Page 6 of On Dry Land

Or from worrying too much when I’m stumbling around in the dark, looking for a soft and hopefully not frozen patch of grass to curl up on for the night. I end up at the back of the Porsche guy’s warehouse, nestled behind the metal wall of the structure where it backs up to a hill. It’s a tight fit, with only a couple of feet of wiggle room, and there’s only a single, easily accessible exit. With the moon completely blocked by the building, it’s pitch-black back here. It’s also blessedly warm. Or at least warmer than out in the open, with the winter wind blowing in off the Atlantic.

Slipping my hands out of my gloves and hissing at the shock of frigid air, I get out my camping lantern and turn it on to the lowest setting. Being outside, alone, at night is unsettling no matter who you are or how tough you proclaim to be. The tiniest bit of light can go a long way. Tonight, though, it’s hard to be grateful for the lantern without wishing it were a fire.

Blowing on my fingers ineffectually, I dig through my pack until I find my external charger, journal, and a slightly bruised apple I have from a few days ago when I was able to stay in a roadside motel for the night and they offered free breakfast. My mouth feels heavy with saliva as I take a bite, hunger—gone dormant on the road—gnawing on my insides as it roars back to life. I can’t even remember the last time I had three meals a day. Luckily, the long periods of starvation on the road no longer bother me all that much. Rarely do I even feel that hungry—not until I take a bite of food do I even notice it sometimes. And then, as though it was only lying patiently in my gut, I feel ravenous. I think, if I ever did have three full meals in one day, my stomach might actually burst.

Holding the apple between my teeth, I angle myself so I’m facing the light source and hold my phone up in front of me. I start the video and open my mouth, apple falling into the palm of my free hand. I smile.

“Well, here we are. Another night in a zero-star hotel,” I joke, grinning impishly at the camera and taking a crunchy bite of apple. Since I’m planning on adding this clip to a vlog and having it follow up the footage of the lobster boat being towed in, I talk as though the audience has already seen it. “I lucked out today, walking into town at the exact right time to see the show down at the water. If every day is as exciting as this, I suppose I can see why so many of you were eager for me to come here.”

I pause for another bite of apple, my stomach grumbling loud enough that it’ll likely be caught on the mic. When my fingertip had randomly landed on Siren’s Point, I hadn’t thought much of it. I’d never heard of it, and the tiny little map dot was so far down the road at the time—a week of walking, to be exact—that I hadn’t even bothered with more than a cursory internet search to see if I was walking to a big city or a small town. But comments had flooded in on that video, excited to see the winding, wooded roads, moose, puffins, and big, burly lobstermen. People had left recommendations of places to eat and what to order and, in three separate cases, locals I should talk to. It had seemed incredible to me that a town that boasted barely four thousand residents at a push could garner so much tourist activity, and for so many of those tourists to be present on my channel.

“I like the vibes of this place,” I tell the camera now, the Porsche driver inexplicably flashing into my mind as I say it. He’d been the one watching me as the boat was towed in. I clear my throat. “Tomorrow, I’ll head into town and chat up some locals, look for better digs than this, and maybe put a few bugs in some ears about work.”

This is another aspect of my wandering lifestyle that viewers seem to oddly appreciate. I don’t make enough money from social media to support any kind of lifestyle—not a homeless one, and certainly not a house-with-a-white-picket-fence one. The money I earn doing these videos is both sporadic and sparse. Some months, there’s a windfall of hundreds of dollars; others I get barely enough to cover a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter at the grocery store. Which means most places I go, I end up finding temporary work for a few weeks. I stick around, doing odd jobs at odd hours, and filming as much as I can.

In New York City, I hit the jackpot when a viewer direct messaged me and said they were a fan of my content and would love to hire me to walk their dog for a few weeks. Since walking is the one and only qualification on my resumé these days, I felt pretty certain I was the right man for the job. Besides, I always try to push myself where dogs are concerned—not let the fear take root and grow, but control it with exposure therapy. Unfortunately, all that exposure therapy might have been for nothing since only weeks later, I was literally chased out of a town by one.

Most of the time, the jobs I work are more day-labor-type things. Loading moving trucks, mowing lawns, cleaning gutters, that sort of thing. No qualifications needed beyond a strong pair of shoulders and a work ethic that’ll see you through uncomfortable environments and long hours. The type of jobs that don’t pay much, because the type of people hired are like me—unhoused and transient. They’re unexciting employment opportunities by anyone’s estimation, yet people seem to love watching. The GoPro footage from my dog walker stint in NYC was as much of a hit as any of my footage on the road. Almost as popular as the couple of weeks I worked as a logger in Minnesota, chopping trees and fielding an influx of comments about how my channel was turning into a thirst trap.

I’m unsure what sort of job will be available to me here and give myself a couple minutes to dream of being allowed to join a lobster boat. Lobster crew? Fishing brigade? Whatever. No matter what they call themselves, I think there is very little hope of me being allowed into their midst. If anything, I might be able to smile and finagle my way onto a boat to watch and film, but not help. Another thing to add to the to-do list once I’m showered and less offensive to the eyes and nose.

“It’s cold here,” I comment now, wondering if I actually can see my breath fogging in front of my mouth, or if that’s just fanciful thinking. Now that I’m sitting still, I’m freezing. Settling down this close to the water was a mistake. “Pretty, though. And you guys sure weren’t kidding when you said everyone around here is friendly. Haven’t had a chance to speak to anyone, but I definitely received some warm welcomes.”

I chuckle a little bit, still feeling surprised and finding a little joy in how many people waved at me today. Truly, I don’t mind being invisible. Sometimes, though, I have to admit, it’s nice to be recognized as a human being who might benefit from something as simple as a wave and a smile.

I watch as the battery on my phone gives me a twenty percent alert and sigh. I’ve got some kick left in the external charger, but not enough to film frivolously. Being without access to a cell phone is foolish and dangerous, and an extra few minutes of footage isn’t worth either.

“I’d better wrap it up there, friends,” I tell the camera, smiling tightly. Fuck, but this night is going to be miserable. “Hopefully tomorrow, we’ll see some lobstermen with our lobster boats.”

Clicking the recording button, I roll my neck back and forth, putting my phone on low-power mode and plugging it into the external charger. I need to find a public library tomorrow to charge all my batteries. Taking another bite of apple, I try not to pay attention to the weight dragging on my psyche. Everything I have planned for the next day is feasible. It’s all things I’ve done before and are certainly all things I’ll one day—likely soon—be doing again. But living on the road means I’m living in a constant state of being on. I don’t get to crawl into bed every night, safe and well-fed. I have to curl up on the ground and try to grab a few minutes of sleep in between the periods of wakefulness. I have to listen and be aware of my surroundings at all times. I have to be happy with nothing more than an apple and not worry or think about when next I’ll be able to eat and whether that meal will be fished out of a dumpster.

It hits me, sometimes, the sheer weight of how I live. I wouldn’t say I regret my life choices overall, but when the ground is cold and hard beneath me, my feet and back killing me, and I’m wishing for one single real-life person instead of thousands of virtual ones to talk to… Well, on those nights, it’s hard not to hate my existence a little bit.

“No sense crying about it,” I mutter to myself, pulling out my ratty but trusty thermal sleeping bag. “Suck it up, Spencer.”

Not wanting to lose all battery power, I click off the camp lantern and try to settle myself down in the crevasse next to the shed wall. Eyes open, staring blankly into the dark, I listen to the rush of the ocean. I can pick out the slight creaking of the boats and picture them rocking gently. Straight overhead, I can see stars. It’s comforting, as it always is, to see the tiny pinpricks of light speckled above. Turning onto my back, I settle my backpack under my head and zip the sleeping bag up so nothing but my face is exposed to the elements.

I stare up at the stars, tracing a few constellations and letting the familiar practice soothe me. Calmer, I curl onto my side, fingers clenched tight on the backpack under my cheek, and close my eyes.

I wake with a jolt when I hear the low rumble. Car engine, definitely, and moving closer. I keep my eyes on the end of the little alley I’m tucked into and silently curse to myself when headlights briefly illuminate the space. The sky is barely beginning to lighten, probably only five in the morning if I were to grab my phone and check the time. What the hell is someone doing here right now?

Carefully, so I don’t make any noise, I cup a hand around the zipper of my sleeping bag and slide it down, opening the fabric so I can sit up. My little crevasse was a good place to sleep, but not so good of a place to be caught in. There is only one exit, and it’s exactly where that engine is currently purring. Knowing it’ll shut off soon, I scramble out of my sleeping bag and roll it up, using the noise from the engine to cover the sound of the fabric. Movements quick and economic, I’m just stuffing it into my backpack when the car shuts off, headlights blinking away with it. I slow down again, carefully closing my bag and easing the straps over my shoulder. If I need to run, I can.

Everything is just a little bit louder in the early morning—the slamming of the car door explosive and the click of the lock on the warehouse door sharp. I know they’ve gone inside when I hear the creak of the rusty hinges and a scratching noise that makes me think of a rock being dragged over the ground. I stand, still and silent as a statue, and wait. If I give it a few minutes, I can sneak around the front.

I wait what feels like five before I take a couple of confident, silent steps forward. I know how to be quiet when it’s needed, and finding yourself alone with a stranger when it’s dark and you’ve been sleeping on what they might consider their property is one of those times. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who can be quiet.

When I round the corner of the warehouse, stepping into the pool of bright light, I come to a sudden stop when a man walks out the open door and meets my eye. He stops as well, blinking in the only outward display of surprise. He stares at me, and I stare back, neither of us having expected the other and both of us startled.

I clench my fingers harder around the straps of my pack. I’m backed into enough of a corner that the only way to freedom is either vaulting the car or going through the driver. It’s the Porsche guy from yesterday, I realize, which is either a very good or very bad thing. He probably recognizes me, and any idiot could figure out that finding the slightly grubby-looking fellow from the day before hiding behind his shed means I had been sleeping there. People do not like surprises that come in the form of strangers in the dark, and they’re even less likely to provide grace to that person if they’re homeless. Homeless, in a lot of people’s minds, equals criminal, drug addict, or mental instability. In short, it equals a person they need to fear. Fear, to many, presents itself as violence, and I’m going to be in real trouble if this man is one of those people. He’s at least five inches taller than me, on the thinner side, but certainly a hell of a lot bulkier than I am.

Unwrapping my fingers, I slowly hold my hands at shoulder height, palms facing outward like I’m surrendering. I don’t want him to think I have a weapon. I want him to take seven measured steps backward and give me enough space to flee. I’m scrappy when I need to be, but I really would prefer all conflict be resolved in ways that don’t involve fists.

“I was just leaving,” I tell him, keeping eye contact. His are nearly black in the low light, calm and assessing. I hope that’s a good thing.

“Did I wake you up?” he asks. I swallow, still holding my hands aloft. One single time in my life, someone fired a gun at me, and that was one time too many. His jacket is too bulky for me to see the shape of a weapon hiding beneath, but I never need to learn a lesson twice. Until he proves otherwise, he’s a threat.

“I was just leaving,” I repeat, heart thrumming and nerves evident in my voice. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”