THINKING INSIDE THE BOX

Well, it's time.

Time to  move on up. 

You've done the one backpack carting around everything you own, then, depending upon how many feeds and church services you attended where you acquired all of those nifty hygiene kits and piles of used clothing and household goods, i.e. can openers, flashlights, etc., made your way up to five backpacks, then,  a big ole' tattered piece of rolling luggage, and then....groan...the shopping cart.

Well, the shopping cart is kind of the RV of Homeless Nation, you're not breaking your back anymore, but it's a hassle at street corners and steering it across streets and it clearly marks you as a streetpuppy, because it's mobile, and anybody carting everything they own along with them, be it in backpacks, rolling luggage, or a shopping cart, is clearly homeless. 

And shopping carts, like the  tattered piece of rolling luggage which preceded it, break down.  Usually right in the middle of a busy street while you're trying to make the light before the guy on the motorcycle heading straight for you . 

So, yeah, it's time. 

Time for the Box.

You, and the missus...or the mister, depending on who in your unit makes these decisions, know it's time to settle down before you maim or kill each other while arguing over who gets to carry the backpacks, or tow the rolling luggage or the shopping cart.

Kind of like the love/hate period an average couple lives through just before they make the unavoidable decision of whether or not to move in together once they realize that half of each others belongings are sitting in the other's apartment.

And if you haven't hooked up yet with the love of your life, well, the thought of a nice bachelor pad, becomes more and more appealing with each day that you long for some normalcy in your life, like just being able to kick your shoes/boots off at night without fear they will be stolen or eaten, and sleeping in the fetal position is for kids and is starting to make your back form a permanent S curve.

So, the hunt for the Box begins.

Kind of like cruising neighborhoods on the outlook for an appealing house. 

Except, you're looking behind that house for the container which carried the largest item taken into that house.

Go for the Sleep Number Bed box.  Usually found in the alleyways behind condos....condos built on the bay or a river, because the people who shell out the kind of money that enables them to stare at water all day/night and pretend they are in the Caribbean, are the same schmoes who will shell out the dough for a bed which supposedly rises and falls at the touch of a remote control, and thereby solving everyone of your marital problems.

Ok, now drag that bad boy around the building, late at night, preferably, as a streetpuppy dragging a huge cardboard container anywhere is going to draw the attention of the police, and/or anybody who is interested in stealing your boots.

So, and this is assuming you have scouted a proper spot, and acquired a tarp to put on the ground -in suburbs that's called the foundation - just sit the Sleep Number Bed box squarely on that tarp, and pull the leaves of the surrounding foliage around the top, and voila!  You've got your starter box!

Ok, it's a fixer-upper.  But you, you clever streetpuppy, you, have managed to acquire a box cutter during your time in homeless nation, and that little multi-tasking tool will enable you  to design the house of your dreams right there under the tree, or the underpass or by that babbling creek that will be your....dare we say it...HOME!

So, now, instead of sitting around on a bench all day at the bus transit center, you can be doing stuff for your house/box.

Another tarp to cover the top, maybe.  How 'bout another piece of cardboard to make a divider inside the box so you can have a place to eat and a place to sleep.  Whoa!

And a few bags to hold clothing, and actually be able to keep the clean (whatever) from the dirty items.

Oh, and a mat to sleep on.  Heaven, with your feet stretched out.  And some blankets, and a pillow from a thrift store that will cost just a buck or two, and maybe a comforter.

Now, don't get too fancy with the outside and start thinkiing of a singing mailbox, or anything.  You don't want anybody to really know where your house/box is located.

And that's the thing, all this thinking and living inside a box, and worrying about that box, and being territorial about that box...why...you've become....bourgeois.

You even have a garden rake and a hedge trimmer...and a pair of slippers!

Not to worry.  In no time at all, somebody will discover your house/box, and you'll come home one late afternoon, all primed for that happy hour cocktail  - six pack- while overlooking the babbling brook and pretending you're  in the Caribbean, and horrors....you're house/box is in shreds of tattered pieces no bigger than a shoe box. 

Everything is gone...even the hedge trimmer.  And the slippers. 

And you're right back where you started. 

Rustling up a backpack and a hygiene kit and a few duds at the local church feed.

Which is actually the best part of thinking inside the box.  You can be tossed out or walk away at any time and just pick up and reinvent yourself all over again.