I’m thinking about the mattress I have at home — the pillowtop that I slither onto after a long day, like a lizard sunning itself under a heat lamp, and the down comforter that billows my warmth back upon me.

Instead, I’m cold. I pull my knees to my chin and tug the sleeping bag over my ears. Cussing and gunfire erupts next door — a movie playing much too loudly — and on my left, just registering under the occasional low-flying 747 and ambulance siren, is snoring. The streetlight flickers on, the tent glows for a second, then sputters into darkness. Welcome to Nickelsville.

According to data from Mayor Greg Nickels’ Web site, there are 1,621 shelter beds in Seattle. However, according to the Jan. 30 night count of unsheltered homeless by the Seattle/King County Coalition on Homelessness and Operation Nightwatch, there were 1,977 men, women and children sheltered under roadways, in bushes and at bus stops, among other places.

In September 2008, homeless advocates erected tents on public land near the Duwamish River, demanding more housing. Thus Nickelsville was born, and it has been moving ever since. The goal is a permanent, self-sustaining town able to house 1,000 residents, rather than chilly tents for 100. It hasn’t happened yet.

The contested island of fuchsia tents sits at the corner of Northeast 45th Street and 15th Avenue Northeast, in a parking lot owned by University Congregational United Church of Christ. The city granted the church a temporary permit a couple days before I arrived, but when it expires in early March, the Nickelodeons will have to figure out where to go.

“It’s real organized,” says resident Shane*, comparing the camp’s democracy to a mini-Congress. “I mean, it beats staying at some of the missions downtown. Some of those are really bad.”

Shane has been at Nickelsville for two months, after going through a divorce. He is clean-shaven and soft-spoken. With small, oval glasses, he could fit in with campus life across the street. He would like to move out by the end of February.

“I would never see myself giving up or anything, but some of these people on the streets … they just gave up all hope to take care of themselves,” he said. “The streets are pretty brutal.”

Paulette Bade, or “Ma,” is 60 years old and also trying to get back on her feet. She sells Real Change newspapers and arrived at Nickelsville after she could no longer afford her rent.

“Nickelsville takes everyone as long as you follow the rules,” she said. “I feel safe here.”

After rustling through binders and notebooks, one of the security guards reads the rules to Daniel Kim, The Daily’s photographer, and me.

In exchange for involvement in community meetings and six hours of security service per week, I get shelter and food. After signing and initialing a couple pages of documents, crisp from the cold and stuffed in a peeling binder, I agree to be respectful and courteous, and not bring in drugs, alcohol and weapons. On the honor system, I attest to the fact that I am not a sexual predator. Finally, I am officially a Nickelsville resident.

Nickelsville is divvied up into lanes, with each tent getting its own parking spot. Each tent has a letter and number and there are “fire stations,” poles with extinguishers attached, scattered around the lot.

The heart of Nickelsville is a fire that burns hot and strong in a barrel. I pull a chair into the circle of residents around it.

The fire should be called the Nickelsville Civic Center, quips Garth*, a slight man with big glasses. Residents sit around it and poke fun at one another. Some share bags of tobacco. Garth packs some into a paper and carefully rolls a cigarette.

He came here from Colorado because he knew there were many services for the homeless. He does laundry and showers at the Downtown Emergency Service Center, and uses its Connections program, which provides skills training and refers people to local services and housing.

Some people choose to live like this, he said, but some don’t. It just depends.

“Don’t treat us like crap,” he said. “Treat us like human beings.”

Nickelsville is as human as it gets. Everything else is stripped away. There’s no electricity. It resembles an enormous family living in a tiny house.

“You can tell who’s not homeless,” says one resident, teasing me. My jacket is orange, just like his, but spotless. Garth, a self-professed flirt, grins after telling me he has three vices: caffeine, nicotine and ladies.

“Nickelsville is a liberal community of people who are displaced from society, seeking to have a place that’s safe,” says Roland, who has been a Nickelsville resident for three weeks.

Homelessness, he says, has become big business.

“The solution would be that the government would quit spending so much money in programs and actually develop housing for homeless people,” he says.

There are many factors involved in homelessness. Many of the residents I met have been deep within the system, whether it was prison or foster care. More than one weathered a bitter divorce or addiction.

Especially in these times, residents kept telling me how no one knows how close they are. They could be one paycheck away.

“We’re full all the time now,” says Rico*, a former Nickelsville leader who has been there from the beginning. He broke his back while working and spent much of his money on hospital bills. The rest went to his wife to care for his children. They are separated.

He has everything he needs, he says, and the Lord provides. He grew up in 17 foster homes, built his own log cabin and was in prison for a time, he says, after punching someone in self-defense. He has lived more in two years than many people have in a lifetime, he tells me, surveying the group gathered around the fire.

“I believe in ‘you reap what you sow.’ … Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I reaped bad seeds,” he says. “It’s not your fault. It just happens.”

Daytime in Nickelsville is monotonous. People leave for work and church, and browse the stacks of books at the security station. There’s a lot of time to think.

I accompany a resident named Richard* on a walk down to the waterfront, a walk he takes often. His eyes are sharp under a cap of fluffy brown hair. He’s passionate about Seattle’s waterways and the garbage that has accumulated along the shore. Cleaning it up could provide jobs, he says. He cares deeply about the city and has endless ideas about how it could be improved. He points out the Brooklyn Building on our way back to Nickelsville.

“They could have used this to house the homeless,” he says. The windows and doors are boarded up.

Soon after our walk, UW students from the Organization of Student Social Workers (OSSW) arrive with lunch. Ivar’s Seafood donated 50 pounds of clam chowder, said Bely Luu, the group’s media chair. There’s food from City Soups and Luisa’s Mexican Grill, and QFC and Costco donated gift cards to purchase more items. One of the students gives me her gloves. I’m grateful.

The lunch line stretches past the barbecues. It’s first come, first served, and Rico reminds me that there is never enough to feed everyone.

“With the recession going on, food banks aren’t going to get enough food,” he says. Plus, there are more people requesting spots in Nickelsville.

There are mixed reactions from the community regarding the camp, said Katie Kannada, OSSW’s secretary.

“There’s lots of miscommunication,” she says.

One of the community’s concerns has been crime. Nickelsville has called the police to the camp before, once at the previous University Christian Church location to remove a resident who was told to leave and refused to do so, according to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. Most of the time Seattle police officers arrive when needed, Rico says.

“We have strict rules,” he says. “Everybody needs to follow them.”

Residents receive a three-day ban if they fail to come to the nightly community meeting. Meetings are conducted formally around the barrel fire, with a chairperson. Tonight two residents volunteer to set up a tent in an elementary school classroom and take questions from children about homelessness.

After the meeting adjourns, we attempt to make s’mores. Nicole*, an ebullient registered nurse, roasts a marshmallow for me. Since there is no chocolate, hot cocoa mix is stirred into a paste and deposited on the graham cracker. Then on goes the marshmallow. Nickelsville residents may be creative, but not everything is a good idea. The chalky paste is quickly dumped.

Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” crackles out of portable speakers. The young woman holding them sings along. People talk and laugh.

Roland encourages community members to come and spend the night.

“Come and stay with us for a little while,” he says. “You’ll see, it’s not what you think it is.”

I wake up sore the next morning. The cardboard boxes on the floor of the tent did little to protect my back.

Finally, I crawl into the cold. People are already gathered around the fire. One resident is attempting to smooth wrinkles from a dress shirt by holding it over the heat.

Rico walks me out and, after exchanging hugs, says, “You’ll always have a place here.”

*Residents requested their last names not be published.

Reach reporter Erinn Unger at features@dailyuw.com.