page contents Google

THE WILD SIDE, OR JUST ANOTHER WALK

Oregon’s wild side is a twenty minute drive away.
Big city life gets gritty near Portland, Oregon’s West Burnside.
The pretty lights, the shimmering beauty reflected on the Willamette from the top deck of the Marquam Bridge that looks like Paris lights on the Seine from the Eiffel Tower, disappear after you park your car.
A personal safety check is a goods idea.
 Take a good look around.
The lights still shine if you look up, but it’s a different view on the ground.

Burnside separates north and south, the Willamette defines east and west.
You can’t get lost. It’s NW, SW, NE, SE.
Philadelphia uses the same map scheme.
Out there the center of town, called Center City, is the cross section of Broad Street and Market.
In Philly, the main streets cross at the biggest city hall in America.
Click that link to see a wonderful page showing Philadelphia in a fine light.
In Portland, similar coordinates put you in the middle of the Burnside Bridge.

 

Driving downtown here means finding a parking place instead of a parking garage.
It’s a challenge made easier by asking the Parking Goddess for help.
The challenge evolves to parallel parking in two moves without playing bumper-car in front and back.
Getting it right feels like the answer to a Zen koan.
Park the car after scoping out the block.
If the breadline outside VooDoo Donuts seems unusual, two guys on the ground leaning against their backpacks near the Portland Outdoor Store isn’t.
The two guys wore clean clothes, had current haircuts, probably early twenties.
One wore glasses,
Not the profile of the usual transient, but still not good enough for the small man standing over them shouting.
Trim, older middle-aged, wearing a coordinated outfit that showed class and professional grooming, an angry Portland baby boomer barked at the two younger guys.
He accused them of everything from causing economic crashes to foreign wars. Each boozed up breath raised the volume.
I walked by, then walked back.
The two guys looked trapped and uncertain, probably not knowing the neighborhood.

 

Public Safety From Old Farts

After I said a few words to the guys, the loud man went quiet.
I asked the guys on the ground if they were okay, if they needed anything.
It’s the same thing you’d ask anyone who looks like they’re headed for trouble.
I saw an old man in a plaid suit getting over-revved.
What would happen if the guys stood up, and in doing so bumped the suit and he fell down.
The story would be two transients attacking innocent citizen, not two guys out for a walk on the wild side, getting verbally abused by a passing jackass, and trying to leave.
Me: Is this your usual thing, finding people to yell at? Nothing better to do with your time?
Man: What I do is no business of yours.
Me: In my citizenship oath I promised to look out for problems, and you are one.
Man: That’s a good one, I’m the problem, not these two bums.
Me: Take another look, pal. Do you see the face of meth on them? Did they panhandle you and frighten you?
Man: I see two bums in my city who need to leave.
Me: Oh, now you’re a travel agent. That explain your nifty fox-hunting outfit. Where are you suggesting they go?
Man: Back to where they came from.
Me: Alright, now things are clearing up. Maybe you ought to take your own advice. It’s late and getting later and here you are cruising the wild side of town. Does your wife know where you are?
Man: I don’t have to tell you anything.
Me: You don’t have to tell anyone anything, buddy, so why go off on these two. You sound like a belligerent drunk who is unhappy with the way their life turned out.
Man: I’m happy, but not when I see trash on my sidewalk.

 

I turned to the guys on the ground.

 

Me: Is this the sort of bullshit you’ve had to listen to.
Guys: Pretty much.
Me: I’m sorry you had to hear an aging pretty boy spew his disappointment. Remember this night when you get older and get a bug stuck in your ass like him.
Guys: Okay.
Me: Here’s what could happen: He could call the police and report you as some kind of menace, make up some story like he’s done before, and then you’ve got to talk to the cops. They might want to search your packs. Where are you from?
Guys: Minnesota.
Me: You in school?
Guys: Yes.
Me: Have you got traveling money?
Guys: Yes. We’re hitchhiking and our ride dropped us here.
Me: Do your parents know where you are?
Guys: Yes.

 

The Wild Side Is Closer Than You Think

When is the last time you said, “This is it, my forever home.”
Unless it’s Assisted Living, you’ve probably got a few more stops ahead.
But maybe it’s not a house, or apartment, but a place.
People came to Oregon early for reasons I can’t fathom.
If there had been a state west of Oregon, I think the pioneers would have kept going.
Daddy came home one day and said, “Let’s sell everything, buy a wagon, and walk two thousand miles to a new wilderness.”
Does everyone agree? What about people with deep family roots? Did they wagon up?
Who would up and leave everything they knew with no expectation of ever going back?
Happy people?
Or people with a plan?
If the future looked better in Oregon than wherever they came from, and they were young enough and energetic enough, why not take a shot?
That’s how I saw the two guys with the backpacks, pioneers.
I’ve met people who moved to Oregon with the pioneer spirit.
I moved here with the pioneer spirit, which might be a stretch since I grew up here.
From one thing to another I found myself living in Philadelphia, then Brooklyn.
Either one could have been my forever home, if I had been a stray.
But I’m an Oregonian. 
If others feel the draw that brought settlers here over the plains and through the mountains, that’s a good thing.
Oregon is all about commitment. Some get it, some don’t, but who doesn’t feel some connection to where they live?
Nothing stays the same, but chasing a vision of the past does no one any good.
You either move up, or move on. Which one is it?
About David Gillaspie

I am a writer. This is my blog story day by day.

Speak Your Mind

*