Works of Lars Eighner at Lars Eighner's Homepage

One afternoon in early October as Lizbeth and I were returning to our bedroll I saw a number of police cars parked on the quiet street to east of our sleeping place. I passed the path to our place among the limbs of a fallen oak as casually as I could considering that Lizbeth was straining on her leash, trying to make a beeline for our bedroll. When we were some distance past the path I sat down on the grass and played with Lizbeth while I observed the police.

This was the tenth month since Lizbeth and I had become homeless and nearly two years since I had left my job as an attendant at a mental institution in Austin, Texas. In that time the police had dislodged us from several camps and had assisted in seizing Lizbeth when she was accused of biting a blind student. I knew the police would surely do us no good if they discovered we were sleeping on public park land.

I was relieved that the police seemed uninterested in the west side of the street. They seemed to be investigating something on the east side of the street in a stand of bamboo.

On the eastern side of the street was a field of perhaps fifty-yards' depth which was, according to little signs, a wildflower area. This sort of thing is rather common in Austin owing to the influence of Mrs. Lyndon B. Johnson who has made a project of encouraging the propagation of wildflowers. Since Lizbeth and I had moved to this area late in the summer, I had not seen any wildflowers, but only the little signs. The bamboo grew to the east of the field and on its northern boarder. The police seemed to be busy in the bamboo to the north.

I had not thought of camping in the bamboo. The strip of it on the north of the field had not seemed so wide. And I had never investigated the bamboo to the east. As I watched the police I saw that the strip on the north was much thicker than I thought, for several officers went into it and were completely concealed by it. I might have camped there had I known it was so thick, but as the police were interested in it, I was glad I had not.

Once the police left, I tied Lizbeth in our camp and went to the bamboo where the police had been. I found a relatively fresh campsite. It was an eight-by-five-foot square that had been hacked out of the bamboo. The bamboo had not yet put up new shoots. Most of the camp was carpeted with six-inch-thick foam-rubber pads. That was well because the bamboo stumps were sharp. A few pots and pans were scattered about. I was impressed that the camp was invisible from any direction. I looked through the bamboo some more. I discovered the stand to the east was even thicker.

I decided to watch for further police activity in the bamboo. If there were none, I would keep the bamboo in mind as a campsite. I had learned it was a good idea to have an alternate campsite in mind, for there was no telling at what hour of the day or night I might be discovered where I was.

I wondered why the police had been interested in the camp. I thought the most probable source of a complaint was the modern building to the north of the strip of bamboo. A plausible explanation of the police interest in the bamboo presented itself in the following weeks. More people came to inspect the wildflower area, and they seemed to have no connection with or interest in the building to the north. A chain-link fence was erected around the field. A white shed on skids was moved onto the field. At last a sign was put up. ¹

The field was to be the Christmas tree lot for a civic club. The lot was in the same place every year. I had forgotten about it. I was glad I had not moved into the bamboo, for the fenced lot would have blocked the only apparent egress. The campsite had come to light when the civic club made their first survey of the area for the season. Being of the class that they were, the club members had summoned the police to investigate the camp. ¹ Whoever had built the neat little camp had lost it for the sake of Christmas, and though I watched the bamboo after that, I never saw a sign of the camp builder's return. Perhaps he lost his liberty as well as his camp to the spirit of the season.

Clear bulbs were strung over the lot. Shortly after Halloween the trees arrived and with them, a guard ¹ who stayed through the night in the temporary building.

Christmas in Austin is an ironic time of year, and I do wonder if it wasn't one of his Austin Christmases that inspired O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi," his tale of Christmas gifts between impoverished lovers.

The irony of the camper dispossessed for Christmas was of the sort to which I had become accustomed, but the Christmas tree guard was a surprise. I wondered whether anyone had ever been shot while attempting to steal a Christmas tree—surely someone has been arrested for such a thing. There was a guard, so someone must steal Christmas trees, and while I thought a Christmas tree was a peculiar thing to steal, it occurred to me that a Christmas tree is also a peculiar thing to want.

At first there was very little business at the Christmas tree lot. Before Thanksgiving almost all of my things were stolen from my camp including what I called my literary backpack which contained my notebooks, my dictionaries, and my last copy of my first book. Lizbeth was seized a few days after that. Although she was a handsome animal, a Labrador mix and only three years old, the pound would have put her to death after ten days' observation for rabies unless I claimed her and paid the pound fees. Eventually she was released, and we made an abortive attempt to leave town. So it was the second week in December before we returned regularly to our camp near the Christmas tree lot.

By then the lot was doing brisk business.

They came after dark in station wagons and vans. They came almost until midnight, night after night, laughing and shouting, and saying their season's greetings loudly in the peculiar tone of voice reserved for Christmas. I should have called it false, I should have called it hollow—this tone of peace on earth and goodwill toward men who can afford station wagons and vans, these hardy blessings on those who can pay a hundred dollars for sapling fir, these good wishes for all the people in the world who are just like us, who are white and middle class and whose children wear Santa Claus mittens no matter how warm a December evening is in Austin.

I did not hate them, of course, but feared them.

Lizbeth never became accustomed to the comings and goings. She growled lowly throughout these evenings. A car door slamming, a shrill laugh, anything of the sort would set her barking. What if one of them thought to investigate the barking that came whence no dog should be? Wouldn't they seize her again, perhaps kill her this time, and send me to jail? The clear bulbs burned over the Christmas tree lot throughout the night, even after the guard chained the gate of the fence. The lights twinkled through the branches of the brush around our camp, and that was cheery enough, I suppose.

The students had their Christmases at college before they went home for their real Christmases. Their discarded Christmas trees began showing up in Dumpsters a week before the Twenty-fifth. The Dumpsters were full of candies and fruits, fruitcake and the gift packages of cheese and sausages, not to mention the Hanukkah candles that I collected and took to camp. I could not resist saving the candles I found in the garbage because I always wanted light on the long winter nights. But for fear of attracting attention, I seldom dared to light them.

Once the students left for Christmas the Dumpster finds were few and far between. On Christmas Eve I had the last of the fruitcake and gave Lizbeth the last of the sausages. In spite of the risk of detection, I burned one of the Hanukkah candles, puzzling over the Hebrew characters on the box and wondered if there were a significance to the colors of the candles. The night was not too cold. There was a low blanket of clouds and a misty fog. Around ten o'clock the lights went out over the Christmas tree lot, the guard chained the gate, this time from the outside, and he left. The many Christmas trees that remained were unguarded, and I or anyone else might have had as many as we wanted for but a little trouble in scaling the fence.

Christmas morning was fuzzy-grey, damp, and cold. I had dysentery, a common malady among those who dine on garbage. Of course, no place with a restroom would be open. I had intestinal disturbances until after New Year's.

The homeless are still homeless after the holidays. Shortly after New Year's we were evicted from our camp by the park patrol. As the Optimist's had removed their Christmas tree lot I moved into the bamboo.