The Car Wash Booth

It was the morning of Fourth of July. I strolled through a different part of the neighborhood, a grittier commercial section. I spotted four new tents surrounded by heaps of ???? and the remains of what appeared as an almost anti-Fourth of July celebration: a barbecue on the sidewalk that was notable because the hamburger patties were left overnight on a makeshift grill and the buns, condiments and cutlery were scattered around in inexplicable fashion.

Not long after, I came across something else that arrested my attention: a tiny booth in a long defunct car wash where I imagined years ago some kid sat on a stool, listened to the radio and FM rock on KGON, smoked cigarettes, and took cash from the customers in their Granadas and Montegos and Cordobas and made change by doing arithmetic in his head.

The booth churned up some curious nostalgia, but what truly intrigued me was that apparently someone was now living in it or had resided there. It was certainly too small for anyone to lie down inside so I couldn't imagine how a person slept. But the booth did have a pitched roof, windows on three sides, a front door, and presumably by some miracle, still hooked up to power.

All in all, the tiniest of tiny homes, much smaller than Thoreau's, but dry, secure, out of the way, and well, snug.

It struck me as yet another ingenious repurposing by homeless people of an abandoned structure or means of conveyance (i.e. baby stroller or horse trailer) in order to survive. I see more of these all the time.