Elevator doors opened up to the fifth floor of my workplace in SOMA, and I stepped around a collection of people with phones in front of their faces. The key card attached to my hip opened the door to an office full of white desks covered with silver desktop computers, and office chairs filled by young, clean-cut professionals.

I felt self-conscious about the stains on my sleeves and the hairs clinging to my flannel as I navigated the aisles to my seat. Would anyone notice that I had worn the same clothes two days prior? Did the tangled state of my beard show that I hadn’t washed my face?

At my desk I took off my bulky, beat-up backpack. Sand fell to the floor as I opened it, and I glanced to my sides to make sure no one was watching. I pulled out my toothbrush, yesterday’s clothes, my phone charger and a collection of Raymond Carver stories before I found the bottom of my pack and the key I needed to retrieve my laptop.

I grabbed my computer and then stopped by the kitchen to get yogurt, granola and cold coffee. On the way back to my seat, I passed by the stack of yoga mats that nobody ever seemed to use. With the awkward entrance behind me, I felt secure in my seat. As long as I kept myself seated and working, no one would have any reason to notice the tired circles under my eyes or the lived-in smell of my clothes.

When the screen lit up, I logged into my email, where I found my workload for the day already waiting for me. I’d start by answering the question, “What is Accidental Death & Dismemberment?” and then I’d move on to “Do I need to pay employees for the time they take off using their Paid Time Off benefit?” I’d answer these questions and more in 300 to 500 words, with links to references.

But first, music. I pulled up a fitting song for the moment. A song titled, “How Did I Get Here?” Only a few hours earlier, I had woken up to the sight of a pod of porpoises playing in the waves. As the sun rose over San Francisco, I watched the last remnants of fog turn from pink to orange to gray. To have started the day so immersed in my place on the earth and then to find myself surrounded by 1,000 computer products and conversations about software and miscellaneous topics, like spray tans — it felt like my life was happening in two separate worlds.

The office I was in belonged to a company that dealt in job benefits. I had been hired as a copywriter to answer human-resources-related questions. When I accepted the offer, I joked to my friends, “I’m going to be the only homeless person working at a tech company.” It didn’t take long to learn that that wasn’t entirely true. There were plenty of newly arrived tech workers looking for homes. Mostly, they stayed at hotels or at Airbnbs while searching for permanent housing.

So I wasn’t the only person without a home working for tech. But at that moment, I knew I was probably the only person working an office job in San Francisco who had slept on Baker Beach that night. That much I knew for sure.



The irony was that for the first time in my life, I could readily afford a room in San Francisco, yet there was no room to be found. The house hunt was merciless. I replied to a craigslist ad that was 10 minutes old and was told that I was second in line. The first person took the spot.

I’ve moved four times in the last five years (all within the city). I was well versed in the struggle to find housing in San Francisco, but this was ridiculous. Talking to co-workers, I began to see that most of my fellow employees had moved to San Francisco within the last six months. So it appeared that many of my incoming counterparts were filling up potential rooms before I had a chance at them. I remember hearing at an Occupy rally that there are more vacant housing units in the city than there are homeless people. I wished someone would have let me into one of them.

A month and a half after starting work, I finally caught a break when a room opened up in a friend’s household. With a check written for the first month’s rent, I thought I had it made. A job and a room; it wouldn’t be long before I had the world.

Or so I thought, for about 48 hours.

Two days later, I walked into a conference room to have a meeting with my project manager. I was informed that the application I had been writing for was not profitable. Therefore, my contract had to be terminated. That was it—game over. Not even spared a few minutes to say my goodbyes, I was promptly escorted out of the building. I went from homeless but employed to being housed but jobless in less than a week.

Until now, I’ve managed to hang onto the room that took me three months to find. I’ve worked a couple of odd jobs in the meantime, but mostly I’ve enjoyed my joblessness. I’ve had time for road tripping around Northern California, days on the beach, reading, writing and generally living the way I want to. If you can afford the choice, I’d say renting and being unemployed is far preferable to working and lacking a home.

That said, the couple of paychecks I walked away with are nearly gone now, and sparing a miracle, I may not be able to afford life in San Francisco much longer.

I’ve lived in San Francisco for five years, working odd jobs and splitting single-room studios with friends to afford the city life. Besides the copywriting gig, I’ve worked as a naturalist at an aquarium, a grocery cashier, a bike courier, an elementary math tutor and a breakfast buffet server.

My story is common enough. When I arrived in San Francisco, it seemed that the majority of twentysomethings I met were in the same boat. However, today it seems that starving young artists and writers like myself are a dying breed.

I never really questioned the fact that I was draining my bank account each month to live here. My community of friends and the local art scene were enough of a reason for me to stay. But now that I’ve gotten a taste — however brief — of financial stability, it suddenly seems ludicrous to try to hang on month to month with odd jobs. But I also refuse to give 40 hours of my life each week to a company I don’t believe in.

I figure I may be better off moving to a place where rent is cheap — somewhere where I can work less and spend more time crafting what I hope will be a great American novel. I’m thinking maybe somewhere on a mountain for this winter season, and after that perhaps Oregon or Mexico. The bright side of moving out of San Francisco is that nearly everywhere else is cheap in comparison. I’m not breaking up with you, San Francisco, I’m just suggesting that we take a break — at least until I’ve established myself enough to afford your tastes.