The Sierra Madre Villa Metro Station

The Gold Line Metro rail runs in the middle of the 210 freeway in Pasadena, down through South Pasadena and on into Union Station in downtown Los Angeles. Leaving Union Station, the Gold Line's last stop is the Sierra Madre Villa Station, which connects to the fourth floor of the giant parking structure built to house the automobiles of the commuters. On weekdays the four stories are packed with cars, ranging from beat up trucks to luxury sedans.

At night a few cars can be found on any of the floors, left by people who work 3rd's or who have metroed to the airport and are abroad.

But the fifth story is empty. Not really sure why. Perhaps people just park as soon as they see a space, hurrying to the elevator to the forth floor, never even noticing that the bridge spanning the 210 doens't actually connect to the top.

It was on this story, all the way at the top and tucked away in the second parking space from teh wall, I began to make my home. See, the parking is free, which makes it better than Eaton Canyon. It also lets me sleep in my car, which I have discovered is remarkably comfy. And despite the fact that it is smack in the midst of the city, there is more peace there than you might think. High enough that the sounds are muted by the wind and the city lights are far below and the stronger stars can still shine through.

I slept there origionally because of the rain, but honestly, I liked it so much that I began sleeping there whenever it made sense. If I was using the Metro the following day, I'd sleep there. If it was really cold, I'd sleep there. Apart from an enthusiasticly parked young couple, no one was ever up there.

I stayed up too late last night, and I subsequently got up too late this morning. Though the night had been pretty cold, the heat of the morning sun had been collecting in my car, and I opened one of the doors to let in the morning cool. Laying there, I ran an assessment of my body, noticing that I felt really, really good. My back was not out of whack, I was well rested, and my spirits were good. A few early morning phone calls with Kristen had left me in a good place.

As I lounged in my car assisted, parking structure home, I heard a car idling nearby. Thinking perhaps that they needed to park next to or near me, I closed the door conscienciously. As I lay there, thinking about getting up for real, upside down out my passenger side window I see the uniformed form of a police officer open door. Two fellow officers are fanned out around my car.

I roll so I am looking at him upright, and in a surprisingly cheery tone for how startled I am I say, "Good Morning!"

The cop shakes his head. I'm not sure whether he meant to say with his shake, "No, this is not going to be a genial conversation," or, "No, this is not going to be a good morning." Really both interpretations amount to the same thing.

"Leave," he says flatly.

"Um, ok."

I'm honestly expecting more. Perhaps for them to ask to see my licence, perhaps some questioning, perhaps a description of the law I'm breaking... something. But he adds no more. So I hop out the car and go around to the other side. The other two officers are just stairing, too. As I'm putting on my shoes, they start asking questions.

"How long you been homeless?"

"I'm not homeless. I live in Orange but work in Pasadena. Sometimes I use the Metro," I say, but I'm thinking, "Damn it, I wanted some kind of story about using the Metro but taking a nap in my car... ah well."

The cop looks in my back seat. "How come your car looks like a house?"

"Because I keep some of the stuff in it, because sometimes I stay here." I say, truthfully.

"Where do you work?"

"At Cal State LA, and at a church here in Pasadena," I say much in the same way I tell all people about my employment. Now they are really just looking at me. Maybe its the fact that I'm well dressed, well spoken, and well behaved. Maybe its the really great mood I'm in. Maybe its because I'm telling them that I'm a college teacher. Whatever the reason, they don't know really what to say to me, and they are all just standing there.

I've got my shoes on, located my wallet, and I'm ready to go.

"So..." I ask, "Is that all?"

The third officer nods, "Yeah, get out of here, and you can't be sleeping here."

As I drive out, floor by floor, I realize that I won't be staying here again. Its a sinking feeling. This place that I felt so safe. That was free. That was warm, tucked away, and under the stars. Taken from me.

Now, I get it. The precise reason I feel safe is because cops like them kick out vagrants like me. That's why there isn't a shanty town on the fifth floor of the parking structure. But I can't shake the feeling of displacement. Perhaps I haven't been homeless for long enough for the vagrant mindset to really have kicked in, but I had started feeling at home in that second parking space by the wall. So much so that I had a driving desire to part there, in that one spot, every time. And now that sense of comfort had been scattered. My tenitive hope that this might just work, gone, just like that.

Even if I wanted to go back there, and sleep in the second parking space, it won't feel like a home. I will feel like an intruder returning to the scene of a crime, not a man coming home after a day of work. Instantly my heart goes out to the homeless. Not only is it a cold, dirty, and often unhealthy way of life, I have begun to see that if you don't have a home, you don't have a place at all. And if you forget for a while, and start to put your faith in a surrogate home, a uniformed man will come and remind you that in this world... you don't have a place.