"I'm homeless," I whined to Sven, Fabian, and Stuart. We'd met for lunch, and it had taken me an enviable ten minutes to walk from my East Village sublet to the lunch spot on Lafayette Street.
I'd "reverse-commuted" back to Manhattan last night after rearranging the garage. The studio on East 5th Street was cozy, though my stuff was in a big pile on the floor. The studio is directly across the street from my friends Polly and Al, but they were already gone for the holidays. I could live here, I thought. Then a cough stopped me. And a giggle. The walls were paper-thin. Maybe I wouldn't like it so much. Still, it's only for a month.
After lunch, I worried again.
"I don't know if I like being homeless. It's been a long time since I was homeless."
Sven laughed. "Welcome to the club." He had just moved back from Kuwait and was waiting for his work visa to come through. He is going to his mother's in Canada for now and will be back when the paperwork makes it official.
"I have a home," said Fabian. Maybe Sven and I can go stay in Fabian's basement. We'll bring the 11 x 17 scanner and make Kuwaiti comics. His kids can help.
My cell phone rang. It was my lawyer.
"Come over and get your check. We've got $160,000 waiting for you."
Maybe being homeless wouldn't be so bad.