Plastic Nest
John Patrick Nelson
You’ve maybe seen writer/TV editor John Patrick Nelson on Popcorn Fiction, or the horror anthology “Plague.” You can catch him in the Fall 2024 issue of “Guilty Crime Story Magazine.” John is married to writer/director Alison Star Locke; they have an adorable daughter, Bethany, and live in Los Angeles. Go party at johnpatricknelson.com.
Hm? Oh. Willa. I live on Hollywood Boulevard.
One’a them blue tents sprung up on the sidewalks.
Yeah, I know, but it's the best spot I could get.
I try and keep close to people. Harder to just "disappear" you, y'know? I mean, if someone wants to yank you out your tarp castle and kick the shit outta you right there on Hollywood, there's nobody gonna race to your rescue, but at least you can count on some do-gooder or old lady dialing 9-1-1 to shut up the noise.
I mean, we get messed with, that's just part of the deal. Tents are an eyesore, think I don't know that? Bad for avoiding cops and the nimby assholes, better for avoiding worse business. I've slept on benches and under bridges, no tent, the rape factor goes up about a thousand with that.
Sure, I got a drinking problem. Surprise. I'd have a drug problem too, if I could afford the shit. Think I wanna be coherent, laying in a blue plastic sarcophagus, feeling the wet of my own breathing, hearing traffic a foot away from me, knowing some douche in a Tesla could barrel into me any second? Seen it happen, man, it's gnarly. Wanna know what I got in my little Hilton?
-Clothes. Couple shirts, jeans, underwear, socks. When I get a few quarters, I wash everything.
-Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Half a Listerine bottle. No, I don't drink it.
-Books. Those are actually easiest to get, people ditch books all the time.
-Phone. Yes, I have one. Church gave it to me. I leave it off most the time, because when it runs outta juice, I have to charge it at a library or wherever, and get the side-eye from everybody there. Nobody to call anyway.
-Charger. For the phone.
-ID. Expired.
-Diploma. Framed and everything. Keep it handy in case I need to show it to a cop. They think you're crazy when you do, but it's broken the tension a couple critical times.
-Water bottle. Metal.
-Sleeping bag. Shitty.
-Pillow. Shitty.
-Flashlight. Windup kind, don't need batteries.
-Provisions. Maxi pads, toilet paper, some'a that hand sanitizer, couple old towels.
-Backpack. Carries shit.
I don't have much. I can't. I ain't got keys to this castle, much less an alarm system. Best I can do when I leave is tie the zipper off with a bunch'a knots, then count the knots when I get back. And if I do go somewhere, I have to be ready for shit to be missing. So better not leave anything I can't live without. Whatever fits in the backpack, comes with me. Gotten lucky the last few times, but I've lost more stuff than I can remember.
Even lost my tent once, came back, whole thing just vvvp, gone. You get good wireless on Hollywood, though, so there's that.
You want me to say it? Yeah, I'm afraid.
I'm afraid most of the time.
It was a hot goddamn day. Spent most of the morning in the tent, reading some book about satellite phones. Not like I give a shit, I read everything. Put writing in front'a me, I read it. If the only thing I got fresh is stereo instructions or a cereal box, I'll read those. Sometimes I go to the Vons just to read the ingredients on things.
But I was sick of the satellite book, so I tossed it on top the stack. Wiped sweat. Inside of the tent was goddamn moist. I unzipped the door a skosh, peeked out. No church groups or bus tours nearby, so I unzipped a little more, and crawled out, zipped it back behind me.
Always felt weird, one second to be in my own space, next on one'a the most famous streets in the world. I looked down at my feet at names I didn't recognize, wandered in circles.
Peggie Castle.
Donald Woods.
Marian Anderson.
Pat Boone. Heard'a him.
I realized I didn't know whose star my tent was on top of. Hope they didn't mind too much. I mean, this side'a the Boulevard, they're probably dead, so fuck 'em, I guess.
My stomach croaked. Couldn't remember if I'd eaten the day before. I don't like asking for change, I know what I look like. But you get the miss-meal cramps bad enough, you get less shy.
Look for the eyes. Good start if they make eye contact. Can also work with people trying not to look at you, guilty ones might spare something.
It's when they look through you, or like you took a shit in their shoe, don't even bother.
Wasn't getting too many hits. One guy looked right at me, I held out a hand, he shook his head. Another lady made a tick sound. Nope.
When she passed by, I saw him. Through the chain link fence on the construction site, down the block, guy just standing there, looking my way. Hands in his hoodie pockets, slicked back hair. Staring.
I looked behind me, didn't see Pat Boone or anything, looked back at him.
Still staring.
I wasn't sure he was looking at me, he was too far away. Maybe he was gawking at the Pantages or something. But he was still staring.
I looked down, realized I was doing that thing with my hand, where I kinda whip it back and forth, pinkie sticking out. Don't know when I picked that up. Don't know I'm doing it half the time. Don't help when I tell people I'm not crazy. One of the social workers had a name for it. Stem? Can't remember.
I got my hand under control, looked back up, guy was gone. Couldn't spot him anywhere. Probably nothing, then.
Probably.
Time the sun went down and the lights went on, I'd let it go. Not forgotten. Can't forget shit like that, have to file it away, case you need to jam later. I've had to plenty. Grab your gear and hit the road. Sometimes you gotta jam so fast it's just you dragging your tent along behind you. Bet you've seen that, think the one pulling it's crazy. Right? I'm right.
Anyway, afternoon had turned out pretty good. Buncha tourists out sightseeing (Saturday? Hard to tell when I haven't turned the phone on in awhile), most of 'em clucked when I asked for help, but a couple gave me folding green, one a buck and one a ten. Think he said something about "God," which you sometimes gotta endure. But, maybe he's onto something. God was plenty good to him, he's giving people tenners, so maybe God's giving me what I deserve.
Got me a slice with that. Went down gooooood. Splurged on a soda. Kept the cup. Never know. I don't like keeping dirty shit in my nest, draws bugs 'n' stink, but sometimes if you got a cup, you can grab a quick refill.
Then came the part where I told myself I wasn't gonna spend the rest on the poison. Always tell myself that. Almost always lose. But got to the door of the 7-Eleven, and like, just couldn't. I dunno. Thinking of it filling up my insides and turning that slice into boozy gravy . . . made me a little sick.
So I went back to my tent, counted the knots (nine), unhitched them, unzipped the door, and crawled back in. Everything looked okay.
I think.
I got an order to the books, stack 'em just so, so if somebody messes with 'em, I can tell. Trouble is, I'd lost all my books a couple weeks back, so these were new, and I hadn't memorized the pattern yet.
They looked mostly right. They weren't gonna ever look exactly right, y'know, people bump the tent all the time, so they get knocked over or jostled, so it ain't a foolproof system. Maybe that was it. They didn't usually stay straight stacked the whole day. But they looked like they had when I left 'em.
Like somebody had neatened them up.
Catch yourself thinking too deep on that, you remember why everybody thinks you're crazy. So you gotta put it in the mental file, y'know? Like, don't forget it, but don't be, whatsis, perseverating.
Another word I got from the social worker.
I pulled the flashlight out my bag, spent a minute winding it up. Opened the satellite book, laid on my side, shined the light on it. If there's a best time of the day, 'sides the eating
days, this was probably it, where the words hit your brain, and you're somewhere else.
I'm kinda used to passing out, when I'm with the poison. Prefer it, kinda. Less scary than trying to fall asleep sober, cars all screeching 'n' honking 'n' shit.
But the reading is almost as good, when the words start blurring, and the traffic kinda lulls yuh . . . nobody all yelling about they mama 'r whatever . . . warm . . .
. . .
. . . WHOAHOOOAH suddenly I'm moving,
(I get arrested?)
(I'm in a car?)
all my shit goes flying, and I realize, somebody's outside, dragging the tent, and I feel the DROP and my hip SMACKS hard ground, that was the curb where the shit am I being taken oh no fuckin WAY I'm being pulled out into the fuckin street!
I fumble for the zipper, but I rolled on top of it. Couple of the books whack me in the noggin, whoever's dragging me gives a good yank. I roll on my side, tighten up in a ball. Zipper's on the other side'a me now, I reach behind to try and grab it, catch it the first try, give a jerk. The flap opens up, I dump out, right in the goddamn street.
Whoever dragged me was gone, tent smack in the middle of Hollywood, cars honking and screeching.
I push to my feet, knees screaming, start to hobble to the sidewalk, but then stop, go back to the tent, grab it to drag it back. Whole life's in that, can't just abandon it. . .
Almost to the curb when I hear a motor rev, and feel it in my arm and back as a car RAMS the tent.
Wham.
Suddenly, I'm just holding a torn off piece of blue tarp.
Heard laughing from open windows as a Camaro whipped by.
Book pages fall like snow.
I see my life, scattered across Hollywood.
A car crunches over my backpack. I can't help myself, I run across the street, cars honking and stopping, pick up the backpack, limp back to the sidewalk.
Sat against the chainlink fence. Backpack wet. Figure from the stink, the Listerine bottle busted. Unzip, score the damage. Phone's fucked. Screen so cracked I could see inside it. ID was okay. Diploma frame busted, glass all cracked, diploma ripped, stank of Listerine. Wasn't gonna be near as impressive next time I had to bust it out.
When traffic thinned, I pulled the rest of the tent over, gathered the shit spread across Hollywood Boulevard. Clothes were mostly okay. Sleeping bag had a tire tread on it. Pillow, water bottle, flashlight, fucked. Tent was all kinds of tore up. Even if I got it standing again, it was missing part of a side.
My hand was doing that thing again. I didn't bother stopping it.
I looked over at the cars parked at the meters. The cup I'd bought earlier was next to one of the tires. Perfect, undamaged, straw still sticking out the plastic top.
I trudged over, still holding my sleeping bag, leaned down with my cracking bones, picked it up.
The little victories.
I shuffled down the sidewalk, past Boone and them, to go see if the pizza spot was still open. Maybe snatch a cold drink.
Never know.
One’a them blue tents sprung up on the sidewalks.
Yeah, I know, but it's the best spot I could get.
I try and keep close to people. Harder to just "disappear" you, y'know? I mean, if someone wants to yank you out your tarp castle and kick the shit outta you right there on Hollywood, there's nobody gonna race to your rescue, but at least you can count on some do-gooder or old lady dialing 9-1-1 to shut up the noise.
I mean, we get messed with, that's just part of the deal. Tents are an eyesore, think I don't know that? Bad for avoiding cops and the nimby assholes, better for avoiding worse business. I've slept on benches and under bridges, no tent, the rape factor goes up about a thousand with that.
Sure, I got a drinking problem. Surprise. I'd have a drug problem too, if I could afford the shit. Think I wanna be coherent, laying in a blue plastic sarcophagus, feeling the wet of my own breathing, hearing traffic a foot away from me, knowing some douche in a Tesla could barrel into me any second? Seen it happen, man, it's gnarly. Wanna know what I got in my little Hilton?
-Clothes. Couple shirts, jeans, underwear, socks. When I get a few quarters, I wash everything.
-Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Half a Listerine bottle. No, I don't drink it.
-Books. Those are actually easiest to get, people ditch books all the time.
-Phone. Yes, I have one. Church gave it to me. I leave it off most the time, because when it runs outta juice, I have to charge it at a library or wherever, and get the side-eye from everybody there. Nobody to call anyway.
-Charger. For the phone.
-ID. Expired.
-Diploma. Framed and everything. Keep it handy in case I need to show it to a cop. They think you're crazy when you do, but it's broken the tension a couple critical times.
-Water bottle. Metal.
-Sleeping bag. Shitty.
-Pillow. Shitty.
-Flashlight. Windup kind, don't need batteries.
-Provisions. Maxi pads, toilet paper, some'a that hand sanitizer, couple old towels.
-Backpack. Carries shit.
I don't have much. I can't. I ain't got keys to this castle, much less an alarm system. Best I can do when I leave is tie the zipper off with a bunch'a knots, then count the knots when I get back. And if I do go somewhere, I have to be ready for shit to be missing. So better not leave anything I can't live without. Whatever fits in the backpack, comes with me. Gotten lucky the last few times, but I've lost more stuff than I can remember.
Even lost my tent once, came back, whole thing just vvvp, gone. You get good wireless on Hollywood, though, so there's that.
You want me to say it? Yeah, I'm afraid.
I'm afraid most of the time.
It was a hot goddamn day. Spent most of the morning in the tent, reading some book about satellite phones. Not like I give a shit, I read everything. Put writing in front'a me, I read it. If the only thing I got fresh is stereo instructions or a cereal box, I'll read those. Sometimes I go to the Vons just to read the ingredients on things.
But I was sick of the satellite book, so I tossed it on top the stack. Wiped sweat. Inside of the tent was goddamn moist. I unzipped the door a skosh, peeked out. No church groups or bus tours nearby, so I unzipped a little more, and crawled out, zipped it back behind me.
Always felt weird, one second to be in my own space, next on one'a the most famous streets in the world. I looked down at my feet at names I didn't recognize, wandered in circles.
Peggie Castle.
Donald Woods.
Marian Anderson.
Pat Boone. Heard'a him.
I realized I didn't know whose star my tent was on top of. Hope they didn't mind too much. I mean, this side'a the Boulevard, they're probably dead, so fuck 'em, I guess.
My stomach croaked. Couldn't remember if I'd eaten the day before. I don't like asking for change, I know what I look like. But you get the miss-meal cramps bad enough, you get less shy.
Look for the eyes. Good start if they make eye contact. Can also work with people trying not to look at you, guilty ones might spare something.
It's when they look through you, or like you took a shit in their shoe, don't even bother.
Wasn't getting too many hits. One guy looked right at me, I held out a hand, he shook his head. Another lady made a tick sound. Nope.
When she passed by, I saw him. Through the chain link fence on the construction site, down the block, guy just standing there, looking my way. Hands in his hoodie pockets, slicked back hair. Staring.
I looked behind me, didn't see Pat Boone or anything, looked back at him.
Still staring.
I wasn't sure he was looking at me, he was too far away. Maybe he was gawking at the Pantages or something. But he was still staring.
I looked down, realized I was doing that thing with my hand, where I kinda whip it back and forth, pinkie sticking out. Don't know when I picked that up. Don't know I'm doing it half the time. Don't help when I tell people I'm not crazy. One of the social workers had a name for it. Stem? Can't remember.
I got my hand under control, looked back up, guy was gone. Couldn't spot him anywhere. Probably nothing, then.
Probably.
Time the sun went down and the lights went on, I'd let it go. Not forgotten. Can't forget shit like that, have to file it away, case you need to jam later. I've had to plenty. Grab your gear and hit the road. Sometimes you gotta jam so fast it's just you dragging your tent along behind you. Bet you've seen that, think the one pulling it's crazy. Right? I'm right.
Anyway, afternoon had turned out pretty good. Buncha tourists out sightseeing (Saturday? Hard to tell when I haven't turned the phone on in awhile), most of 'em clucked when I asked for help, but a couple gave me folding green, one a buck and one a ten. Think he said something about "God," which you sometimes gotta endure. But, maybe he's onto something. God was plenty good to him, he's giving people tenners, so maybe God's giving me what I deserve.
Got me a slice with that. Went down gooooood. Splurged on a soda. Kept the cup. Never know. I don't like keeping dirty shit in my nest, draws bugs 'n' stink, but sometimes if you got a cup, you can grab a quick refill.
Then came the part where I told myself I wasn't gonna spend the rest on the poison. Always tell myself that. Almost always lose. But got to the door of the 7-Eleven, and like, just couldn't. I dunno. Thinking of it filling up my insides and turning that slice into boozy gravy . . . made me a little sick.
So I went back to my tent, counted the knots (nine), unhitched them, unzipped the door, and crawled back in. Everything looked okay.
I think.
I got an order to the books, stack 'em just so, so if somebody messes with 'em, I can tell. Trouble is, I'd lost all my books a couple weeks back, so these were new, and I hadn't memorized the pattern yet.
They looked mostly right. They weren't gonna ever look exactly right, y'know, people bump the tent all the time, so they get knocked over or jostled, so it ain't a foolproof system. Maybe that was it. They didn't usually stay straight stacked the whole day. But they looked like they had when I left 'em.
Like somebody had neatened them up.
Catch yourself thinking too deep on that, you remember why everybody thinks you're crazy. So you gotta put it in the mental file, y'know? Like, don't forget it, but don't be, whatsis, perseverating.
Another word I got from the social worker.
I pulled the flashlight out my bag, spent a minute winding it up. Opened the satellite book, laid on my side, shined the light on it. If there's a best time of the day, 'sides the eating
days, this was probably it, where the words hit your brain, and you're somewhere else.
I'm kinda used to passing out, when I'm with the poison. Prefer it, kinda. Less scary than trying to fall asleep sober, cars all screeching 'n' honking 'n' shit.
But the reading is almost as good, when the words start blurring, and the traffic kinda lulls yuh . . . nobody all yelling about they mama 'r whatever . . . warm . . .
. . .
. . . WHOAHOOOAH suddenly I'm moving,
(I get arrested?)
(I'm in a car?)
all my shit goes flying, and I realize, somebody's outside, dragging the tent, and I feel the DROP and my hip SMACKS hard ground, that was the curb where the shit am I being taken oh no fuckin WAY I'm being pulled out into the fuckin street!
I fumble for the zipper, but I rolled on top of it. Couple of the books whack me in the noggin, whoever's dragging me gives a good yank. I roll on my side, tighten up in a ball. Zipper's on the other side'a me now, I reach behind to try and grab it, catch it the first try, give a jerk. The flap opens up, I dump out, right in the goddamn street.
Whoever dragged me was gone, tent smack in the middle of Hollywood, cars honking and screeching.
I push to my feet, knees screaming, start to hobble to the sidewalk, but then stop, go back to the tent, grab it to drag it back. Whole life's in that, can't just abandon it. . .
Almost to the curb when I hear a motor rev, and feel it in my arm and back as a car RAMS the tent.
Wham.
Suddenly, I'm just holding a torn off piece of blue tarp.
Heard laughing from open windows as a Camaro whipped by.
Book pages fall like snow.
I see my life, scattered across Hollywood.
A car crunches over my backpack. I can't help myself, I run across the street, cars honking and stopping, pick up the backpack, limp back to the sidewalk.
Sat against the chainlink fence. Backpack wet. Figure from the stink, the Listerine bottle busted. Unzip, score the damage. Phone's fucked. Screen so cracked I could see inside it. ID was okay. Diploma frame busted, glass all cracked, diploma ripped, stank of Listerine. Wasn't gonna be near as impressive next time I had to bust it out.
When traffic thinned, I pulled the rest of the tent over, gathered the shit spread across Hollywood Boulevard. Clothes were mostly okay. Sleeping bag had a tire tread on it. Pillow, water bottle, flashlight, fucked. Tent was all kinds of tore up. Even if I got it standing again, it was missing part of a side.
My hand was doing that thing again. I didn't bother stopping it.
I looked over at the cars parked at the meters. The cup I'd bought earlier was next to one of the tires. Perfect, undamaged, straw still sticking out the plastic top.
I trudged over, still holding my sleeping bag, leaned down with my cracking bones, picked it up.
The little victories.
I shuffled down the sidewalk, past Boone and them, to go see if the pizza spot was still open. Maybe snatch a cold drink.
Never know.