My name is Jacob Springsteen and before you ask, no, there's no relation to the musician with the same last name. If I'd been born with that silver spoon up my ass, maybe I wouldn't be squatting in this nice couple's apartment while they spend the winter in Cabo. Maybe I wouldn't be driving around in a shitty Cadillac Eldorado from the early 70s, either. Not a nice one, but a hulk of fading gray paint and ripped upholstery big enough for me to stick my head into. The engine smokes, the brakes squeal, and the heat doesn't work, but it's all I can afford on the meager salary I make working for the Salvation Army.
That's why I'm holed up in this beautiful mid‑century modern with a bathtub to die for. You'd be surprised what you overhear when you're a wallflower at a thrift store. The Emersons and their kids just couldn't stop bragging about the three‑month family vacation they had planned for the entire winter. How people can live like that, I will never understand. My own experiences and circumstances have led me to believe that it's all luck. They chose the correct paths in life. They took all the right turns down fate's corridors and now they get to live in the lap of luxury, while I—who took all the wrong paths—sort the clothes they're only buying to make themselves feel like they're contributing to the local homeless problem.
That's why, being homeless myself, I took it upon myself to follow them home and let them feel great by taking a more direct approach to homelessness eradication.
Don't get me wrong, I do feel bad about it. I'm not so entitled as to believe that I deserve these things more than they do. But I am the kind of person who will take whatever path is necessary to survive, and trying to survive the brutal Michigan winter in a beat‑up old Cadillac doesn't seem as appealing as a house with heat and running water. I've been a good steward of this home. I don't take from them, and I make myself as small as possible. There's not a lot to say other than that I want to live.
Well, that's not quite right. I want to live, but not like this. I want to do it all over again. To experience life as it could have been if things had been different. If I had been more assertive, if I had taken care of my body, if I had cultivated relationships with people who would pour into me and benefit me. I want to be the kind of person others rely on, not a slinking coward who sleeps in the closet of another family's fortune.
Not to make excuses for myself, but I had a shit childhood filled with abuse, neglect, and things I still have nightmares about. I was withdrawn and angry all through my school years, pushing everyone away so no one could hurt me like I'd already been hurt. It wasn't until years later that I understood that was why I'd been the way I was, but by then who I was—and the reputation I had—were irreversible. I couldn't keep a job and, by extension, couldn't keep a home either. With zero friends and zero prospects, I was destined to be the one who was forever alone, and without a shred of mercy, even at 36 years old, that still rings true. For fuck's sake, I've never even been with a woman. I've lived a life of loneliness that can't even be described.
That's why, even now, even as I am, there has been something brewing inside me. A desire to break free, to change who I am, to begin anew. Why not? I've got nothing else going for me. I've decided to strike out on my own in a new city, as far away as my piece‑of‑shit car and two hundred dollars in gas money can take me. I will change myself. I will become somebody others can rely on, and I will spit on the ones who aren't deserving of my time.
I've been stocking up on food and water for a while now. I figure I should be able to get as far south as possible to make the winter survivable. Then I'll find a job—any job—and I'll get an apartment, and I'll slowly work my way up to becoming the kind of man I want to be. I've even been practicing my confident, assertive, dominant persona in the Emersons' bathroom mirror. Tomorrow morning is the time I've decided on. I can't live like this for even one more day.
So I slept. Fitfully and full of doubt. A crushing weight in my chest told me I was wrong, that I was going to fail, that I'd end up worse off. But I've spent my whole life listening to that voice and it's only led me here. Fearfulness, hesitation, and the constant seeking of comfort led me where I am, so I will not listen to that inner critic anymore. I will embrace the discomfort, and I will set out and, finally, at 36 years old, begin my life.
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Early morning isn't quite as refreshing when it's bitter cold and you're lugging fifty pounds of supplies a mile and a half to where you park your car. It's not like I could park that thing in front of the Emersons' house without drawing significant attention to my activities there. Even so, I had the hint of a smile on my face. I cleaned up the house and left a note apologizing for what I'd done, knowing damn well it would still creep them out. But today would be my fresh start. I couldn't get bogged down in the details. So, as close to happy as I'm capable of being, I hauled my ass a mile and a half until I got to my car.
A recent snowstorm had buried it in ice and snow, so I had to break it free before I could load everything up. It took several tries to start it, but eventually it roared to life with a sputter and a bang. No matter. This would be our last trip together. I just needed it to hold on a little longer.
I had my whole route planned out. I would avoid the interstate because my tags had been expired for a couple of years, and the closest thing I had to insurance was a prayer for good fortune. I sputtered along making decent time. My tires were a little bald, so I had to drive slow to maintain traction on the slick road, but in just a few hours I'd be away from the brutal winds and snow that come with the Great Lakes. I was actually humming to myself despite the bitter cold and my white‑knuckled grip on the steering wheel. This was it. I was finally going to start living. I was finally going to be free.
It wasn't until I was driving along a ravine that I noticed my good mood had me going a little faster than I was comfortable with, but a gentle tap on the brakes should have been all it took to get back down to a safe speed. Instead, that gentle tap locked the brakes up entirely. The ice and snow sent me skidding, and I went careening into a ditch, then plummeting into the ravine.
I must have hit my head on the way down because the details are foggy, but I remember one thought cutting through the panic: on my first day of freedom, I'd made it maybe fifty miles away from the town I'd been stuck in my whole life. My fresh start ended before it even began, and then I blacked out. The snow covered my tracks and no rescue crews came. So there I lay in a narrow ravine, shivering and incoherent, until eventually my body just stopped working and I passed out, never to wake again…
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Or so I thought.
Suddenly I bolted upright. It was dark, and my body felt wrong. Hard to describe—just wrong. I could hear a sound that was familiar but only in a distant, echoing way: two people fighting and screaming in the other room.
I was in a bunk bed, and below me a little girl, probably no older than three or four, got up to go into that other room. I tried to warn her not to, but my voice caught in my throat. It didn't sound right. It was like I'd inhaled just a little helium, but not quite. I sounded like a kid, and that really surprised me.
While I was trying to wrap my head around that, the little girl kept going toward the door and walked through it.
"Can I have a piece of cheese?" she asked, as politely as a child her age could.
That one question rocked me to my core. It dragged me back to a memory from a time in my life I'd tried so hard to forget. My sister had done the same thing, just before…
"No, you can't have any cheese! Go back to bed!" a gruff masculine voice snapped.
"Yes you can, honey, here," a scared but firm female voice said.
"What? I told her no already! You always do this. You always undermine me!" the angry man shouted.
The little girl fled back into the room, piece of cheese in hand, and I was frozen in place because somehow I knew exactly what was going to come next.
"You bitch! How dare you defy me! HOW DARE YOU! HOW DARE YOU!"
A crash reverberated through the house, followed by the brittle music of shattering porcelain. Then the screaming began.
I looked at my hands and saw how small they were. I felt the rat tail hanging from the back of my head. I recognized the little girl. My sister. My poor, pitiful sister who, despite my best efforts, grew up broken and haunted.
This was the night all of our lives changed—the night my mom finally left my dad. This was the day everything changed.