The hardest part of living in your car is keeping it a secret. I tell about my apartment, my queen size bed for just me, my gorgeous view. Instead, I have a back seat for just me and a parking lot view. I mean it’s hard finding places to sleep each night, but keeping up lies is harder. My car is sorted into my bedroom (backseat) and my kitchen (the trunk). I keep my makeup (drugstore concealer, eyeliner, mascara, and lip balm), jewelry, and my toothbrush and toothpaste in the center console. I work as a waitress and pick up odd jobs; I have since I dropped out of college almost a year ago to pursue my dream of becoming a musician. I try to write as many songs and practice them to the point of perfection. Then, I rent out a studio and record my songs. If they’re good, I release them. It’s hard with just a guitar and my voice. Occasionally, my best friend plays drums for cheap, but I don’t really have the money for that. Sometimes, I want to give up. Tell my mom, my sister, my friends. Tell them I lied and need help. But I can’t do that. I won’t tell them ever. I’ll make enough for a real apartment and food that’s not noodle cups, canned veggies, or dry cereal. I get dressed in my distressed, thrift store, black jeans, my uniform shirt, and my beat up, red Converse from high school. I take a minute to cover my dark circles from almost no sleep with concealer and put some messy eyeliner on. I brush my teeth outside my car and then head into Love’s Truck Stop, where I often sleep, to use the bathroom. I grab a granola bar from my trunk and hit the road to the restaurant I work. It serves breakfast, lunch, dinner, and it’s also a bαr, so I can work practically whenever. I often work almost all day. The only time I’m not there is when I perform at various venues. I remember to run a brush through my choppy, wavy hair. It’s cut just above my shoulder with scissors from school. I always wear a few silver rings and necklaces my mom bought me in high school, plus hair ties and whatever on my wrists. I work until my lunch break and then eat a homemade peanut and jelly sandwich, because it’s a cheap sandwich. I check my phone and see a text from my mom: ‘We should see your apartment sometime. Dinner this week?’ I swear under my breath and say: ‘It’s a mess right now. Maybe another time.’ Hopefully, she’ll forget. A second later, she replies: ‘It’s fine. Does Friday work for you? It does for Molly.’ So my mom and my sister want to come over. Then, I receive an email addressed to Sadie Paige, so it’s music related, because Paige is my middle name and I use it for my music. It asks me to perform at a restaurant on Friday night. I can’t pass that up, so I text my mom: ‘I can’t. I have work.’ She responds: ‘Take it off. Molly is.’ There’s no way I can reject this, so I email them to accept and tell my mom I have a commitment. Crisis averted. Mom just suggests rescheduling. Of course she does. She asks if the next Friday would work. I type: ‘I don’t know but I’ll get back to you.’ Eventually, this Friday rolls around and I dress in dark jeans, a graphic tee, and an old, Men’s flannel. I put a little extra time into my appearance for the performance. I park and walk over with my guitar in hand and lyrics memorized. I set up and perform as good as I could. I walk away with $60 for an hour and a decent amount of tips, some cash and some Venmo. I drive back to Love’s and spend an hour writing more before eating $0.50 ramen. I use an electric kettle I got for Christmas one year, which is an amazing thing for living in your car. I go to bed and wake up with a text from my mom: ‘Do you know if Friday works?’ She really wants to come over. I text: ‘No, I just remembered I’m going to a friend’s.’ She sends a sad emoji. I feel a little bad, but I always lie. Plus, I just got another email from another venue. I continue performing most Fridays this month. I also continue to lie to my mom. She finally says: ‘We’re coming over for breakfast tomorrow.’ It’s Saturday morning, my one day off. I quickly reply: ‘No, I’m busy.’ She says: ‘I’ve waited long enough. Reschedule that.’ She can be as stubborn as me sometimes. I check my bank account and it was enough for a studio apartment. I could maybe afford it for a while, but I’d need to work a lot. Do I come clean or do I rent the apartment. I can buy a pullout sofa bed. I have been eying one on Facebοοk Marketplace for cheap. I already have lots of stuff like bedding, silverware, glassware, towels, and I could buy a lamp and a plant for cheap. I could get a table and chairs, a hanging rod for clothes, a nightstand with drawers, a living room chair, and a coffee table. I start looking online and found most of my list for cheap and a studio for an affordable cost. I type: ‘How about next week?’ I take a deep breath and send it. She likes the text.
I start applying for the studio and in a few days, I was approved and had already deposited.I text my mom and my sister the address and tell them to come over Sunday. I buy everything for cheap and find a lot on Facebοοk Marketplace and in thrift resale stores. I start moving in Friday night after a night of music. I spend all of Saturday buying and moving furniture. I add finishing touches and collapse on my pullout, almost instantly passing out. I wake up and use my own bathroom for the first time in almost a year. I brush my teeth and do my makeup. I put on my nicest pair of jeans, so the least beaten up, and as always, a graphic tee. I throw a hoodie on and check my empty fridge. I check the time. They’re coming over in an hour. I run out to my car, which is now cleaned out, and drive to the grocery store. I grab eggs, milk, butter, and juice. I realize I don’t own a pan so get the cheapest. I check out and get home. I look up how to make toast in the oven and set the table. I realize how lucky it was that I was able to get all this. It isn’t the most filled, but it looks fine. I get a text from them that says they’re here. I head down and greet them. I lead them up into my little studio apartment. “This looks nice, Paige,” my mom says as she looks around. “Thanks, Mom,” I reply. “I have eggs and toast. I’ll make them now.” I manage not to burn the toast and serve them scrambled eggs and toast. I bring the milk and juice to the table and sit down with them. “Your place is very clean,” Molly comments while she scoops eggs onto her fork. “Oh, thank you,” I say. “I thought it’d be nice to clean it up.” We finished our food and I cleared the dishes. “I thought you said you had a queen bed,” Molly says. “Um, well, it was kind of crowded, so I sold it and got a pullout sofa,” I lie. “Hm,” she says. Mom peers out the window. “View is . . . fine, I guess. Nothing special.” I nod. Maybe I’m going to get caught. We sit down in the living room area and talk for a little bit. “Do you still play guitar,” Mom asks. “Um, yeah, I do. It’s pretty often, actually.” “I’m glad the money for those lessons weren’t a total waste,” she says. I force myself to smile a bit, because they stopped paying for lessons after a year. I watched videos to teach myself. That’s why I didn’t ask for help. She would help for maybe a year before cutting me off. After an hour, they left and I sighed. Finally, alone time. I could just write and chill. I do admit, it is better in an apartment and not my car. The only con is I have to pay all the bills instead of just for gas. It’s worth it, though. I don’t have to worry as much. I can just live. I’ve finally achieved my year long goal. I have pressure to thank.
