DAY TWO
Sunday 01.05.25
“Art is infection.” – Leo Tolstoy
This past Thanksgiving I flew to Spokane for a five-day break to visit with my family: checking in on Mom who’s developed Parkinson’s in her recent years and Dad who’s struggling with A-Fib, or rather, the limitations the lack of energy the A-Fib places on him. They are workers who now consider it a good day if they get themselves fed and bathed and can watch some sports or a cowboy movie to burn some time.
Since I was joining the ranks of the infirm, my body was bent on a taste of solidarity. The first night there, I noticed my right leg was beginning to swell, the angry itchy swell of infection. My one theory was too much distance in the ice bath, a morning routine of mine. There was a minor cut on my right knee, probably infected by the less-than-hygienic state of the water: the manufacturer says the tub should be treated with hydrogen peroxide and the water swapped every three to five days, a practice which I neglected. Sometimes on stepping into the cylindrical tub, I nearly slipped on the algae lacing the bottom and sides... A trip to Urgent Care, a week of antibiotics solved my issue and the hot and bothered swelling disappeared eventually.
Leaving my house on today’s trek, I met Mike, a neighbor who teaches literature at Willamette University, currently on sabbatical finishing a book project on the philosophy of Bob Dylan. He’s got thirty fellow professors each contributing an essay to the book, though oddly, Mike has little interest in Dylan. He recently saw the film “A Complete Unknown” and gave it mixed reviews: “two hours of the music over and over…” though he wished his book release were nearer to the movie’s theater energy. Mike walked me out to 24th and Market before I peeled left and he took a right.
A usual trip out includes a long opening stretch where it’s just me and the pavement and Psalm 50 and the angels in the form of birds and slithering rainfall when the clouds are open. After these first blocks, I noticed some activity in the shrubbery lining the Dairy Queen drive-thru inviting investigation. Three young men hunched over a pipe, James taking a long pull on it. As I greeted them, they opened up to me as I asked if it was indeed James. He sheepishly concurred and apologized profusely about the pipe in hand. I met James a week ago in the Planned Parenthood parking lot, he and his friends Jose and Nadine digging through the short shrubs for redeemable recyclables. He’s recently been in an accident with a car, he on foot and the car being a car--a human colliding with a motor vehicle. He suffered two broken arms, a broken leg, and the middle finger on his right hand severed at the knuckle closest to the hand, leaving a minor stub. Last week the stub of his finger was so swollen and hot; he didn’t know if he should return to the hospital which had recently sent him away. Mind you, the wound is exposed, he’s on the street, hygiene seated in the back of a bus where survival takes up the majority of the seats. Last week I held his arm up, touched his hand not wanting to aggravate the activity there and prayed.
Today, as he sauntered out of the shrubs he pulled up both pant legs, comparing an infected left knee with the right one. Certainly a contrast there but nothing to the extent of his finger from last week. I examined it before turning to his compatriots. Austin I’ve met twice before in the same general location, north of Market. The first time I asked him about history: “I’ve been out here four years, nobody knows I’m out here, I just timed out of the foster system.” Since these guys were my first stop, each took a pair of new socks care of Melissa Carter, my equal at work in all things joyful. Mel gave me the socks on New Year’s Day when I met her for dinner at her house. Austin looks like a gentle Scandinavian elven creature, piercing blue eyes peering out beneath golden, even white curly locks. A scraggly beard dripping with moisture leans onto his jacket neck as he mentions how he will eat every last bit of food received. Beneath the rugged street persona seems a quiet attentive toddler needing to emerge.
Their friend Taylor has a baby face hard to describe. A young man in his twenties, his right arm is two to three times as large as the left. His right hand is a swollen block; he says there is no wrap on it, only gaining infection. All of these guys have wounds on their hands, which is standard on the streets. On further inquiry, he shares “It’s been a couple of weeks since it got infected, nothing happened that I can remember but I did go to the hospital two days ago and they gave me IV antibiotics and told me I needed to stay there until it got better but after twenty hours in the hospital I told them I had to go. The hospital isn’t a place where they heal you; they only throw stuff at you they think might help plus I couldn’t stay there anyway, not my place.” I raise that arm to the Mother of God and ask her to touch it with prayer, which she does.
These guys are so grateful as they reconvene beneath the shrubs, lighting their pipe again, questioning me why I’m not judging them like everyone else, a question I simply let hang in the air as I depart. James says to me "I've never had anyone remember my name after meeting them only one time." I responded, "I don't meet many guys with a finger chopped off at the knuckle." "Good point." If the limbs of these young men are oversized due to infection, perhaps God in the heart is an infection too—a kind of artwork. These guys betray a largeness of soul which is hidden from them.
At the corner of Hawthorne and Market Street, I meet JR whose eyes barely register beneath a ratty stocking cap. I’ve seen JR before but never before today spoken to him; he’s a man of few words: “Been in Salem since December; yes I’ll take anything you want to give me” so I upload one of everything onto the top of the blanket sprawled over his cart. Either he has chemicals influencing his system or street life has worn him down so much he doesn’t bother about details anymore. He parts ways with me stepping directly into traffic, headed north oblivious to the crosswalk signal and screeching horns.
I saw John in the fluorescent yellow “City of Salem” jacket tucked against the concrete pillar holding I-5 above. On his other side was a custom cart 4x8x4 feet with a blanket covering the edge. Summoning John, I asked if he’d like some food and water, which he took. Our exchange in progress, the blanket on the cart slid to the south and a toothless red-head (an artificial red, colored with salon products) poked her nose out: “Hey, what are you doing out here? Can I have some?” I began uploading some provisions to her as well. (I’m finding out there’s a big difference between having my neighbors choose their things versus being served them. There’s something nice about picking out items for them and presenting them to them, perhaps like the wise men offering gifts to the Lord, today being Epiphany.)
Dawn was lying headlong in the box, her right elbow stationed in a curled-up extension cord, her head resting on a fist. She broke into all manner of stories: “So, when you’re not working, you come out here to be with real people? I used to be up by Portland Road, but come down here sometimes—my friend made this contraption for me out of found wood on the streets, you can see the walls aren’t tall enough and he wants to redo it when he can find some more wood: do you see the ceiling? It’s made out of plastic, some sort of pallet covering that works very well when trying to keep the water out."
Whenever approaching a dwelling for the first time, you never know what you'll find and hers was tidy: “I don’t understand why all these homeless people think it’s okay to build a trash pile around them, it isn’t because they’re mentally ill—when I was younger and we’d go camping the rule and flat out understanding was that you’d leave the campsite cleaner than you found it and I can’t see why this should be any different…My boys, when they were in cub scouts, used to ask me to go on the hikes with them and I’d wear my platform flip-flops—I’m a hairdresser by trade and wore my platform flops everywhere—and the other cub scout boys on the hike would always look at me weird and I told them: don’t you bother challenging me to a race in your hiking boots, I’ll beat you every time in these but that didn’t convince them so I raced them and beat the pants off them and my boys told their friends ‘see, you shouldn’t challenge my mom, ever'…Is the Super Bowl coming up?” I told her today is the last weekend of the regular season-playoffs start next week. “Oh good, I know the Super Bowl is in February sometime and football season reminds me of my dad who used to go to the RAMS games in LA before they moved to St Louis and he’d get so loaded tailgating that my mom I would have to drive down to the stadium and I’d have to drive the RV back home…my dad loved the RAMS but my team is anybody but the Cowboys.” We both howled at this notion since that was MY team growing up too. She wanted me to stay a bit longer but understood our time was up and as I walked away she said, “Please be safe out here." I’ve been trying to obey.
Heading east I ventured up the slope toward the Days Inn where the charred wooden bears stand guard. There’s one that used to be propped up daintily on a large stone now face-planted into the pavement. I went that way toward the rugged cars serving as homes. A large FORD SUV painted all Spiderman—red with white spider webs—was the first window I knocked on. On this occasion, as on many others, a pause was necessary since the occupant was putting clothes on. Sean and Stephanie were in there, a tattooed wiry gent and his blonde-haired lady. It can be an act of faith to blindly knock on the window of a vehicle since you have nothing to read: no facial expression, no welcome, nothing of the situation to size up besides the look of the rig. Sean: “We’ll take anything edible” and we talked for a while about living on the streets. He asks “What church are you with?” People out here have different experiences with church intervention so I always tell them I live in the neighborhood, just sharing a bit. They were so grateful and asked if I had any gloves or hats. No, I don’t carry much. Food, water, joy, love, a touch, a prayer, that’s what I can provide.
Laurie was on her walker at the Fred Meyer intersection today, the knee brace hanging off her right leg. She spoke excitedly about the camp trailer she and Libby (Libby is a shy creature, who I’ve helped before, Laurie’s daughter. I suspect Libby’s dad was not a kind man, she’s so guarded and frail) will be moving into soon, about her nephew helping her buy it and set up in an RV Park close by. I do hope it happens for them.
Michelle stood on the north end of the laundromat strip mall in layers: Converse All-Star sneakers at the bottom of grey sweatpants at the bottom of a pink nighty underneath an undersized denim jacket. She then began to pace. Taking a bottle of water, she grinned big -about half of her original teeth present. Uninterested in any food, she asked me: “Wanna hit on this pipe?” I was already too delighted to partake.
“I won’t turn it down” is often the response when I ask people if they’d like some food or water. That was Steve’s reaction outside the Bottle Drop where he stood over the upturned bicycle he was working on. A young father walking behind his waddling toddler looked on. Steve camps on Hyacinth, a good spot there, but wants to move closer to here, since his mom is close by. I’d say he’s fifty; a big chunk of snot momentarily protruding from his right nostril. He’s layered in clothing and survival protection. “If you ever need help with landscaping stuff, I love that kind of thing, I’d do it for nothing. Thanks for all you’re doing out here.” Steve looks as though he might weep as we part, seemingly grateful for an interested ear.
Around the Bottle Drop a can or two fly off when people are en route so I retrieve a PBR can and give it to Justin who’s tucked behind a dumpster talking to a Hispanic fellow. Justin rifles through the cart and grabs a few things—another guy approaches who only wants apples. It was a brief visit.
Turning the corner, Kevin is sitting next to the electrical transformer. Me: how’s it going? K: Fucking Amazing! His sarcasm isn't lost on me. There’s milk splashed along the concrete and he laments “Some church idiot gave me rotten milk” before he continues. “I got my identity stolen and my Social Security is all messed up because of it. I’m doing what I can but I’m not made for the streets and I’m tired of this bullshit.” He’s both resigned and exhausted. This is my first encounter with Kevin and I like him: he’s real, unedited, emotive. He must not be too long out here and I hope he uses his rage for movement into truth.
At the bus stop at Sunnyview and Lancaster, I ran into a lady whom I mistook for a man. Not for the reason of modern gender confusion, but more from dress. She was wearing old hikers, a ball cap, jeans, and a flannel that gave a masculine vibe. I’m glad there still exists a masculine vibe. Calling her “Sir” didn’t matter to her: she wanted to talk. She rambled about helping deliver meals at Thanksgiving for the last forty-five years, how her body was noticing she cannot do it anymore, how she and her husband –he died in July—went into the wilderness when their boys were young and raised them on the land…”Best thing we ever did as those boys are doing so well right now, good fathers with good families and I wish every family had the opportunity to do that but it was hard and we were poor and now my husband’s gone and I’m trying to figure out how to make it work in the city again. 2024 was hard, my husband died and we’d been together for so long, maybe 2025 will be better?”
Raymond is hustling with two bags of cans propped on a WINCO shopping cart. He’s very skinny and halts to talk: “I’ve got this neuropathy in my legs, you could stab a needle into the bottom of my foot and it wouldn’t feel any different. I don’t know what it’s from—lack of potassium maybe”—so I give him a couple of bananas. For some reason his attire catches me: a brilliant multi-colored hat, teal/green t-shirt beneath a ragged brown zipped hoodie. He speaks of his age: "I turned fifty-seven this year." To me, he looks seventy. I pray over his legs for a brief moment and he races off to the Bottle Drop. It reminds me of the scene in “The Chosen" series where Little James corners the Lord after Jesus commissions him to go out on a healing mission: “How can I? Will it ever make sense?” His pensive face in tune with my questioning: “Lord, I’m so broken and weak myself, how will you do this?” Perhaps we will never understand true healing as the Lord sees it.
Today I made three laps around Planned Parenthood, much different in my heart and mind than in weeks past. Usually, I’m praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet but today's invitation was to simply celebrate being alive. When I got to the point where I usually turn left, a man looking the part of an Orthodox monk came in my direction. When I lifted the plastic from above the food and mentioned to him “Take what you want, take what you’ll use,” he proceeded to grab the handle of the cart and head north. He turned to me and we giggled, a couple of kids on the playground perhaps. “You said take what you’ll use; it’s a dang nice cart!” “You goof, I need it too!” He was a very funny man taking all the Clif Bars remaining and a couple of waters. “Thank you, God bless you,” he said. He might have been the Christ in disguise.
On the north side of Coral St, my first time around PP, I noticed a FORD camper van I’ve never seen before. A loud crash emits from the area betraying a bag of trash heaved onto the sidewalk. I walk from across the street and knock on that door. “What do you want?” “I’ve got water and food, do you need any?” “Fuck yes.” As the door cracks, I recognize one of the men sitting in the ‘living room' and a young lady approaches me. “Sorry about my mouth, fuck, I need to clean it up sometimes.” The language barrier is no barrier; it’s lost on the need at hand. “Can I have a bunch, there’s like six people living here and others coming and going…my God, FRUIT!” The banter went much like this and multiple people came back for seconds and thirds. There’s a shyness on the streets as though it will be an unforgivable offense should someone take more than necessary. I get this. I KNOW this. Perhaps next time I’m offered a gift, I will just receive and receive until the giver determines the length of the gift.
On my way home now along Sunnyview on the I-5 underpass. Tents and tarps are lining the sidewalk again, to be moved out at the city’s discretion. For today, they are undisturbed. In the first tent, music rolls out the unzipped door so I poke my head in: five or six men crammed into this tiny space, some smoking, another on his phone. When I tell them I’ve got some food, I insert the shopping bag into the tent. The ringleader: “Is that it?” “It’s the end of my route.” “Why can’t we be first on your route?” “Sometimes you are, today I started along Market Street.” He grabs the bag and stealthily digs through it. Then, as if on cue, he upturns the bag, dumping its entire contents in the middle of his tent. A younger man asks if I have a sleeping bag, a tent, tarps, etc. I do not have those kinds of items.
My cart dutifully emptied, home was my next destination. The south edge of Sunnyview can be tricky, navigating barely a shoulder and deep mud puddles. Looking out for drivers is a needed task as well. Sometimes the lines get blurred out here: who has the harder life? The guy living under the stars in the cold and the rain and nature and thieves and hunger OR the young lady throttling her sports car with a pained and haggard look? Worried about a mortgage, getting the kids into college, chasing the latest gadget. All of it is hard in its peculiar sense. Perhaps that’s why we have pets. The homeless and the housed. Coming off Sunnyview into the field north of my house, I encounter a muscular Hispanic man with two top golden teeth shining. He’s got beautiful Huskies leashed with crystal blue eyes that reach past the cold, the rain, thieves, hunger, the sports car, mortgage, college, gadgets. They were stunning animals and much like I do with the human folk I meet, I inquire about their names: Lucy and Oreo, mother and daughter. Perhaps that’s what I need: a flash of light and a good cookie.
Whenever I get in from a tour through the neighborhood rest awaits, usually in the bathtub. Today I was scrolling my Google news feed and came across an obituary for Richard Easterlin, expounder of Happiness Economics, the father of the Easterlin Paradox. Simply put, his empirical research and years of study exposed this truth: money and economic prosperity do not guarantee greater happiness. His economics extended well beyond dollar accumulation and like factors: “Easterlin’s ideas include happiness surveys that directly inquire about life satisfaction and perceptions of happiness, environmental indicators such as ecological footprints, air quality measurements, and access to natural resources, as well as social capital measures like interpersonal trust, civic participation, and social cohesion.” All the pictures I found online of this man depict him smiling, maybe because he lived out what he had found to be true.
His research and ideas are as fresh as the Gospel: sell your possessions and give to the poor (generally what we do as good people, is we give our wealth to other wealthy people and organizations to soothe our conscience and get a tax break, believing they will engage the poor on our behalf), give no thought about tomorrow, don’t do anything foolish (like build bigger barns when you’ve had a good year, or the modern equivalent of buy that bigger house when you get a promotion…) and LOOK at the birds, really get a good view of them and the truth there. I’ve never spoken to the birds a la St. Francis, nor have they conveyed any thoughts to me in their inimitable way, but what I do not perceive in them is a sense of depression. They don’t have a big pile of money to protect nor any worries about how the next paycheck is going to hit their account. They work, they eat, they trust.
Richard Easterlin, pray for us.
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