Yesterday I drove to Baltimore to buy a van from a used car lot. There’s not much to say about that process: a lot of paperwork, a lot of bureaucracy, a lot of crossing your fingers and hoping you aren’t about to get screwed over.
What stuck out to me, though, was what happened at the bank. “Oh, what kind of van are you getting?” the cashier asked. “The Ford Transit out in the parking lot is mine. We made a mistake though, getting the low roof. Way harder to live in, I’m going to end up with a permanent hunch.” She mimicked how she had to stand inside the van that was, presumably her home or was about to be.
I’ve always perceived “bank teller” to be a fairly middle class job. I’ve always perceived Baltimore as a reasonably affordable place to live.
God our economy is fucked.
My first van was also my first vehicle of any kind: a minivan, a 1998 Dodge Grand Caravan in a color I called “sandy wasteland” but I think a dealership would have called champagne. I took out the back bench seat and built a small platform. When the middle bench seat folded forward, it made a decent sized bed, and I had the whole area underneath for milkcrates of zines and books and clothes. Everything I needed.
I spent long enough living in vans (first that one and then a larger conversion van, 2003 Dodge Ram 1500) that it became a major part of my identity. Six years will do that to you. I got asked a lot whether or not it suited me, whether or not it was enough. The subtext was always: “would I be able to do it too?”
People are attracted to freedom, simplicity, and not-paying-rent. I understand the appeal.
But the thing was, I wasn’t moving down to a van, I was moving up to one. I spent the majority of my twenties living out of a backpack, living in squats or couchsurfing, sleeping under tarps in people’s yards. I paid rent here and there for a few months at a time but I rarely owned more than would fit into a backpack. I had caches of zine masters and personal effects in attics and basements across the country.
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