George is intrigued by my car camping experiment. He has been my constant companion these past few days.
“You have a perfectly good bed to sleep in and a home and yo white ass, cracka ass is sleepin’ in your car,” He said with an air of incredulousness.
“Think of it as a camping trip,” I replied as I smiled undaunted.
“You white ass honkeys are crazy,” George said as he took another drink from his beer.
I thought about arguing the absurdity of drinking beer at 7 AM in the morning, but let it slide. Thus sets the scene for this morning’s foray into the lakeside park to cook breakfast on my camp stove. George watched intently as I boiled a pot of grits and then set it aside to fry some bacon.
“You’ve done this before,” George replied.
“I was homeless for six months, remember? This is second nature to me.”
George certainly didn’t have any problem in partaking of the bowl of grits and crumbled bacon I handed him. We both sat eating as the sun first rose over the trees on the far side of the lake.
“Brilliant!” I exclaimed as I took in another spoonful of food.
George demurely played it off as if it was no big deal. Soon, he was taking leave of me to go start his day of earning money via his fly-by-night taxi service. “The park has to be the most fucking boring place to spend your morning,” were his words to me as he got in his car. I laughed it off and bid him farewell. Little did he know that these treasured surroundings meant a great deal to me. They are akin to my fortress of solitude.
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