The Pineapple Inn. The skeeziest, most bottom‑of‑the‑barrel motel I had ever seen. A staff member at Rowan’s respite home told me about it — which should’ve been my first red flag. When someone who works in crisis care says, “This is the cheapest place around,” what they really mean is, “Good luck, Godspeed, and don’t touch anything without gloves.” But it was close to Rowan, and it was all I could afford. So off I went.
I had no idea what kind of adventure I was signing up for, but I didn’t have a choice. After a few days, I started calling it Motel Hell, because that’s exactly what it was: hell on earth, but with a pool.
Before that, I’d been sleeping in my car for about a week — uncomfortable, scared, and keeping one eye open like a paranoid animal. I hated it, but I longed for a real bed, a shower, and the illusion of safety. So I plugged the address into my GPS and followed it straight into a world that could only be described as dystopian.
The buildings were rundown, the kind of rundown that says, “We gave up in 1998.” People sat outside their doors watching life go by like it was a spectator sport. The parking lot was a collection of potholes pretending to be asphalt. It felt like navigating an obstacle course designed by someone who hates cars. But it fit my meager budget, so I handed the clerk enough cash for a week and found my room.
The place gave me the creeps immediately. Broken‑down cars, overflowing trash cans, an exterior that looked like it had survived several natural disasters and one unnatural one. The front desk clerk cheerfully told me about the pool hours. A pool. Sure. Because nothing says “relaxation” like swimming next to a dumpster fire. I wasn’t there for a vacation — I just needed a roof.
Inside, the room was… a room. A bed, a TV, a tiny fridge, a table. One window overlooking the pool, which was full of screaming children and adults pretending they were on holiday instead of living in a motel. I closed the curtains tight. The carpet was worn — seriously worn — and dirty. The bathroom was semi‑clean, which at that point qualified as luxury. It would do.
I brought in my meager belongings, found my blanket and pillow, and took a much‑needed nap. The bed wasn’t comfortable, but compared to the front seat of my car, it felt like a five‑star resort. I slept better than I had in months. When I woke up, I made something to eat, sat on the bed, and watched TV. It felt like heaven — or at least a significant upgrade from “homeless in a Toyota.”
It was noisy, between the pool shrieking and the constant parade of people walking past my door on their way to the vending machine or the front office. But I didn’t care. I was behind a locked door. I wasn’t in my car. That was enough.
Eventually, I got brave and sat outside on the plastic chair in front of my room. From there, I observed the other tenants: smoking, drinking, laughing, carrying on like they didn’t have a care in the world. A few doors down was a young couple with a toddler — maybe 18 months old. I stared at them, wondering how they fit into that tiny room, how they managed, how they survived.
The woman caught my eye and said hello. The baby toddled over to inspect me, the new creature in his habitat. He was adorable. I played with him until his mother hurried over, introduced herself, and explained they’d been living there for months. Lonely, she sat down and told me their story: they’d lost their apartment, had nowhere to go, no money, no jobs, no options. Homeless with an infant — something I couldn’t even wrap my mind around.
She introduced me to other tenants, and soon I had a small circle of “friends.” People to talk to when the loneliness got too loud. I learned quickly that the Pineapple Inn was the last stop before the street. Everyone there was homeless, clawing their way out of the hole. She also informed me — very casually — that I could buy anything I wanted there: drugs, booze, cigarettes, weapons. Everyone had a hustle. All I had to do was show cash.
Little did I know at the time, but those things were going to come in handy.
I stayed there a little over a month, blending in with the rest of the almost‑homeless population. It wasn’t much. But it was better than nothing.
Another chapter from the edge of nowhere, told from the safety of “after,”
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 