Instead of freezing

<With gratitude to S., who sent me an excerpt from Laura Haldeman’s Instead of Dying from jail. Also with gratitude to Laura Haldeman, for writing about eventuality and possibility. And also in memory of D., who I didn’t know, but who mattered.>

Instead of freezing, you throw a rock through the window of the 24-hour laundromat. You sit on the curb out front, snowflakes collecting on the arms of your hand-me-down flannel, waiting for the police to arrive. They do. You are cited and transported to county jail.

Instead of freezing, you reinforce your tent with tarps. You learned the hard way that they are porous, permeable, but they help. Especially with wind. You safety-pin the section of zipper that never quite closes and bury your body under every article of clothing you have, plus two damp emergency blankets. You shiver from 7pm to 7am.

Instead of freezing, you walk four miles to the local low-barrier shelter, the wind in your face. You stand on line for two hours before you’re ushered into a room with a hundred other men and 40 bunks. You’re secretly pleased when the man seven people ahead of you takes the last top bunk and you’re relegated to a thin mat on the floor. The neighbor to your immediate left thrashes and mumbles all night, and someone in your row has a terrible, incessant cough. You stare at the ceiling until dawn arrives. No one steals your backpack.

Instead of freezing, you stand at an intersection for five hours, slush seeping into your shoes, your socks, crawling up the legs of your jeans. You hold a crudely made sign that says “anything helps. god bless.” Your fingertips still hurt from the last frostbite, but the sign does the trick. You collect $13 in ones, $2.34 in change, and one $20 bill. Three cars splash you, one person rolls down their window to give you a granola bar and a bottle of water, one person rolls down their window to tell you to “get a friggin’ job,” and 46 people that you count avert their eyes as they roll through the stop. You meet up with a friend who worked a different corner and together you have $59.78: enough for a night at the Amarillo Motel. You trek over to the motel, hoping the clerk who lets people with no address stay is on duty.

Instead of freezing, you go to the thrift store. You fill your cart with items you don’t intend to buy, shopping all day. You don’t steal anything, and you never even ask to use the bathroom, but the minimum-wage workers still roll their eyes at you because they have to put all the clothing you’ve accumulated all day back.

Instead of freezing, you go to the local social service agency because there is no warming shelter. Or you go to the library, if it’s open. You prefer the local service agency because they sometimes have coffee and they never hassle you about how much sugar you use. They also have a house phone, so you call everyone you know and love and wheedle for a bus ticket or a spot on a couch, your socks draped over the heating vent.

Instead of freezing, you convince someone you know casually to let you sleep in their car tonight. There isn’t enough gas to run the heat all night, but you can run it while you relocate, which you do every three hours on the dot to avoid citation.

Instead of freezing, you crawl out of your tent early with a shovel in your hand and start knocking on neighborhood doors, asking people if they’d like their walks shoveled for $10. You do this for hours and three people take you up on your offer.

Instead of freezing, you stand on the sidewalk screaming at the sky about how you’ve been forsaken by your community. You’re right, of course, but passers-by think you’re crazy instead. Someone calls the police and they drive you to the shelter or to the hospital. If you’re admitted at either, you’re released within a couple of hours into the cold because of the screaming thing.

Instead of freezing, you enlist at one of the sober-living options in town. They accept you on the spot, but tell you that your piss has to be clean for 30 days before you can actually sleep inside. You have $6 in your pocket and charisma on your side, so you score on your way back to your tent and shove off within seconds of your arrival. Your mind is numb for 45 minutes, and when it begins to sharpen around the edges, you realize that your toes are numb. You check and they’re not black.

Instead of freezing, you take your benefits card to the local hardware store and try to buy a propane canister. The clerk takes one look at you and refuses to sell you one. You go to the dollar store instead and buy a can of Spaghetti-Os, a book of strike-anywhere matches, and three travel-size containers of hand-sanitizer. They won’t burn all night, but it’s something.

Instead of freezing, you dream. You curl up with another human body or a dog in a sleeping bag in a business doorway and you hope for the best. When the shopkeeper arrives in the morning, they yell at you.

Instead of freezing, you crawl into a drainage pipe. You light a small fire with dry newspaper and a few pieces of kindling wood you stole from underneath a tarp in someone’s backyard. You drift off as the carbon monoxide in the tunnel increases. You never wake up.