Sacred Citizen

Sitting across the aisle from me, a man sports a full face tattoo. His faded beige pants stop halfway down the shins. The arms of a black windbreaker are folded back to let his hands out. He's zipped the jacket all the way up so the decorated head sits abruptly on top like a sculpture on a pedestal.

The man is absorbed in a graphic novel. When he moves his head from side to side, a short, greasy, brown-blond ponytail flops into and out of sight behind it. He's propped a wooden walking cane at an angle against one leg.

I want to steal glimpses of the guy; it's not hard to do as he's glued to the book. But I feel queasy and uncertain. Others are casually getting a load of him, too.

The man is tall and bony, adding to the scary factor. I can almost read the title on the cover of his book: “Strong,” or maybe “Strength,” written in drippy gothic letters over a background of swirling demons.

A glance at a time, I check out the face art. It's nothing more than an elaborate, symmetrical doodle of snaky curlicues, with flanges added to the smooth curves next to the eyes, and in the corners of the jaw. Done in a single shade of medium blue, shaded to add dimension, it looks exactly like an ironwork mask.

I'm afraid to look hard at him, though he's inviting it, isn't he? I imagine the conversation:

“You lookin' at me? You lookin' at me?”

“No, I'm lookin' at that . . . grease stain . . . on the seat.”

“You're lookin' at my face tattoo!”

“Sorry. Yes, I am. I'm staring at your unbelievable face tattoo.”

“You could just say 'Hey, that's an awesome face tattoo.' It's not like I'm hiding it.”

"I'm really sorry, man. Your face tattoo isn't that awesome, anyway.  I looked on Google images (http://tinyurl.com/cosy4eu) and there are some real  monsters out there."

In my mind it goes like that.

He looks up once in awhile from the book, as if startled, eyes following an invisible moving spot floating around inside the face cage. I could move to another seat but the fascination grips me tighter than the horror and I keep my seat. 

As he gets up to go, I'm staring at him. I want our eyes to meet. I want to see the person in there. Is he trying to get out? I'm sure if I could peep into his soul windows for an instant and catch a gliimpse of the emotional and sensate being catching a gliimpse of me, the mystery would lose some of its charge.

But no. He shows no interest in anything outside of the book. He gets up and leaves at Skidmore Fountain, walking slowly, thoughtfully, alone. Towards Old Town and, I imagine, a free breakfast at a mission.

IT MAY BE A LITTLE LATE TO POINT THIS OUT BUT

Girls giggling: perfectly normal, perfectly natural. They had boarded the Max inbound near Lincoln High School around 5 p.m. and sat together across from me. Three nice, middle-class girls, all apparently with an extracurricular interest in shoes and eyeshadow. They were comparing birthdays – they were all 17, one was soon to turn 18 – and boyfriends, and boyfriends' birthdays.

“Jeremy is 27,” bragged one with huge, Dora the Explorer eyes and raven hair.

Her friends were silently impressed. “He had to make $400 yesterday.”

I strained discreetly to hear what this could possibly mean, picking up that his occupation was “returns.” She told of him returning a $300 leather jacket to Buffalo Exchange.

“When the employees got all suspicious and huddled up in the back, Jeremy just left.”

The other two girls radiated coolness. Fascinated but not asking any stupid questions, like “Who does he work for?” One of them, a fair-haired gamine whose cherry red lipstick overpowered her face, confided that she keeps her stuff at her boyfriend's place. “Shampoo, hairbrush, cosmetic kit. I've got access 24/7.”

The third girl's boyfriend had taken her to a cool party house.

“It's totally soundproofed, with lights and cameras all over the place. There are little secret nooks for hanging out, a kitchen anybody can use, and a runway.”

“A runway?”

“Yeah, like for fashion shoots.”

“Who's the owner?”

“Some forty or fifty year old guy.”

Being a forty or fifty year old guy myself – with a daughter – I was alarmed. How about putting these girls and their parents all on house arrest? Was I jumping to a wrong conclusion in smelling criminal activity?

One said she sold “four, five, six, seven a day at school.” What she sold, I didn't hear. Somehow I don't think she was talking about handmade wristbands or zines. Jeremy's girlfriend said she didn't like to drink “much.” (Bless your good judgment, I thought, while her friends giggled.)

They made calls and set up a meeting in front of a hotel at the Convention Center. At the Convention Center, they got off and I had a chance to look at them more closely as they walked by. Yes, they were all pretty. They wore more makeup than the average schoolgirl but so what? This was all overheard in public. They could have been exaggerating to impress. Jeremy could be a casual friend and the “return” business his own hyped-up exploit to impress her.

And the Convention Center hotel?

Social Skills

It was a nice weekday morning in Northeast. Three middle-aged men boarded the 75 bus together -- all around 40 years old. One using a cane, old before his time, sat across the aisle from me.  His friend took the seat behind him -- he was a rangy guy, all knees and elbows and a mane of gray-streaked red hair topped by a ragged ball cap.  A quiet one, whom I barely glimpsed, ended up right behind me.  The tall boy played with a flip phone and streamed comments to the guy in front of him. 

"Look at that.  I got a new account.  Is that cool or what?  Check it out...," thrusting the phone forward so his partner could glance at it. 

"Uh-huh.  What is it?"

"That's a Boss Mustang.  A 429, the big one, not the little one. . . and look at that cop car.  That's a nice one.  That'd make you want to go to work, wouldn't it?"

"Huh.  Hey, in the shadow there you can see the guy he stopped. . ."

They shared a giggle.

"You'd just be hoping for a high-speed chase in that baby."

"Here's an XKE.  Robin's-egg blue.  XKEs are really rare."

He showed it to the quiet guy, who stayed quiet. 

Middle-class drone that I am, running my life in a rut, I often wonder what other people are doing for money. You never know if you don't ask, of course, but these guys appeared to be unemployed. That would  be very much like 10 or 15 percent of the local working population. And they were dressed for hanging out.

Meanwhile, a few seats back, a young man and woman were getting to know each other.  They'd caught my eye when they came past.

I've been noticing the steady dive of one segment of the PDX fashion trendsetters, past grungy into a deep dumpster full of the baggiest, most faded, most unkempt and stained rags. Naturally, this garb leads to a heavy reliance on tats and face jewelry.  What's next?  Rolling in mud and shaping scabs into bunnies?

These two were were only dipping their painted toes into that demographic. She had boarded first, legs sheathed in black, ripped tights and black knee-high leather boots; up top a holey black t-shirt under a brown, fringed leather vest, and above that, black- and henna-dyed hair ratted out in alarm.  God, the freedom!  To be young and freewheeling!

The young man-boy had Charlie Brown's face, round and simple, and instead of dots for eyes, marbles. In his hoodie and permanent neck art, he gave off the air of a street operator. 

She and he sat together, talking in outside voices about their travels.  He'd been to Cabo and Hawaii.  She'd grown up in New York.  Both loved New York City.

He asked, "Do you want to hang out later?"

"Yeah, sure."

  

Money for Nothing

Waiting at Pioneer Square in the morning for the Max to the boonies, a guy is approaching each of us waiting there, holding up a book or booklet.  A Bible?  Asking for directions to a landmark in his travel guide?  He gets a couple of “No”s, shuffles towards me.  Homeless, obviously.  Every physical attribute that would suit a person for TV – regular features, gleaming smile, relaxed good humor, eye contact, tailored clothes, voice of friendly authority, warm, charm, physical grace – this man was missing. 

“Excuse me,” he said, looking slightly past me.  “I need five bucks to get into the shelter.” 

He held the booklet close to my face and pointed to a yellow highlighted section. The small print challenged my vision, but the man kept it steady.  Yep, there was City Ministries at an inner Southeast address -- five dollars a night.  I had time to grasp that the publication was one of those free pocket-size handouts listing all the social services organizations and emergency numbers in town.  

Handing over a dollar, I said that panhandlers had been hitting me up for money to get into a hostel at $35 a night. 

“Fancy,” he said.

“How do you  know you can even get into this mission?”

“There’s lots of room.  I was there last night.” 

What am I to think?  That a $5 a night flop is going to have guaranteed space?  That this fellow is really going to spend my morning dollar on an evening shelter?  That this dollar would be better spent on the lottery? 

Doesn’t matter.  Anyone who begs money on the street can have my dollar, if I’ve got one.  Sometimes I’ve said “Spend it wisely,” to the receiver.  No longer.  Now I mutter “Spend it any which way you want.”  It’s a token of the existence of human kindness, which is not always practical.  

The End

PROTECTING AND SERVING

This is the third occasion in less than six months that I’m writing about cops on TriMet.  There was the arrest at the Sunset Transit Center in which a crew of boys (and a girl) in black (not blue) were collaring a scrawny pipsqueak in what looked like a Special Forces operation.  And there was the cop who almost lost it when a woman loudly and persistently called him out for harassing a kid who apparently did not have a fare.

Generally, I respect the police.  I very much appreciate the hard job performed by peace officers, a job that a guy like me could never do.  Long ago in Detroit, cops interrupted a pair of bad guys who were robbing me and a friend at knifepoint.  I’m forever grateful that cruiser happened by when it did.  And cops cleared a mean drug dealer out of our Portland neighborhood a few years ago.  So any police who read this, please understand that not only do I see you as people, I believe that some of you, sometimes, are heroes.

Last week, as I was getting off the Max, again at the Sunset Transit Center, two cops boarded – a big one and a small one.  The small one held a leash in both hands against which tugged an eager German Shepherd.  The dog led the cops through the car, sniffing for all it was worth – empty seats, backpacks, shoes, even crotches. 

Before the team got far, a young man burst out, “What is this, Nazi Germany?”

The dog handler smiled photogenically.  As they worked the car, the heckler revved up:  “Do you want to know my race?   National origin?  Ethnicity?  Age?  Sexual orientation?  That’s what the Nazis did.  They used dogs.  Hey, maybe I’m hiding an alien under the seat.”

When the dog sniffed him, the heckler said, “Look at this. What do you hope to find?  This is an illegal search!” 

Perhaps that’s not word for word, but it captures the spirit. 

Credit to the cops, they stayed cool.  Not to their credit, they brought a big dog into a car full of people without warning, maybe a well-trained dog for their purposes but with no apparent respect for riders’ personal space.  The heckler has a point.  The situation reeks of fear and sadism.  

The big cop was about as warm and friendly as the mountain he resembled.  The small one seemed to genuinely enjoy the sideshow they were creating.  They finished and without a goodbye disembarked and waved the train onward.  I passed them on the platform, sharing a nod with the big one.  His name badge said “Stoner.”  Really.  But his face read, “On duty.  Don’t touch.”  

I was able to ask a TriMet guy who was checking fares about the searches with the dogs.  He told me these are training runs.  The dogs are learning to find explosives.  

“Not drugs,” said my informant.   “It’s fun, though, to see all the people who get off the train when the dog gets on.”  And he gave me a wink, which I had trouble returning. 

SCAM ARTIST RIPS OFF INNOCENT CITIZEN

Somebody tell me if you've been played like this.

It happened to me on the Max riding eastbound during the evening commute.  Coming through downtown, the car was getting full.  I was reading a book called "The Anatomy of Peace."  The book tells how to get along with others, which I'd like to do better.

A woman sat down next to me.  I glanced over and we exchanged weak hellos.  This should have been my first clue that I was in the crosshairs but I was off guard. It's because people have been more friendly to me lately.  Maybe it's the charisma of my new cap -- it's a nice wool poorboy, which gives the illusion that the wearer has a personality.  In any case, I was a little too relaxed, so when she spoke to me I joined the conversation, instead of treating her like an obnoxious drunk. 

She asked, "Are you getting off work?"  Showing definite interest.

One can ride public transit for weeks without exchanging a word with another person.  That is, if you can avoid the fare checkers and signature gatherers and phone blabbers.  Silence is the rule.  As I write this, I've been on the Blue Line for six or eight stops and can see 20 riders in plain sight.  I swear that not one audible syllable has eked out of the lot of them.

Wait, I wrote too soon -- a woman stifled a sneeze!  And there -- a passenger excused himself to get past another one! 

Thank god that commotion was brief and my heartbeat can get back to baseline.

It is this tendency towards quiet and solitude in the crowd that raises my suspicions when someone does speak up.  I knew this woman's innocent question was not so innocent, but the book was working on me, and, as I say, I was off guard.   I closed the book.

"Yeah," I said.  "Did you just get off work, too?"

"Six forty-five this morning."  That fit the face -- the blue eyeshadow beginning to smear, eyes working hard to stay focused.

I asked  why she'd been up all day.  The story fell out like she'd told it a hundred times.  Running from domestic violence in Phoenix.  Staying with her three kids at a Convention Center hotel.

"How long have you been here?"

"One month and one day and I sure don't want to go back."

She was working as a caregiver and her paycheck was due in a couple days.  The day after getting paid she was scheduled to move into a place at 70-something and Southeast Foster.  For tonight, though, she had a $39 hotel bill and only $9 to pay it.

I received a text from my wife, who was at a restaurant with our young daughter.  My wife had mistakenly eaten something she shouldn't have and was feeling a severe pain.  I texted back some sympathy.

For the woman next to me, food was an issue, too.  She didn't have any.  

"Where are your kids?"

"They're at the hotel.  The oldest is 15," she said with a gesture I took to mean child care was the least of her concerns.

Though she was missing some teeth, a good sign of drug abuse, and though I know I'm gullible, having emptied my wallet for strangers in the past, I believed her story.  She seemed to be what she said she was -- a poor, desperate mom with three kids who was trying to start over in a new town -- and not a junkie lying her ass off to get money for dope. 
"My name is Nick."

"Miranda."

The phone buzzed.  My wife was saying the pain was worse.  I texted back, "Is there something I can do?"  She thought she could make it home to lie down.  She wanted me to pick up some groceries. 

Miranda's stop at the Convention Center was coming up fast.  I gave her the $11 lollygagging in my wallet.  As I handed over the bills I realized that eleven bucks wasn't going to do the job, was it?  I got off the train with her to make a phone call to my church.

Miranda readied a notebook and pen while I tried to reach Pastor John. He was out but would return soon.  I gave her John's contact information, which Miranda diligently wrote down, like a rookie reporter at a White House press conference.  Five minutes later, I boarded the next Max.

When I got home, my wife was lying down, watching a video.  She said she was feeling better, and in a couple hours was up and about.

The next day I learned from Pastor John that Miranda had called him.  He had delivered a box of food to her at the hotel, and paid for her room for one night. 

I'm pretty sure now that Miranda was not scamming.  And I'm glad I was generous.  And sorry I led you on. 

From My Collection: Men: The Introverts

Anyone who rides public transportation to and from a daily job sees the same riders all the time.  They stand next to you, sit across from you, frankly assess your appearance with a glance, and when necessary, acknowledge you.  You may have shared hundreds of hours of travel and recirculated air with someone but positive contact is still normally limited to a smile or “Excuse me.” 

Surprises happen:  On a crowded Max train one morning a man standing nearby edged up to me and whispered,“Your fly is down.”  (I swear nobody noticed me zip up.) 

For the most part, the familiar strangers who dot my commute make about as much impact as the stuff in my spam folder.  And in this era of smart phones, public transportation seems almost to breed introverts.  My personal collection of TriMet introverts includes the following samples. 

A man reads standing up, usually in the spot where the train car is hinged and the floor moves, so he has to constantly adjust his feet to stay upright.  He never leans against the wall or uses a hand for support .  In fact, his hands are full; there's a book in the left one and, in the right one, a pen for making notes in the book.  The book is always covered in plain paper, hiding the title.  Some days it's a big book and sometimes a small one, but the practice itself never varies. 

A mountainous, fair-haired fellow sits on the side bench, holding a large, worn briefcase on his lap.  He's worn, too, overrun by middle age, though he could probably still take me with one hand tied behind his back.  He's not plugged in, never reads, never interacts, just glazes over and often nods off.  His style is Rumpled Business Casual.  Now and then he spruces up – a pressed shirt, a pristine pair of shoes – as if embarking on an upgrade.  A few days later the shirt is wrinkled and the shoes scuffed. 

A young man in a business suit, always impeccable, haircut fresh, shoes shined, listens to a music player.  He keeps a stolid, unchanging face as he walks deliberately, falling behind the rest of us on the walk from the bus to the Max.  His attention is wholly on the player and what's coming through it.  He manipulates it constantly, as if sponging up every last bit of goodness from the same eight bars or the same affirmation and then doing it again.  And then again.  Or maybe just searching, searching without success for that one good tune.  Whatever the sounds he's hearing, they stop somewhere deep inside of him.. 

Though he has the long, white hair of a retiree, he's on the same schedule I am.  Every weekday, he gets on the car carrying a fold-up bike, which he takes to a seat.  A tiny rearview mirror is attached to his glasses.  Sometimes the helmet stays on; today he doffs it, revealing a thin, insulating cap.  He sports an outfit of beige and browns consisting of a fuzzy, armless sweater from which poke the sleeves of a checked shirt.  Shapeless dockers complete the look.  The right pant leg is tied up, showing off a few inches of bald leg and an argyle sock.  From a shoulder bag he pulls a laptop, followed by a pair of big headphones, and goes to work.  I can see the screen, which in no time is packed with columns of numbers that he cuts and pastes for the rest of the ride. 

Now you know as much as I do about these men and their individual routines for coping with the commute.  They share an emotional remoteness.  I can relate.

Next:  The Women