News

Thus far, a drifter through life

By Erin Sullivan, Times Staff Writer
Published July 15, 2007

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I was walking down Curley Road in Pasco County one night last month when a guy rolled up behind me on a bicycle.

"Are you a transient," he asked, "like, a drifter?"

I stammered. "N . . . n . . . no."

Maybe he thought I'd say "Yes!" and hop on the back of his 10-speed and we'd ride about town, getting into high jinks, scouring sidewalks for half-smoked cigarette butts and befriending a loyal stray dog we'd name Scrappy.

He looked disappointed.

I glared and tried to telepathically tell him off:

Dude! I know I've let myself go. But a hobo? Really?

He pedaled beside me, trying to make small talk, befuddled that his hobo-dar was off. From somewhere deep within, my Inner Brat silently screamed:

I have a college degree! I've lived in Denmark and London. I watch documentaries. I eat organic food. I love NPR.

Nerd, YES. Hobo, NO.

Eventually, he gave up and pedaled off, grungy flip-flops flopping into the sunset.

I've been obsessed about it since, mentally breaking it down like the crime scene it was.

"Let. This. Go," my editor said, as I was about to launch into the story again to a colleague who, somehow, hadn't heard it.

"WHAT were you WEARING?" said another friend, more blunt.

I looked up the definitions of transient and drifter and had an epiphany.

That dude, the Psychic Biker, was right.

I am a transient.

I am a drifter.

How could I have not seen this?

I've moved every year or two in the past decade. I've never decorated a home. I've never owned a home. I like living out of a suitcase. I feel comfortable surrounded by boxes, most of which remain unopened, schlepped from city to city.

"You have problems being grounded," a Reiki instructor told me recently, after she spent an hour reading my body's energy.

"Uh," I exhaled, stunned. "Yes, um, yes, I do."

Which organ ratted me out? My guts gurgled. Traitor.

"You need to develop roots," she said.

I sighed.

- - -

This leads me to why I was walking down Curley Road in the first place. That day I decided to rent a house in San Antonio, which, for all you city people, is in Pasco County, not Texas.

I've lived in Tampa's Hyde Park for a year. It's fancy, but a poor fit. Lesson learned: Geography cannot make a person cool.

For several months, I've dreamed of living in the country.

Oooh, I'll have a vegetable garden and learn to make preserves. I'll get a pygmy goat! And then I could milk the goat and make artisan cheese and give it to people as gifts. And I'll get a potbellied pig. And chickens!

The house isn't much to look at. But inside it's all cypress wood - floors, walls, ceiling. It was built in 1950 and has more space than my cats have ever had. Gas stove. Warped floors. You can feel the lives lived here.

I parked at the house and decided to walk downtown. The light was gorgeous and the breeze soothing, and I felt so certain I made the right decision - until I was accosted by the biker.

Rattled, but determined, I carried on to the main street and got a Cuban sandwich. At dusk on my walk back, at nearly the same spot on Curley Road, I had another odd experience.

I heard a crashing across the street and an owl burst from a tree, straight at me. I froze. It hovered a few feet in front of me, just looking, for what felt like five minutes. Then it flew back.

What just happened? What does it mean?

Did it want my sandwich?

- - -

I move at the end of the month. Hyde Park seems lovelier than ever.

Will I be too isolated out there? Well, at least I'll have fresh veggies.

Wait.

How do you garden?

Needing some good omens, I remembered that owl. Surely the universe was telling me something. On the Internet, I looked up owl mythology.

Death. Evil spirits. The Romans thought seeing one in daylight meant someone was going to die. In Cameroon, owls are called "the bird that makes you afraid."

But I can't turn back.

"You need to stop hibernating," the Reiki instructor said.

Being a drifter is exciting - seeing new places, having no ties. But it's exhausting. Each move brings hope that life at the next stop will be better. But you can only do that for so long until you have to plant yourself and make wherever you are as good as it can be.

I read that people in Indonesia listen to owls before they travel. If an owl makes one sort of sound, it's safe to go. If it makes another, it's better to stay home.

But this owl didn't make any noise at all.

Erin Sullivan can be reached at (813) 909-4609 or esullivan@sptimes.com.

[Last modified July 13, 2007, 17:25:04]

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