Since Day One of Honest Comedy

We started with a simple goal: tell honest stories that matter

The Homelessness Escape Room

People talk about the homelessness crisis like the people experiencing it are insane.

No. The crisis is insane. The people are trying to escape it.

Homelessness is the world’s worst escape room, designed by people who have never been locked out of anything. Every door says EXIT, but only opens from the other side. Outside, a group of people are standing around holding a key—not to this door, naturally, but to a different door in a different building. They’re very upset you haven’t used it yet.

The first clue says: TO GET A JOB, ENTER YOUR HOME ADDRESS.

The next says: TO GET A HOME ADDRESS, SHOW PROOF OF INCOME.

Oh, cool. It’s not an escape room. It’s a haunted circle.

Then a cheerful voice comes over the speaker:

“You’re so close! All you need is a working phone, transportation, clean clothes, identification, internet, sleep, a deposit, references, and a positive attitude!”

A positive attitude? I’m trapped in a maze, and now I’m being graded on customer service?

Every door says EXIT, and people outside keep yelling, “Just unlock it!”

Oh, wow. The door. I’ve been trying to escape through character development.

There’s always somebody who hears a complicated problem and gives you the goal back like it’s a solution.

“You should get housing.”

Really? That’s like seeing somebody drowning and yelling, “Have you tried land?”

“It’s not safe out there. You need somewhere to live.”

No kidding. I didn’t turn down an apartment because the sidewalk had better reviews. I didn’t choose the outdoor package. I’m not saving up for the authentic pigeon experience.

Some folks sit in a square, shove you into a circle inside it, and then ask, “Why don’t you just find a corner, love?”

A corner? In a circle?

You picked the shape. You put me in it. Now you’re acting like I’m too stupid to understand geometry. I’m not failing at life. I’m failing an escape room designed by a protractor with an attitude.

They put the solution outside the space they let you move in, then blame you for not reaching it.

“You need to think outside the box.”

Fantastic. You need to let me out of it.

Then somebody says, “There are resources.”

“Great. Where?”

“Well, I saw a flyer somewhere.”

Oh, good. My survival depends on your memory of a bulletin board.

They hand you a phone number. You call:

“Thank you for calling. For housing assistance, press one.”

You press one.

“To access our online application, please visit our website.”

You visit the website.

“Please call for assistance.”

I didn’t find help. I unlocked a side quest. The whole time, my phone battery’s at two percent, apparently the escape-room timer.

There are clues everywhere. One says GET A JOB. Another says NEED A PERMANENT ADDRESS. A third says PLEASE PROVIDE TWO FORMS OF ID, which is a thoughtful request from a room that ate your wallet.

The hint button is behind glass. The charger is locked in the next room. You can enter the next room after you prove you have a charger.

And somebody’s still holding up a key labeled INTELLIGENCE.

“Intelligence is the key,” they explain, very helpfully, while guarding the actual key, the map, and the only chair in the room.

Then they ask, “Why are you so frustrated?”

Because every answer sends me back to the first question, and everybody holding a key wants to give me a motivational quote.

“Don’t give up!”

I wasn’t planning to. I was asking where the fucking door is.

The problem isn’t that I don’t know I need housing. I have correctly identified the missing building in my life. Knowing what you need isn’t the same as being able to get it.

“Just get housing” isn’t a plan. It’s the finish line.

And people keep standing at the finish line, shouting directions to someone they’ve locked in the starting gate.

“We’re all rooting for you!”

Great. Could one of you stop cheering long enough to open the fucking gate?