“Voluntarily?” I ask.
“No,” he replies. “I was homeless.”
4
The rain is thundering over us. Flashes of lightning are coming in every minute and the booms, are simultaneous. The storm must be directly overhead. “Don’t focus on the rain,” Lincoln says. “You’re safe under here, despite what you’re thinking.”
“Tell me your story,” I mutter, peeking out and around the rocks to see where the tide is. The water looks as though it stopped rising at least.
“My story, huh?”
“Yeah, tell me why you were homeless for a year,” I continue. I am trying to focus on his story despite my anxiety.
“Well, my dad died when I was ten from lung cancer, and my mom never recovered from the loss. She was a stay-at-home-mom before my dad got sick and had been so since I was born. She had no resume, no experience, and no good way to get a job that payed well enough to support us once my dad’s life insurance ran out. I got a job when I turned fourteen, but I was bringing in five dollars an hour and only allowed to work so many hours a week. We couldn’t win the battle, no matter how hard we tried.”
My hand is on my chest and I have, in fact, forgotten about the rain. Lincoln’s story makes me wonder how many people I walk by every day who has a story like his. I grew up with two parents that weren’t happy together, but they still gave me a stable life. “When did you end up homeless?”
Lincoln folds his hands together between his knees. I watch his hands as he collects his thoughts. I see an astrology sign of Leo tattooed on his pointer finger. I wonder if it’s his sign or his dad’s. I also notice his fingernails are well manicured for an outdoorsy guy. I like a guy who takes care of his nails. I don’t know why it’s a thing for me, but dirty nails make me crazy.
“I was sixteen. Our mortgage payment was due, our roof was leaking, and our basement flooded. It was one of those storms you don’t see coming. It hit us hard, and we were late on our home owner’s insurance. We were forced to foreclose. Things just continued in a downward spiral after that. My mom got laid off, and we would not survive on me mowing lawns as I was doing. Our town only had a small homeless shelter, and they took the elderly and sick first, so as hard is it was for us to understand and believe, we had to find other ways to survive.”
“In Upstate New York? It’s cold up there like nine months of the year, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” he says.
“I’m so sorry.” I know that’s not what he needs to hear, but I’ve never met anyone who has gone through something like that.
“It made me a good man, Alex. I don’t regret one day of that year. I kept us alive. I built a shelter in the woods, fished for food, kept fires going. I did what I had to.”
“I feel like I’m at a much lower standard that you,” I tell him. “I couldn’t even listen to your advice on not coming out here alone.”
“I was just yanking your chain about your friends. I never knew why chicks enjoy going away for a weekend just to talk about their boyfriends and how much they miss them. I’ve heard it all here, trust me.”
“Then there’s the one single girl who’s moping in the corner like me, right?”
“I would have done the same thing in your shoes. I promise,” he says, looking over at me with a small grin. We’re sitting so close together, I notice he has a lot of freckles beneath his bottom lashes and on the bridge of his nose.
“So how did you find your way out of being homeless?” I press.
“I was able to secure a landscaping job with a big company that catered to corporate offices. After a couple months, I had enough money to find my mom and me a small apartment. She got a new job, and things slowly improved for us.”
“You saved her,” I tell him. I’m sure he’s aware, but he’s a good son. A good man.
“It was the least I could do for her,” he says, looking out beyond the opening of the cave.
I sigh and peek out again, seeing a clearing in the sky over the horizon. “I think the storm will end soon.”
“We still have time for your story,” he suggests. How can I compare in stories? My life has been easy in comparison. “Why are you single?” I wasn’t expecting that question. “I mean, you’re gorgeous, headstrong, and kind of witty.”
“Hey! I’m funny, not just kind of witty.”
“I don’t know. I think I need to see that side of your more before I can agree.”
“That’s fair. I am single because I have had a type, and my type doesn’t exist.”
“A type? Like a gym buff or a rich guy?”
“Well, yes, those are types, but not my type.” I try to figure out how to describe my type, but I realize I’ve never given my “type” a label per se.