Home. Owner.

My mother and I were in San Diego, walking through a connected series of uber-development shopping center parking lots, when she suddenly stopped short.

“Now THIS,” she said definitively, pointing to an overturned shopping cart lying, ignored, in the corner of a lot, “Is a NICE house.”

“Ummm-hmmm,” I agreed, eying it appraisingly. “I don’t know why no one has moved in. Could it be the neighborhood?"

We lifted our eyes and surveyed the surrounding area. Not a lot of other homes, but that didn’t seem to stop the fellow living on the front yard of Wendy’s, near our hotel. Perhaps the lack of “green space” was causing this deplorable waste of housing?

It was food for thought, and we considered it as we moved along our way. Now that we’d noticed the saturated real estate market in this parking lot, we couldn’t help but notice the additional homes that were strewn, discarded, all about. Dismayed by the waste, I briefly entertained the notion of bringing a new – or second – home to the man living near our hotel, but was forced to dismiss the idea. He had so carefully packed his current house (a standard, silver-plated grocery-type model) with his belongings, maximizing all available space, and – based on the décor that he updated on a daily basis – I suspected that he was quite proud of his home.

There were many advantages to his existing residence. It was portable – far more portable than my home, to be sure – and it limited the amount of “clutter” that the man could accrue. This, in a way, I envied quite a lot. Sure, it would be tricky to cook in his place, and he did not have any running water – or even any water at all – but these were minor inconveniences when compared to the biggest advantage: His home offered him complete independence from societal rules. The smaller details (food, water, toilet, and roof) were provided at night by Wendy’s and during the day by Denny’s. With two fine names like that to provide for one, why sweat the small stuff?

The man was polite to us, nodding when we passed, but it was clear that we were of little importance. His world was encapsulated, like the contents of his cart. He had his recorder, which he played for an audience that we could not see, and his knife and stick, which he used together, literally whittling the time away. On occasions, we spotted him conversing with a being not visible to us, gesturing animatedly. At these times, his enthusiasm seemed to grow large enough to provide for his invisible conversation partner, this “other” that proved so much more interesting than anything that we – the “real world” - had ever offered.

I pondered this, and still do. Which of us – I wonder – is the smarter? Who is closer to the state of “truly living?” Is it me, with my own “invisible partners” – my cages and rules? The home, the prescribed “start’ and “stop” times to my day, my participation in the en masse traffic surges to and fro a “job” created by someone else, the “ways” of dress, of speech, of etiquette? Am I truly living? Have I found the secret?

I suspect not. On the other hand, I know that the solution that this man’s life offers is not the answer that I seek. What my personal answer is, I don’t know. I do know that the shiny metal or bright red plastic homes do not – for me – hold the same allure that they do for people like our San Diego acquaintance. Now, the nice double-decker green plastic model, on the other hand, inspired a moment of consideration….. Until my mother, sagely, reminded me of the difficulty of resale in such a flooded market.

I conceded, reluctantly. She was right. With one last backward glance, I continued with her across the asphalt.