KING OF THE SUBURBS STARTER KIT: SHOES

Everyone starts out as king of the suburbs once they make the move.

How hard can it be? It’s just another move, right?

From inner-eastside apartment to suburban property is just another move like running the Portland marathon is a walk around the block, swimming the Columbia River is a wading pool, and climbing Mt. Hood is as easy as climbing out of bed.

For kings of the suburbs, it’s a battle.

Unless you grew up there, the suburbs have a ‘quitter’ feel to them for seasoned urban dwellers. No matter which side of Portland you used to live on, there’s a residual yearning that comes with leaving.

Willamette Week published a response story about rising home prices in the suburbs.

It was full of longing and hope for the city.

“I’d wager a bet a lot of longtime Portlanders (like myself) are eyeing the suburbs while rich Californians are buying houses in the inner eastside. Some people are willing to put up with car thefts and open drug use so they can walk to their favorite brunch spot.”

There wasn’t a brunch spot when we moved to SE 11th and Lincoln.

SE Portland In The Late 80’s? Dirty

Philadelphia in the mid-70’s and NYC in the late 70’s are my context for urban filth.

Philadelphia had loose trash paper blowing up and down Market St. It was embarrassing. Back then no one bagged their dog crap. Sidewalks were minefields to walk down.

If that’s not nasty enough, I moved to New York during a garbage strike. It wasn’t as bad out where I was in Brooklyn, but downtown towers had trash bags piled two stories high against tall windows.

Rats loved it and you could hear them rustling around when you walked by.

I think of those days when Manhattan is shown in all of its gleaming glass and steel glory.

And trash, but why bring that up?

Inner SE Portland had a similar smear to it. Two blocks from Ladd’s Addition, one way 11th had a corner store, a bar down the next block, and no stop signs between Hawthorne and Division.

One night a woman fell/jumped/or got pushed out of a speeding van and hit a telephone pole.

It was awful. The whole block was taped off and lit up for hours.

The next morning I went out to find teeth and hair swept into the gutter. Was it the dead woman’s teeth and hair? I don’t know, but it was enough.

That was the day I stopped fighting my wife about moving to the suburbs.

Tri-Met Commuter To The Suburbs

The first morning I walked out of my new cup du sac I saw a syringe on the side of the road. There wasn’t a sidewalk then, or now.

Syringe? Suburban syringe? I learned that the supply house was on the next street over and customers parked on my street, hopped a backyard fence, scored, shot up, and left.

Was I naive about the suburbs? Are you?

On the bus ride from Portland after night classes two ragged guys sat across the aisle.

“It’s time for a drink.”

“We’ll get kicked off.”

“I don’t think so.” He made a gun sign with his hand and patted his chest.

Time for king of the suburbs to speak up.

“Hey, this is my first time on this bus. Is it usually this empty?”

“Not usually, but it’s late.”

“You guys live in the suburbs, too? I just moved.”

“We come out here to sleep so we don’t get our shoes stolen downtown, then head back in in the morning.”

“So it’s safer out here?”

“Depends on your shoes.”

“Can’t run away from that, can you?”