Friday, July 18, 2014

The End of the Road



May 7, 2014, was not my last visit to Tent City. It was actually July 3, the day police evicted the last resident of the camp.

I came back because although it was never my physical home, my heart remained there amid the tall pines and makeshift shanties. Even as we move forward, a part of it always will.

The air felt heavy; the storm clouds stirred. Journalists snapped photos; the group of volunteers assisting Minister Steve with the move bustled about. Noel and his crew rounded up chickens for transport to the animal sanctuary. The men fumbled with the hitch for the big generator. Odds and ends were packed onto the bus and onto the Winnebago-turned-flatbed.

Just before eight o'clock, three Lakewood police officers arrived and informed all of us that it was time to vacate the premises or else receive summonses. 

We piled into our respective vehicles and followed Minister Steve as he first pulled the old Winnebago onto Clover Street, which faced the camp. The bus would be next.

I parked across the street, got out of my car, walked with others to the end of the road, reminding myself it wasn't time to mourn. Not yet. Despite my misgivings, I walked back into camp one last time.

I said good-bye to a longtime resident, Hollywood John. We hugged and he said, "I've met a lot of good people here. And you're one of them."

I tried my best to smile. "So are you, my friend."

In those moments, the familiar roar of the engine was a death knell. Following close behind, I took my last trek down the dirt road. The rain started falling not long after. Steve, Jack, and a few others covered the items on the Winnebago with heavy tarps. I left in a daze.

The following day, as the rain fell in torrents, so did the tears.

A week later, I received a text with a video attachment. I couldn't believe my eyes.

The entire camp, save for a single cross from a miniature shrine built only weeks before, was completely gone. Empty. Not one structure left standing.

Though it was already dark by the time I received the video, something within me stirred. I had to see it for myself. I drove from my home in Freehold to Lakewood, bearing little mind to the potential of police presence, to the intersection of Cedar Bridge and Clover. Just like I'd done almost exactly eight months to the day - only this time, to confirm that it was really gone.

I pulled a few feet in, turned on my high beams, wondering if maybe it was all a bad dream. That I'd see the bus parked in its usual spot. That I'd see the gray cat run out from under the chapel. That Frances would come to my window. That I'd hear the roosters crowing and the hum of the generator. That someone would be there to guide me in a K-turn so I'd avoid hitting the trees, or to dig me out when my tires got stuck in the mounds of sugar sand.

But save for a few garbage bins, and of course, the cross, Tent City was no more.

I opened and closed my eyes a few times and just waited. It took a few minutes for it all to sink in.

And when it did, I realized just how alone I felt. 

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