It was in the men´s locker room at USF that I realized I might have gone too far. Stark naked, I was sprinting from the bathroom to the shower, green liquid hand soap drizzling from my fingers. I am not an attractive man in the nude, especially when running, and I tend to avoid situations that may call for such activity.
But this was Thursday morning – 48 hours into the experiment – and self-conscious hang-ups had to be dismissed if I was going to make it. Still, as I ran bare-ass through a locker room I had no right to be in, preparing to use hand soap on parts of the body it was never intended to clean, I was petrified that someone would see me.
How, I wondered, could I explain this one?
Truth is, there was only one explanation. I was living for free.
For five days and four nights, St. Petersburg became a city of party favors. I ate free samples, stole showers, and treated the library like my clubhouse. The idea was simple – I couldn't spend a penny. But this was a contrived experiment, thought up in a Planet conference room, and the following rules were ours to set:
• No spending money.
• No earning money, then spending it.
• No mooching off friends/co-workers.
• No sleeping at home.
• No felonious behavior (misdemeanors excepted).
• No telling people who I am, or what I am doing.
When I left the house Tuesday morning, I was allowed:
• 1 T-shirt (yellow)
• 1 pair shorts (striped)
• 1 pair boxers (plaid)
• 1 pair socks (athletic)
• 1 toothbrush (soft)
• 1 stick deodorant (gel)
• 1 button-down shirt (checked)
• 1 pair slacks (pinstriped)
• 1 towel (beach)
• 1 pack cigarettes (Winston)
• 1 empty water bottle (Zephyrhills 0.5L)
• 1 cell phone (to be used only after 9 p.m., when it was free)
• 1 laptop (Macintosh)
• 1 car (two-door Honda Civic)
• 1 tank gas (regular unleaded)
Each item would prove to be important, but none compared to my greatest advantage – me. A moderately well-groomed white guy of 24, I fit into a range of appealing demographic categories. Yuppie. Hipster. College kid. Young professional. These are good things to be when you're trying to get something for nothing. At most places, my presence wasn't questioned, my motives rarely examined. And that made it easy to sit in the corner and wait for a handout.
But I knew some of this going in.
I knew no one would ask me what I was doing at the Vinoy, because no one did when I visited my parents, who stayed there in February. I knew I wouldn't get kicked out of Panera, because I've sat there for hours surfing the Web after finishing my sandwich. And I knew I'd be allowed to roam free on Eckerd's campus, because I myself graduated from a small liberal arts college just two years ago.
I wasn't living in a different world. I was living in the same world differently.
It wasn't always easy, and it wasn't always fun. It's tough to get a good night's sleep with a steering wheel between your legs, and it's hard to know what to say when a fellow customer seethes as you take half a plate of free cheesesteak bites (I found it was best to say nothing, and leave).
But I learned something from the experiment, something about how society works – about the doors that stay open even when you're not supposed to go through, and about how easy it is to still find a crack when someone tries to close one.
I also learned that, in a pinch, green hand soap can get the job done. Like everything else that happened this week, I just had to try it to find out.
THE NECESSITIES
When I headed out the door that Tuesday morning, I had little idea where I would eat, shower or sleep. With nothing more than a slap on the back from my editor and a few words of trepidation from my girlfriend (whose fears were forgotten when she realized I might actually lose a few pounds), I was nervous. Not nervous like you are before a big game, more like how you feel before going into some major surgery. I was sure it would end I just wasn´t sure how.
This was a time for priorities. Food came first. Showering was second – if I was going to pull this off, the stench couldn't get too conspicuous. Sleeping came last, though I was most worried about this one. I had the car, of course, but sleeping in your car is a vulnerable proposition and I wasn't sure which neighborhood would be the right one in which to hunker down.
As it turned out, I treated living for free much like I treat living with money. I found my creature comforts and stuck to them, experimenting when I could, but coming back to the old reliables when the going got tough.
EATING
Panera Bread I'm not sure I would've made it through the week without Panera, which has four key ingredients for the professional freeloader: samples, lemon slices, cozy chairs and discarded newspapers. The first and most important, of course, are the free slices of Panera's tasty specialty loaves, which are set out a few times a day. The bread is warm and often comes with dipping sauce, which adds the appealing illusion of an actual meal.
I arrived at the Panera on Fourth Street N. just after nine, and the sample tray was empty. So I headed to the soda fountain, where I found the lemon slices. These are presumably intended for iced tea, but a slice of lemon can keep a bottle of water fresh for hours.
After I stuffed one into my empty Zephyrhills, I poured myself a cup of water and camped out on a brown leather chair in the corner. Not only does Panera have comfy chairs (there's only so long you can sit on those wooden ones before your ass goes completely numb), but they stick them off to the side, practically out of sight and right next to the newspaper rack. It is the perfect spot to wait for breakfast.
I was the first one at the tray when, after 45 minutes, a Panera employee finally brought out the samples – some sort of maple bread with brown sugar. A little sweet for my taste, but you know what they say about beggars.
Just an hour into my journey, I'd already stopped worrying about manners. I grabbed 10 pieces or so and headed back to my spot. But as I passed an older couple sitting over their bagels, I caught an unfamiliar look. The woman's brow was furrowed like that of a disappointed schoolteacher, her head cocked in suspicion as she looked at the bread in my hand.
Her irritation made sense. She was there paying for her breakfast, and I'd just gotten mine for free. She felt cheated. Or, rather, she felt like I was cheating.
But the staff didn't care. The whole time I was at Panera – and I made at least one trip a day – I never heard a word from an employee, didn't even catch a look. Busting me just wasn't worth it.
Before I left that first morning, I grabbed another bunch of slices and stuffed them in a napkin, the old lady's eyes on me like a hawk. But I didn't care – I couldn't. I needed something for lunch.
(Other good free sample spots: malls, farmer's markets and grocery stores. I stalked a woman preparing catfish bites at Publix for an hour one day, hanging out in the pickle isle pretending I couldn't decide whether or not to go kosher.)
Hampton Inn
The Hampton Inn's guest-only morning buffet was the most complete meal I had all week. It's important to note two things about this breakfast: one, it ranks a notch above the standard muffin-and-banana continental jobs at other hotel chains; and two, I knew about the feast from a prior Hampton Inn stay.
But I wasn't staying there now, and as I donned my slacks and dress shirt, I wasn't quite sure the heist would work. "They must have some defenses set up for this," I thought. I was wrong.
I walked in casually – it's vital in these situations to give the impression that you deserve to be there – and sat down at the table closest to the buffet and farthest from the front desk.
I was in plain view of the two clerks, had even said hello to them when I walked in, but after 10 minutes neither had looked my way. So I got up, stacked a plate high with biscuits, microwaved egg circles, slimy Canadian bacon and fruit salad, and ate breakfast. No one looked twice – I was just another business traveler cramming his face before the morning meeting.
After-dinner mints
Whenever I saw them, I grabbed a handful. You never know when you'll need a sugar hit. Plus, when you're sleeping in your car, it's always good to have some ammo against that not-so-fresh feeling.
BATHING
USF-St. Petersburg Locker Room Anytime a front desk is manned by a college kid before 10 a.m., it's a safe bet that you'll be able to sneak by. I hit the locker room (of green hand soap fame) twice during my week, and both times I walked in with a simple nod to the sophomore who was supposed to be checking IDs.
There's an unspoken rule on college campuses – look the part and most people assume that you belong there. Many schools try to uphold the suggestion of security with their own quasi-police force, but like anyone else meant to keep order, those guys only respond to provocation. And aside from the sight of my naked body (which I think remained hidden from view), I wasn't very provocative.
The Vinoy Hotel
The hotel was a little trickier – bringing my towel through the front door would be a dead giveaway. Before I went to bathe, I scouted the place out. The pool opens at 7 a.m., and near it lies the only available bathroom with a shower. To my delight, this shower was nicely tucked away – down a flight of stairs near the parking garage, far removed from the front desk. And oh, what a shower it was. Shampoo, conditioner and body wash. I would smell like a newborn.
Getting in was easy. For the most part, the only people who noticed my entrance were the concierges – who are paid to smile and say hello. I must have greeted 10 people before I got through the lobby. By the time I reached the pool, where I hoped to find a towel, I was half-convinced myself that I was a guest.
I arrived just as the pool was opening and the woman assigned to fold the day's towels was finishing the job. "Could I have one?" I asked.
"Of course, sir," she said with a smile. I was in.
I took my time, relishing the warm water and allowing myself a couple of vigorous extra lathers. I wasn't sure if a shower this good would come again.
After I dried off, I threw the towel in the hamper, changed into the same clothes and walked out past the pool. The woman who had given me the towel was standing there, and as I passed by, hair wet and body gleaming, she gave me a snarky smile. She knew exactly what I'd done, but like everyone else, she had nothing to gain by busting me for it.
It even felt like she might have been happy to help.
SLEEPING
Thank You Honda There's no routine when you fall asleep in your car. No brushing your teeth, no bedside reading, no goodnight kiss. You find your spot, kill the engine, throw the seat back and wait to fall asleep.
But it's difficult to let yourself go. Even with the windows open – you've got to keep them at least cracked – the temperature jumps about 20 degrees inside the car. You'd roll them down all the way, but that would leave you far too exposed. Sleeping in your car – or anywhere else in public – is a test of vulnerability. Stay too vigilant and you'll never get a good night's sleep; stay too careless and you'll wake up with someone's hand in your pocket.
I spent each of my four nights on different blocks in Old Northeast – the quiet upscale neighborhood was the best I could find. Folks there go to bed early, feel generally secure, and were often more scared of me than I was of them. When I was spotted, it usually took nothing more than a groan to send the person on their way down the street.
Still, even in a neighborhood as tony as Old Northeast, my nights were never fun. It's not illegal to sleep in your car, but it certainly looks suspicious, and officers will make you explain what you're doing if someone calls in a complaint. Knowing this, my nerves would invariably twitch as I lay on the driver's seat. Anything that moved – a cat, the trees, anything – would have me adjusting the rearview in search of whatever beast was lurking behind me. Any passing car had to be a cop, just looking for the kid trying to get a few hours of sleep with a steering wheel between his legs.
Eventually I would pass out, exhausted, only to wake up a few hours later with the sun. My legs stiff, my back damp, I would pull the seat up into driving position. I don't know about your car, but mine didn't come with a snooze button. Once I was up, I was gone.
PASTIMES
When the only line in your job description is ¨don´t spend a dime¨ and you can´t just sloth the days away on the couch, the boredom sets in quickly. After a day or two, it can be worse than the hunger. By day five, you find yourself doing some downright stupid shit to stay entertained.
But the rules of these frivolous activities are no different from those of finding food or shelter. You want to stay in the shadows, not give anyone a reason to take notice.
Until, of course, you can't take it anymore. Then you just need to make it interesting.
Pop, you're getting a Caddy
George Constanza on steroids.
That's how I described myself on the phone to a friend one night during my saga, fancying myself a slightly taller, slightly more desperate version of the infamous mooch. George may have eaten an éclair out of the trash, but he was remorseful. I would have downed one in a guiltless heartbeat.
On my second to last day I was bored out of my mind and looking for a challenge. So I took inspiration from another Seinfeld character, Jerry, who in one episode buys his father a Cadillac.
After changing into my pristine slacks in a parking lot down the street, I waltzed into Dew Cadillac on Gandy Boulevard, doing my best "I've-got-the-cash-to-be-here" impression. "I wanna buy my father a Cadillac," I told the woman at the front desk. Within seconds I was talking to a salesman.
Out on the lot, I picked a fully loaded 2005 DeVille, eggshell exterior with a blue cloth-top. The consummate grandpa car. The sticker said $64K, but "we could work on that," the salesman assured me.
How about bringing it down to $0?
I told the guy I would be coming into a chunk of money soon, and wanted to do some research before I bought anything. "How does it drive?" I asked.
"This is the best-handling car in the world," the salesman said.
I was going to have to see about that.
My test drive lasted about 20 minutes, and the guy was right. I could have fit about three of me in the leather driver's seat (sleeping on it would be like passing out on a California King), and even when I took the car on the highway, he probably could have convinced me that I was in my living room. The seat – the seat – was air-conditioned. Blissfully cool air running right up your crotch.
Welcome to how the other one percent lives.
When we got back to the lot, I told the sales guy I'd have to think about it. "It was nice, though," I said. "Real nice."
I thought I'd feel worse stepping into my Honda, my sun-drenched inferno of a Honda, but I didn't. I'd gotten a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and a chance to drive a $64,000 car, all without dropping a penny.
I just had to act like I deserved it.
Steal This Movie
I used an old trick from college to get myself into the theater; it works with surprising ease. Instead of buying a ticket, I told the young man at the gate that I just wanted to play video games in the arcade above the lobby. He let me in without question, I spent about 30 seconds pretending to play pinball, and walked back downstairs.
The ticket-taker sees hundreds of faces a day; they blend together. He wasn't going to remember that I was the guy who wanted to play air hockey. As any career movie-hopper knows, once you pass the rope, you're in.
DISCOMFORT (FINALLY)
I didn´t set out pretending to be homeless it´s not something you can pretend to be. I have a home, a bank account. And at any point during the week, I could´ve used either one. There was no way for me to understand the desperation of actually living on the street, or in your car. It´s not an experience you can manufacture.
But as much as I couldn't forget that I do have a home, there were moments on my journey when I couldn't hide the fact that I was living without one. Even though I showered every day, my one T-shirt stayed consistently funky. I never got more than five hours of sleep in the car and by two or three in the afternoon I often looked and felt pretty ragged.
And a few times, people mistook that raggedness for more than an experiment.
No Sleep
The main St. Petersburg Library on Ninth Avenue N. is filled with all sorts of characters on the weekdays. Older folks mull over the New York Times; kids on summer vacation tear through the movie collection; and potbellied gentlemen look at www.bustybetty.com. (That's not entirely accurate. I saw one potbellied gentleman looking at www.bustybetty.com. But the image, unfortunately, has stuck with me.)
The trip cut into my precious tank of gas, but was always worth it. Every major magazine and newspaper, my e-mail, and a healthy collection of Sports Illustrated back issues were waiting for me.
Even better, I didn't have to cheat, mooch or steal to read them. I was merely taking advantage of a government service – and the chance to bask guilt-free in some air conditioning was a welcome break from freeloading's rigors.
After two afternoons in the library, the place started to feel like my living room. I had my seat – in the back next to a window. I had my daily reading – newspapers, shoppers (looking for giveaways), and Sports Illustrated. It felt comfortable. So comfortable that on the third day, I thought I'd take a nap.
Bad idea.
"CLANG! CLANG CLANG CLANG!"
I opened my eyes and standing in front of me was a library cop, dressed in a polo shirt and straw golf hat. "No sleeping in the library," he barked, as another library employee wheeled away the metal circulation bin he'd been banging against the stacks to wake me up.
"Oh. OK," I croaked.
"This isn't your bedroom," he said, noticing my water bottle next to me. "You can't have that in here either. No food or drinks."
And then he took my water bottle. My lifeblood. For two days I'd been carrying that thing with me, filling it up every chance I got. I'd brought it into the library before, even taken sips while talking to librarians.
But I'd crossed the line, broken my own rule. I'd snored my way out of the shadows.
The Tip
Not about to make the same mistake twice, the next time I felt myself dozing off in the library I went outside and took a nap on the grass. Nobody will notice me here, I thought.
Somebody did.
After sleeping for an hour or so, I got up and walked back to my car, which was parked next to a blue mini-van. A man was sitting in the passenger seat. He had every door and window wide open, trying to get some breeze.
"How was it sleeping on the grass?" he asked me. p>"Fine." p>"Not too many ants?" he asked.
"No," I said. "It wasn't bad."
I was stepping into my car when he spoke again.
"Listen," he said. "I was broke when I got down here. Do you need some work?"
What person sleeping in a park at three in the afternoon wouldn't (aside from a journalist out on a bizarre assignment)? The guy had made a pretty logical assumption.
He told me about a construction company in Pinellas Park that he had worked for after he moved to Florida. They were always looking for guys, he said. Cement men in particular.
"Tell them you know how to mix concrete," he told me. "They'll give you a job."
I didn't try – making money was against the rules. But this guy had seen me, or seen something in me, that nobody else had so far. He thought he knew my story – it felt like his – and he wanted to help.
Tides Turn
The only time all week that I told anyone I was with the Planet was on Friday morning, at a homeless shelter on 11th Avenue S. I explained to a shelter employee what I was doing, and she told me to go ahead around back where folks were waiting for their sandwiches.
I was hoping to find someone who was living on the street, or out of a car, by choice. He or she might have something to say about what I was doing, I thought. Maybe I'd even get some tips. But from the moment I got to the courtyard, I was lost. I sat in the wrong seat, picked up the wrong newspaper, and stood in the wrong place in line for my sandwich (it was all-you-can-eat, so I figured it was OK if I had one). Unlike at Panera, Hampton Inn, or any other place where I had once been a paying customer, I didn't know the shelter's unspoken rules. I'd been passing all week, but passing, in essence, for myself. This was different. This was uncomfortable.
I sat down on the ground to eat my sandwich – three slices of anonymous white meat between two slices of white bread. About 50 people were there, eating breakfast and waiting for a shower. They knew each other – this morning's routine was nothing new. At 24, I looked like the youngest person there.
About halfway through my sandwich, an older guy sat down on the milk crate next to me (I hadn't sat on it out of fear that it was someone else's). We chomped away in silence, washing down the tasteless sandwiches with coffee. Finally, he spoke.
"So, you out on the street?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I have a car."
"Wow," he said, whistling through his front teeth. "That's nice."
We talked some more, about the Red Sox (he'd had a place when they won the World Series) and his addiction ("Don't start gambling," he told me. "Take up drinking if you have to"). He slept on the front lawn of a condo complex. He got there every night well after dark, and was gone before the sun came up. If he got caught, he'd spend 30 days in jail.
As I got up to leave, I thanked him for chatting me up. I hadn't really talked to someone in a few days.
"No problem," he said. "Enjoy the car."
TWELVE HOURS TO GO
I'd been feeling suitably sorry for myself before I realized how good I had it with the Honda. Everyone I'd talked to seemed to think I was roughing it – sleeping in my car, scrounging for free samples, missing hours of precious TV. And I had bought into it. I was roughing it. This was tough.But, of course, it wasn't that bad. It couldn't be. At 9 p.m. on Saturday night, I was going to head home. I would crack open a beer, flip on the TV and lie down on the couch. I was going to be comfortable again.
I woke up on Saturday morning in a good mood, with a full list of things to do. The morning market downtown. A lecture at the Arts Center. An art walk in Gulfport.
I breezed through the day, coasting as I counted down the hours. I was incredibly tired – drained is really the right word – and had trouble paying attention to the speeches and art around me. It was like walking through a dream.
And then the dream turned delicious.
At 7 p.m., just two hours before I could go home, I pulled up at the St. Pete Clay Company, my stomach running on fumes. There was a party going on – a 10-year anniversary of some sort. Apparently, potters celebrate in style.
The table was to the right as I walked in.
Cajun fish spread. Meatballs. Fried chicken. Grouper bites. Chips, salsa, carrots, celery, little fried balls of flour or something. My knees almost buckled as I circled the spread.
And then I ate. For an hour.
I left the Clay Company full for the first time in a week. The endorphins were rushing. The sugar kicked in. There was only one more thing I needed.
Booze.
My first day out, I'd found a coupon in a small neighborhood newspaper for a free glass of wine at The Garden, an elegant restaurant downtown. I'd carefully ripped the ad out and stuffed it in my back pocket, knowing that the right opportunity would present itself.
It had almost happened on Thursday night. I'd even put on my nice shirt. But just as I was crossing the street, my mouth watering, two guys nursing a 12 pack on the corner offered me a beer. A free beer. Sure, it was a Natty Ice, but to these lips it tasted like an aged cognac.
The coupon was spared.
But now, with an hour left in my journey, I had no reason to hold onto it. I traded it for a glass of chardonnay. A cold, crisp glass of chardonnay.
I took my wine to a back corner of the adjacent bar, where the bartender was setting up for the night. "Is it OK if I drink this here?" I asked.
"Sure, honey," she said.
It wasn't a problem – I wasn't a problem – because I wasn't bothering her. I was just sitting in the shadows, enjoying my freebie.
I'd done it all week.
This article appears in Jun 8-14, 2005.
