Living in a homeless shelter is an awful lot like living in prison.  There are the rules set out by the institution, and enforced by the staff, and then there are the real rules established by the inhabitants.  Resident rules, like staff rules, were often slippery things that changed depending on hierarchy and territory.  Like prison, there was a whole lot of chaos and crazy within an enclosed space thrown in to the mix as a multivariate affecting the equation.

For two days after moving in, every new resident is on lockdown, unable to leave.  The reasons for this have never been made fully clear to me.  Something to do with the staff 'getting to know you and your habits.'   Blessedly, everyone kind of knows the drill, and stays relatively clear of the new person during that time.  I more or less red, slept, and cried. 

I had just left the West Town loft that I had lived in for the past six years.  The last day that I had physical possession of my old apartment, I lay on the floor and sobbed.  My voice echoed throughout the rooms, as it was empty of all of my things.  My body felt stretched to the point of breaking.  I was so tired.  I just wanted to go home, but was forced instead to say goodbye to my old home that day, not really knowing when I would find a permanent place again.

On my third day living in the shelter, I was involved in a near physical throw down with another resident over chocolate chip cookies.   Earlier in the day, an older man had brought in a box of cookies and offered me one. Happy for some sweets, and something kind of normal, I went into the kitchen, which was the only room where food was allowed.  Seriously.  I would be violated for nibbling a cookie in the hallway.  So, the kitchen.

This is where I met Margot.  Margot had on her pink bathrobe, which I would later learn was her warning colors.  You could easily judge the Margot Threat Level by the color/tropicalness of the day's bathrobe (I swear that I have never seen the woman in anything other than a bathrobe and bedroom slippers). 

"DO NOT BRING YOUR TALIBAN TOXIC SHIT IN HERE!"  This was about two inches from my face.  I thought it was about me.  No, it was about the cookie. 

I was so not into this.  I just wanted to be left alone.  But, you know what?  I was not going to be stepped to by a four foot tall two braid having wanna be Pochahantas in granny pajamas.  I chest bumped her out of my space. 

Me: "The FUCK, bitch?"

Margot:  "THE CIA GAVE CANCER TO ALL OF THE SOUTH AMERICANS WITH FUCKING! COOKIES!!!"

Me:  "What kind of cookies?  RADIUM CHOCOLATE CHIP?!"

Did staff come in when they heard raised voices?  Nyet, comrade.  When scuffles didn't have anything to do with a resident that they deemed to be special, or in need of protection, they just sort of let things roll on to whatever entropic conclusion, or lack thereof, they would settle into.  Or out of. 

Eventually, someone else came in to the kitchen and put the radio on blast.  Margot wandered off.  Minicrisis averted.  The less new than me girl turned to me.  "Thing is, with Margot, if she in pink, you got to get staff to get her out the kitchen otherwise she'll go off no matter what anyone does."

Lesson one learned.