Homeless, I Guess
Words by Colin Cossi
Images by Max Osborn
The car comes to an unsure halt. The driver, Maliki, struggles to read the house numbers. The passengers are too imbibed to help, too rosy to even notice. For the last seven minutes their collective body heat has transformed the inside of Maliki’s Prius into a subtropical climate reminiscent of an Indiana Jones movie. Scents of dark liquor lurk in the wet heat, and the characters seem simultaneously conspicuous and ordinary. A chorus of thank yous manifests in crowded speech bubbles as the passengers put feet to pavement and shut the doors.
No one pronounces Maliki’s name correctly. No one pronounces much of anything correctly. White iPhones catch the moonlight as the travelers confirm their destination in a frenzy. Distracted by the blue light, no one notices Maliki’s Prius elegantly cruise into the night. Five stars.
Belmont’s charming bungalows pretend not to notice the travelers’ whiskey drenched scent dispersing in the cool petrichor. The gravel crunches underneath their boots as Elle asks, “Who has the rose?” Read: rosé.
“I’ve got it babe, don’t worry,” John replies with excess drama.
“Thank God you remembered the rose,” says Vincent. “Pretty sure that’s price of admission.”
“Then we know I’m getting in,” says John. “What’d you bring?”
“Dude, I bought the bottle,” he replies.
“Boys,” says Elle.
“What?” they reply.
“Nothing, just…” she sighs with whimsy, pushing open the seemingly weightless front door.
They match her sigh with combined force. All three take turns to wipe their boots on the mat.
The hallway pays tribute to Bernie Sander’s presidential campaign, the Oregon Ducks football team, varied brands of beer, and all species of succulents. Somewhere there must be a sign reading, “This is an Equal Opportunity Succulent Safe Space.” String lights beckon them to the living room where slurred hello’s and fast hugs wait. The subtropical climate of Maliki’s Prius mysteriously returns as they walk deeper into the house.
The smooth sounds of Frank Ocean intensify as Laura invites them into the living room.
“Hey guys. So good to see you.” Her voice is low and nonchalant as always. A maroon, woolen cardigan drapes from her shoulders. Its boldly knit fabric gently traces her figure with every movement.
They take turns hugging Laura. Juan and Chuck say hey from the brown suede couch rooted in the ground. The living room is a slough of funk records and thumbtacked indie rock posters, tied together by more string lights.
Chuck stands up to open the bottle of rose. Juan stands up to lift the cat off the coffee table. Voices and bodies linger in the kitchen but that is around the corner — a world away. Dark fern leaves spill in from the open bay windows, refreshing the oxygen.
Rose pours into coffee cups. The gentle high-pitched echoes of the wine against the white ceramic faintly wind through the living room. Coffee cups meet chapped lips. Chapped lips tell stories of moving in and job hunting and dreams of sleeping in.
“How’s the new apartment?” Chuck asks.
“It looks great man, not to mention the view,” Vincent says. “Every morning I wake up to see a strip club, a two story Paul Bunion statue, and a feminist, punk rock magazine headquarters all from my bedroom window. Not to mention the motel parking lot. I’m pretty sure they have a fight club. They haven’t invited me yet, but I’m hopeful.”
“They have fights?”
“Well, people fight, sure. It doesn’t look formal yet. No one’s selling tickets.”
“Sounds like a business opportunity,” John interjects.
“I’m a teacher, not an entrepreneur.”
“Not with that attitude.”
“Welcome to Portland,” says Juan, chuckling with his signature vocal fry. “We’re happy to have you.”
The energy in the room shifts. A black leather jacket and thick head of hair enter from the kitchen, stage left. They belong to Ilion. His thick head of hair refracts the light of the room in a compelling fashion. His entire persona suggests that no one will talk of politics for the rest of the night.
“What’s up?” he asks with cascading enthusiasm.
“Good to see you man,” John says, embracing him.
All parties exchange hugs and hellos. The conversation surfaces from the tide.
“Did I hear you talking about your apartment?” he asks.
“Yes sir,” Vincent says. “Been moved in for two weeks now.”
“When do you start teaching?” His thin gold bracelet catches the light as he talks with his hands.
“I’ve got one more week. Yes, the anxiety is mounting.”
A few comments are tossed out about teaching and kids and the like. They fade as quickly as they come, but Ilion’s energy is a consistent pulse.
“Are you and Helena still in the Air BnB?” Laura asks.
“Where is Helena, anyways?” Chuck asks. “We still haven’t met.”
“She’s still in the kitchen,” Ilion says. “She’s caught up talking about her new job.”
“Oh, where at?” Elle asks.
“Some corporate makeup spot in Clackamas,” he says. His lips tighten, his voice bitter.
“That’s amazing,” Elle replies, excitedly. “I’m in make up too. Can’t wait to…”
“I’m worried she’ll lose her spirit, you know?” Ilion interrupts.
The music stops. Even Frank is shocked.
“How do you mean?” Elle asks, both concerned and insulted.
“Just that, it’s Portland, you know? She could be at a boutique, or a non-profit, or a start-up, or something! But, she’s working in a mall. I just know it’s going to run her dry.”
“Is her degree in non-profit business?” Juan asks. He’s struggled to scrape together a few non-profit internships in the last year. One of them even paid. He’s been out of work for two months now.
“Her degree?”
“Yeah, like her college degree.”
“Oh, no. She dropped out of high school.”
Eyebrows rise in a chain reaction. Coffee cups meet lips once more as each person chooses to hold their tongue. Except for Vincent.
“How on Earth would she get a non-profit gig without a high school diploma? People get Master’s degrees for that, man.”
“I don’t know,” Ilion responds. “She’s beautiful, personable, and a little edgy. She’s perfect for it.”
“Perfectly unqualified,” Vincent mumbles. John elbows him. Wine splashes on the oak floor. It slithers towards Laura leaving muddled rosy streaks in its path.
“What are you doing for work?” Laura asks. Her tone is uncharacteristically light as she wipes wine off the camel suede of her shoe.
“I don’t have a job yet. I’m trying to focus on music. Full-time. That’s why I’m here, actually. John is producing. I’m singing.” He smiles wide enough for a silver spoon. Oddly though, there’s never been one. Ilion’s always lived with little, and this new chapter is much of the same.
Conversations branch off as they all burrow in separate couches and corners. Ilion leaves to find Helena, hoping she has a joint in her purse. Dispensary grade, pre-rolled, paid for by Corporate America.
“Tell me about med school,” Elle says to Chuck. She leans in with one elbow bent, her chin perched on a gently curved palm. Chuck remains laid back in all regards.
“It’s alright,” he says. “Just nice to be off the waitlist, you know?”
“OHSU is no joke,” Elle says, impressed.
“Most of my colleagues are in their thirties. I can’t believe I thought twenty-four was too late to get in.” His voice is deep and clear. “Not top-of-the-class anymore.”
“How do you mean?”
“Everybody is from Harvard and Yale. A four-oh from Oregon has lost its sheen.”
Most of the party guests met in their undergraduate years at the University of Oregon, although a few faces were more familiar with Lane Community College. Elle holds her own in every conversation, although she’s the only one who went straight from high school to the service industry of Eugene. Like Ilion, privilege was rarely on her side, although she always arrives kind and conversational.
“I swear, every other person I meet has started an NGO against climate change, or a non-profit in West Africa,” Chuck says, laughing.
Ilion and Helena walk in holding hands. They cast thin, lively shadows across the oak floor. He introduces her, disrupting as many conversations as possible with only good intentions. He smiles wider still, clearly entranced with her charm and beauty.
Her hair is shoulder length, died pink — perfect for the low light and mugs of rose. Her gold jewelry unintentionally matches his, while her smile is much more understated. The room bends at her presence as everyone says hello. Hugs and handshakes mix with the evening’s cool air still filtering through the open window.
“Good to finally meet you,” Vincent says with an embrace.
“Illy’s told me so much about you.” Her alto voice is velvet — an alluring presence seems wrapped in its bell-like tones. “He’s so excited to be living near you and John, finally.”
“Babe,” Ilion interjects, a bit embarrassed.
“What? It’s true.” She sedates him with her smile and a gentle hand on his bicep.
“Congrats on the sales job,” Elle says. “I’m in beauty, too.”
Helena’s face lights up, revealing rosy cheeks to match her hair.
“Thank you.”
“How long have you been in beauty,” Elle asks.
“This is my first job,” she replies.
“What did you do before?”
Helena hesitates, laughs a bit. “No, like my first job. Ever.” Her head tilts to the side to shrug off her innocence. A nose ring and recent chest tattoos are already trying, but she is green in nature, perfectly youthful.
“How exciting,” Elle says, smiling. “What were you doing before this?”
“I was finishing my GED in LA when we met.” She glances at Ilion, admiringly. “I had a few months left to finish, but he moved in with his family in Michigan, and I couldn’t be without him anymore, so I figured I’d just move. My parents raised me in this ultra-conservative church. I spent most days after school spreading the gospel door to door.”
Elle leans in a bit, lowers her voice with concern. “How did you go from bible thumping door-to-door to dropping out and moving in with your boyfriend?”
Helena leans in to match her intimacy, her voice rising in pitch, lower in volume. “A few months ago, my parents decided they wanted nothing to do with the church. They said raising us like that was a mistake. They went full mid-life crisis. My dad bought a motorcycle. Mom bought a tight rope.”
“A tight rope?”
“Yeah, she put it in the backyard. She wants to join the circus.”
“Isn’t she a little old to run away to the circus?”
“I used to think so. Now I’m not sure anyone’s too old for anything.”
“And you moved in with your boyfriend?”
“Something like that.” Helena sighs. “If they can turn the world upside down, then I can move up the coast.” She laughs earnestly, rolls her eyes, and sips her drink. The ice clinks as the white ceramic pushes on her lower lip. Her nose ring subtly catches the warm reflection.
“Do your parents miss you?” Elle isn’t laughing yet.
“They miss a lot of things.”
“And they don’t mind that Ilion’s twenty-four?”
“I’m twenty-one. This isn’t the fifties.” She smirks.
Elle leans in closer, thinking of her first boyfriend. When he was twenty-two and she was eighteen. When he was handsome and she felt invincible. When he laid hands on her and she learned to pack up and go.
Ilion interrupts before Elle has a chance to give advice.
“Helena, are you coming to watch our recording session tomorrow night?”
“Yeah, once I’m off work. I should be there by nine.”
“That’s right. Work.” He rolls his eyes.
“Helena, are they scheduling you enough for you to pay rent on one income?” Elle asks.
Helena laughs and looks at Ilion.
“We don’t have to pay rent right now.”
“Yeah, my car is free,” says Ilion, proudly.
“What happened to the Air BnB?” Vincent asks.
“Oh that ended last week,” he says, casually.
“His car is comfier anyways,” Helena says, almost too convinced.
“And finding a place here is crazy,” Ilion groans.
“Yeah man, it took us two months to get our place,” John says. “Did you look online when you were living with your parents?”
Ilion shakes his head. “Too stressful man. We’re just going to figure it out.”
Helena takes a sip of her drink. She giggles, and says, “We’re homeless, I guess.”
Ilion turns towards her. Their outlines blur together.
“Babe, I’d rather be homeless in Portland, living out of my car with you, than spend another day at my parents’ house in Michigan.”
She swoons. They kiss. The others drink.
“He’ll be famous soon anyways.” Helena leans on his shoulder and sighs.
“How do you mean,” Laura asks.
“Oh, he’ll have to show you his latest music.”
Ilion smirks, looking sheepishly towards the ceiling.
“If he gets fifty thousand followers this year, I just know he’ll blow up.”
“Like on Youtube?” Chuck asks.
“Yeah,” Ilion says.
“How many do you have right now?”
“Six hundred and fifty two.” Ilion nods his head, basking in self-approval.
Helena’s eyes are glossy with admiration as the others’ glaze over with concern.
Portland looks small on a map. Southeast, Southwest, Northeast, Northwest, the ever-elusive North, the winding Willamette River, and six lines for the MAX all tangle together as a cozy city brimming with rain and roses. Taking up residency though, everyone sees a unique reflection in the towers and the puddles and the windows of the bungalows. An opportunity to pursue a long sought after career. A chance to work with artists and intellectuals. An end to suburban domicile.
On this night they all share one worry. Laura thinks of it as she pets the cat’s tangled fur. Juan thinks of it as he checks his email only to find it empty, again. John thinks of it as he pulls out his phone to type out potential lyrics. They worry about the influx of Millenials moving in to spruce up their Instagram. They worry that Ilion expects to find LA parties in the Buckman neighborhood. And they wonder if Helena will see through the sheen and gloss — if she will have the strength to leave.
Tangled up in Southeast, somewhere between the Orange and Green lines, in a charmingly dilapidated mid-century rental, they all pull on their coats and boots. Everything is wrinkled, smelling of moss. Juan hits the lights, Chuck locks the door, and Laura kisses the cat on the rumpled fur of its forehead. Words fall out weightless into the cool air as they all make their way into the unlimited night. For now they set their worries aside. Now is all they have.
