Tom could not recall all the steps. Company pulled back into the States. The Canadian branch plant had proved too costly. Wages and benefits. Rumblings of union certification. Six weeks notice given to a workforce of 45. And fairly well skilled.
He was now without the apartment. Live-in girlfriend Trina had gotten cold feet and scampered to her sister’s place.
Now it was a tent in a Corner Lot with others suffering diverse misfortunes. The City gathering ammunition arguments to shut the whole thing down. Soon there would be a hearing in Court.
Newfound friends told stories of past retreats under a bridge, break-ins to storage sheds, or through back doors of houses for sale. Not very pretty. Nothing to brag about. Felt like the only solution at the time. Or perhaps a space on a hard auditorium floor out of the cold. Night by night hassles to get in.
And Sharing was characteristic of most of them. Oh yeah, there were some who were thieves, or belligerent or crazy. But the streets and hard weather and loneliness and crass rebukes of citizens played nasty games with broken hearts.
One guy named Phil, seemingly the Camp’s resident Wise Man and Philosopher, read portions of the book Down and Out in Paris by George Orwell. Some would sit with him after dark by propane lamp. Letting their imaginations wander. Talking. Relishing time spent with a few hearts of empathy and support. Breaking the monotony and shame.
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