Geneva

    After our neighbors burn their tent with all their belongings in it, the city comes and clears away the charred debris. Though I predict the campers (or ones like them) will return within a week or two, a few months pass before a new tent appears. It's blue and decorated with plant fronds and trinkets. A number of items lay carefully arranged around a keyboard shaped like a grinning kitty. As far as encampments go, it looks pretty nice.

    I catch glimpses of the occupant when I walk by, but he seems to be keeping to himself, rarely coming out except to rearrange some of his tchochkes.

    Then another tent appears, and another. This is what always happens. The other tents aren't close to the other one though, and then one of those vanishes. And things are pretty quiet back there. 

    And then one morning there's a shed.

    About the size of a camping pop up, it's on wheels but has plywood walls painted white with a full-sized door and window. It stands next to the first tent and is likewise festooned with trinkets and leaves and branches. One wall is made of a wooden sign which reads "Geneva's Shear Perfection, Barber & Beauty Salon", and rumor has it the guy is in fact giving people haircuts. As the days pass, more and more people start hanging around but we don't witness anyone getting a haircut, even after the proprietor erects a pole wrapped in red and silver duct tape. A beige couch materializes.

    This morning it rains for a awhile and then stops. My coworker in the control room sees on camera that someone has lit a small fire between the tent and the shed. Before I have a chance to investigate she's calling 911. While she's on hold, I go out to talk to them, .electing not to bring the fire extinguisher this time.

    A man with long sandy hair is propping up two couch cushions over a fire in a coffee can. The cushions are steaming but they look too wet to burn. I tell the guy that someone has called the fire department, and that I'm just there to make sure everything's okay.

    "We had a big fire here a little while ago," I say. "So we get a little worried about open flames."

    "I hear you man. A couple of my friends accidentally burned their tent once," he said. He keeps reassuring me that the fire is under control, and it seems like it actually is. 

    "This is a pretty nice set up you have here,"  I say, and the man says, "Oh it's all his stuff," gesturing to the shed or wagon or whatever it is. The door is open and the owner lounges on a pile of blankets inside. I say hi and ask how he's doing. He starts screaming at me to go the fuck away and leave him the fuck alone. "You're watching us on camera. You're always watching us." I ignore him and continue talking to the first man, who also ignores the screaming. The fire has gone down a bit and he has re-positioned the cushions so they seem more stable. I hold one in place to help. 

    "I haven't sat on a couch in so long," he says. The wistfulness in his voice is heartbreaking. I suggest he wrap the cushions in plastic. 

    The man in the shed has been screaming and cursing at me this whole time, but makes no move to get up. "I'll kill you," he screams. "I'll fucking kill you. I wish you would die motherfucker. I want you to die. Die! DIE! DIE!"  

    "I will someday," I say, and walk away. The rain starts to fall again and it feels like ice on  my skin.