking at every single building she passed, hoping to find some charity that would let her in. Eventually she found a building that sported the same church logo as had been on the shirt of the guy who gave her a care package. Harry pushed the door open to find a few other people waiting inside. She joined them, standing to the side. Eventually she was approached by an older man.
"I need help sorting my paperwork out. I lost everything," Harry said, giving the guy a pleading look.
"We can help with that," the man assured her as they sat down at a desk. "You're not the first person who needed everything replaced."
Thankfully this man was a bit more competent with a computer and soon enough Harry had put in a request for a copy of her birth certificate.
"Once you have that," the man told her, "We can fill out an application for a replacement driver's licence and take you to the DMV to file it. We go once a week with a van for those who need it."
"Thanks." Harry was even more delighted when they offered her lunch as well after that. It came with a small monologue about what an awesome guy Jesus was, but Harry was happy to put up with that in exchange for some much needed practical help.
After lunch Harry went back to the streets. She saw a woman walk by hauling a large bag of cans. That was an easy way to make some money while she was waiting for her paperwork. People paid deposits of a nickel or dime on beer and soda cans and bottles. They could be redeemed fairly easily. There was a recycling point at the edge of Skid Row, Harry was sure. And so Harry started going through the trash, looking for anything that could be redeemed for money. Others had already been picking over everything, so the bounty was slim, but Harry still found a few things. She used a plastic bag she found and worked her way across the streets in the general direction of the recycling centre.
"Inez!"
Harry looked up as she tucked a cracked cola can in her bag.
Dylan came hurrying towards her from the other side of the street. "Inez. Where you been? I've been looking all over for you." Dylan held out a small, folded piece of foil. "I got some for us."
Tom didn't need to know, just one hit, just this once, you could always quit afterwards, you could quit when you meet Tom, just this once, it really doesn't matter if you use again, you can always get clean later…
Harry slapped the bit of foil from Dylan's hand with a shudder. She refused to give into her addiction, no matter how convincing that little voice in her head seemed.
"What the fuck?" Dylan quickly picked up the piece of foil from the sidewalk. "What got into you, bitch?"
"I'm clean," Harry said, even though a large part of her really wanted to take Dylan up on his offer. "And I'm staying clean. We're through." And without looking back, Harry went along her way, picking up a discarded water bottle to add to her bag. It was one of the hardest things she'd ever done, in any of her lives.
Addiction was a dreadful thing. It came in all shapes and sizes, and Harry was intimately familiar with many of them. There had been the extravagant drug and alcohol addictions in life number six, when he'd been a rockstar. But during different lives Harry had also struggled with gambling addiction, food addiction, porn addiction, gaming addiction, shopping addiction, and once a rather memorable sex addiction. They might not have much in common at first glance, but all addictions were fed by emotions. The stronger the emotions, the stronger the addiction.
And in Harry's case, her addiction now was directly fed by her childhood trauma. That was the reason Harry had such a strong response to using prescription opioids. Those fucking pills numbed the psychological pain Harry dealt with on a daily basis. For the first time in her life, Harry was free from pain and that was a very strong incentive to keep using those fucking pills.
But now Harry had her memories back and she at least understood the mechanics of addiction. Understood that quitting an addiction was a process that took time. It was a journey without a destination. There was never going to be a moment in this life when Harry could say that she was no longer an addict. The chance of a relapse was very real and could happen years after getting clean if one became complacent.
No, getting clean was a long, tiresome process. Every step Harry now took was one step in which she was clean. Every minute that passed was a minute in which she wasn't using. Every hour was one in which Harry proved stronger than the drugs. And every day that Harry stayed away from opioids was a day in which Harry faced her trauma head on instead of trying to numb it with fentanyl.
One step at a time. Just one more step.
By the time Harry got to the recycling centre she had her bag full of cans and bottles. She loaded them all in the machine and by the end she had just under seven dollars. Not a huge amount, but it was seven dollars more than she'd had before. And she'd kept herself busy instead of doing nothing but listen to the addiction whispering in her head.
And that is what Harry did for the rest of the week. In the evening she went back to the Mission for a meal, a shower and a bed to sleep in. It was loud and crowded and smelly, but it was better than sleeping on the streets. Harry kept to herself, kept the money she made always out of sight in her pants and kept her backpack with her at all times.
On the streets, no one could be trusted. An addict would absolutely rob their best friend, their own mother and even their own child, let alone a neighbour in a homeless shelter.
By the end of the week, Harry had earned almost 120 dollars with recycling. That was more money she'd seen in months. She didn't spend it, though. No, she had plans for that money.
The church charity had received Harry's birth certificate, which meant that Harry was ready to sort out her driver's licence. The charity drove Harry and a few others to the DMV where they got to spend the day in bureaucratic hell, but by the end of that day Harry had a temporary licence and could expect the real licence to show up in the mail within 3 to 4 weeks.
That meant a few more weeks of recycling and earning a bit of cash to start her off with. As Harry walked through the entire district and beyond, looking for more cans and bottles, she came across quite a few more charities. Plenty of them gave out care packages, with some even containing underwear and female hygiene products. Harry hadn't had her period in months, because she'd been losing a lot of weight while she was shooting up. But she expected that to make a return any day now, so having a stash of pads was nice. Another charity did free haircuts, which Harry got. Her hair was long, straight and black, but she did have lots of split ends, so she could do with a trim.
And one charity gave out free cell phones. You needed to have a sponsor who'd vouch you needed that phone and that you weren't just a junkie who would sell that phone for their next hit the second they stepped outside the building. Harry brought Officer Mike along, who happily vouched for her. And that's how Harry got her very own smartphone from some vague brand no one had ever heard off. Harry didn't care, though. She didn't have enough money yet for a phone plan, but the Mission had free Wi-Fi, so Harry could browse her phone, looking for job opportunities for someone in her position.
A month later Harry had just over five hundred bucks and a full driver's licence. She could now sign up for some gig work. Harry reactivated her account and signed up for various food delivery apps. Then she bought a second-hand bicycle, cycled to a nearby bank to open an account and deposited some of her hard-earned money in there. She used that bank account to finally sign up for a phone plan of her own.
Now she was in business to cycle around downtown Los Angeles, delivering food to all the office workers there. Harry started early, in time for breakfast, and she worked through lunch all the way to dinner. It wasn't as if she had anything else to do.
The first week, Harry made over a thousand dollars. She just about broke down and cried when that money appeared in her account. If she worked like that for another month or two she'd have enough money to buy a pretty decent car to live in. And once she had a car, she could do deliveries on an even wider scale. She could even do some grocery deliveries and see if that paid better or not. Harry considered buying a tent so she could leave the shelter behind, but then she'd have to haul that tent around with her during the day on her bicycle. Leaving a tent unattended for that long was asking for it to be destroyed or stolen.
So, the shelter it was, at least until Harry could get a car.
The Mission let Harry park her bike in the back of their building, thankfully, so Harry didn't have to worry about it being stolen.
Officer Mike was talking to some folks on the sidewalk in front of the mission and Harry gave him a thumb's up, as she always did when she saw him. "Still clean!" she shouted with a huge grin.
"Still proud of you!" Officer Mike shouted back with a thumb's up of his own.
Harry loved that guy. There was no shortage of asshole cops around, but Officer Mike was definitely one of the good guys who cared not just for his job, but also for the people he served.
There was a line for dinner and Harry got in it, standing behind a young Indian woman. The woman turned around to see who was standing behind her and Harry gasped as the familiar rush of recognition swept through her.
Before she knew what she was doing, Harry threw herself into Tom's arms and started crying uncontrollably. Seriously, she couldn't stop bawling. Tom tightened her arms around Harry and shushed her, rubbing her back until Harry finally managed to catch her breath. It wasn't until Harry pulled back to look at Tom that she noticed that Tom's face was horribly bruised. One eye was even swollen shut.
"What happened?" Harry asked, staring at Tom in shock. Had she been mugged on the streets?
"An unhappy marriage," Tom said diplomatically while Harry's mouth dropped open even further. "My beloved husband firmly believes he can solve conflicts with his fists instead of with his words."
"That fucking asshole," Harry said, previous sentimental mood quickly forgotten. She was ready to kill Tom's useless fucking husband. It wouldn't be the first time Harry did that to anyone who thought they could abuse Tom.
"I'm safe now," Tom quickly said, grabbing hold of Harry's hand as though to physically keep her there, lest Harry run off to murder her abusive dick of husband. "I tried going to shelters for abused women, but they were all full. They sent me here instead. I only arrived this afternoon."
"They sent an abused woman to Skid Row? What the fuck is wrong with this country, seriously?" Harry said in a harsh whisper, her whole body taut with rage. "Officer Mike is standing right outside, in case you want to report your asshole husband to the police."
Tom shook her head, much to Harry's quiet outrage. "I just want to get away from him. You know how these things go, Harry. He's a respected man with plenty of money for good lawyers. He's not going to go to prison because he punched his wife in the face." Tom sighed and shook her head again. She looked so fucking defeated. Harry hated it.
"We're together now," Tom said, giving Harry's hand a comforting squeeze. "That's all that matters. We'll figure it out from here. I'm Noor Pradhan, by the way."
"Inez De La Fuente. Please tell me you're at least divorcing that horrid man." Harry gave Tom a very pointed look as they shuffled along in the line.
"I'm planning to, yes, but I need to hire a lawyer and I have no money." Tom sighed and once again shook her head, her long, black braid swinging across her back. She seemed to be in a lot of denial about her own circumstances. "My family is useless and won't help me. After I told my parents about the abuse, they suggested it must be something I did wrong to trigger such a response. They insisted I not get a divorce, because that would bring shame on the family."
"Arranged marriage?" Harry guessed. She was intimately aware of the kind of expectations most Indian parents put on their children, having been Indian in a few lives.
"More or less," Tom said with a shrug. "My parents introduced us and he seemed like a very charming man from a very respectable family. He had a good job and he seemed eager to marry me, so I wasn't opposed to marrying him." Tom glanced down, staring at her shoes as she continued. "He changed after the wedding. Became demanding and controlling and eventually he became violent."
"I'm so sorry," Harry whispered and took a step closer to Tom to keep their conversation private. "I've got some money in the bank and I'm working, so I'm making more every day. You could work there, too. Meal delivery on a bicycle."
"That is not a bad idea," Tom said, expression brightening.
"We'll get you a bicycle and then you can get started right away." A huge wave of warmth filled Harry, now that Tom was there with him. They had each other, they had a plan and they'd figure it all out in the end. "I'm saving for a car to live in, get out of the shelter."
Tom pushed her two bags forward with her foot as they reached the counter where they each grabbed a tray. They were served a bowl of chili and some cornbread and a small container of yoghurt.
Once they were seated at a table, Tom asked, "How did you end up here?"
Harry sighed and stirred her spoon around in her chili. "Short answer is a fentanyl addiction from prescription opioids. I'll tell you the long answer later because I'm starving." When Harry noticed Tom's worried look, she quickly added, "I'm clean now. I overdosed, got my memories back and I haven't used since then."
"I'm so glad to hear that," Tom said and she gave Harry a smile that shone brighter than any sun. Yeah, staying clean was worth it for that response alone.
They found beds near each other and Harry slept better that night than she'd done in a very long time.
The next day, Harry gave Tom some money so she could buy a bicycle. Soon enough, Tom was also cruising around Downtown Los Angeles, working hard and making an honest living. After the first week, when Tom had some money in her own account, she approached a divorce lawyer, to get the whole procedure started. She also filed for a restraining order against her husband, because she doubted the man would let her go quietly. Harry had snapped pictures of Tom's bruises with her phone the day they met, so she had some evidence. The judge granted the restraining order without any fuss.
Tom did not make many demands during the divorce proceedings. Her husband was reasonably well off but Tom didn't try to take him to the cleaner's. Her lawyer insisted that she'd ask for a bit of monetary compensation and in the end Tom was awarded twenty-five thousand dollars.
"We can buy a really nice car!" Harry said outside of the lawyer's office where Tom had gotten the news from her lawyer. "Or we can buy a decent car for deliveries and a decent RV to live in." They had a pretty nice chunk of money in their bank accounts now, after a few months of steady working, but they'd wanted to wait until the divorce got through before committing to a future.
"I've been thinking," Tom said instead of going along with Harry's plan. "I really want to get away from Los Angeles. From California, even." Harry understood why. Even though her ex-husband hadn't been able to find her hiding out in Skid Row of all places, he had been looking for her, refusing to give up. Tom's friends and cousins had texted her plenty of warnings.
"How about we get our commercial driver's licences?" Tom said to Harry with raised eyebrows, hope shining in her eyes. "We'd have a home and a steady job all in one, and we'd be travelling across the country."
"That's actually a brilliant idea," Harry said, giving Tom a quick hug, followed by a long kiss. They were of a similar height, both not very tall. They'd been truckdrivers before, on multiple occasions. Driving a semitruck for a few years was a way to make an honest living whenever they needed a job quickly. And driving as a team was better than only one of them driving a truck and being away from home for weeks on end. And trucking companies were always eager to hire established teams.
They signed up for their commercial driver's licences and since they were experienced truck drivers they passed the tests with no problems. They quickly found work since truckers were always needed. Tom fudged the paperwork a bit, making it seem that they had experience in that life, since they didn't want to spend weeks driving with other people to learn al the ropes they already knew. They also bought a ten-year-old minivan for a few thousand dollars, so they had transportation to get around town. It also gave them a place to stay in while they weren't driving in their truck. They could park it in the parking lot of the trucking company when they weren't using it.
Their last day in skid row, they sold their bicycles for next to nothing to a family with three kids who'd recently moved into the shelter. They explained how they'd been making money, and the parents were eager to try meal delivery to earn extra money. The parents both worked minimum wage jobs but that didn't earn them enough anymore to afford a place to live in Los Angeles. They'd applied for every assistance program they could, but everything was full.
That was something that Harry had learned first hand by living in Skid Row. There wasn't one reason that people ended up there. Some people, like Harry, became addicted to drugs and lost everything. Others desperately needed mental health services that no longer existed. Only those that could pay out of pocket could afford to see a psychiatrist and get much needed medication for depression or bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. Those who couldn't afford that ended up in places like Skid Row. Some people needed to escape desperate situations, like Tom. And sometimes people did everything right and worked long hours and still couldn't afford to pay rent.
That was the whole problem with the homelessness crisis, as many called it. There wasn't one answer to its many problems. There wasn't one way to fix it. The people in Skid Row desperately needed rehab and affordable housing and affordable health care of all kinds.
Harry had been able to haul herself out of that pit thanks to her memories of better lives and thanks to the help of some genuinely good people.
When they walked towards their minivan, parked a street away from the Mission, they ran into Officer Mike.
"Still clean!" Harry said with her usual thumb's up.
"Still proud of you!" Officer Mike replied, like he always did. "You heading out?"
"Yep. We start driving our truck tomorrow," Tom said, patting the roof of their red minivan, in which they'd be sleeping that night. They'd ripped out the backseats and put down a few thick mats in the back that afternoon.
"Good. Don't come back." Officer Mike gave Harry a dark look, his face suddenly utterly serious. "I once met a girl just like you, Inez. She came her hooked on fent and she got in a program and got clean. She was so proud of herself that she came back here to share the good news. Within hours she was using again." Officer Mike gestured with his thumb towards a tent across the street. "She's living in that tent still today. Leave and don't ever come back."
"We won't," Harry said with a solemn nod. She'd managed to stay clean so far, but she was well aware that she was still an addict and that a relapse could happen at any time. Driving a truck across America would certainly help to keep her away from risky places with a lot of users like Skid Row. "Thanks for everything, Mike."
"You're welcome," Officer Mike said with a crooked grin. "You girls take care of each other. Now get the fuck out of here."
Harry had to wipe away a few tears as she stepped into the passenger's seat. She loved that guy and she was going to miss him.
"Ready?" Tom asked as she put the car in drive.
"Yeah," Harry said, inhaling a deep breath. "Let's get the fuck out of here. We still need to buy some stuff. A porta potti for one because we need a place to pee in that truck. And an electric skillet and an electric kettle, because we need to be able to make tea and some hot food."
Tom smiled at her as she drove out of Skid Row for good. "We'll do some shopping now and whatever else we need we'll pick up on the road."
Looking over her shoulder, Harry saw the tents on the sidewalk get smaller and smaller as they continued on. The next chapter of their current life had started. They'd drive a truck for a few years, and after that they'd see what they'd do. Maybe they'd manage to get into expedited shipping, which paid better than team driving a semitruck. Or maybe they'd save up enough money to buy a nice little farmstead somewhere, where they could set up some online business while they kept some chickens and grew some food.
The future was full of possibilities and as long as Harry and Tom were together, they'd figure it out.