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

DOES THIS MAKE YOU FEEL SAFE?

It was a weekday morning at the Sunset Transit Center.  I took the steps from the boarding platform to street level two at a time, slowed to a walk and then slowed again when I saw all the cops.  Three stood on the steps to the bridge over Highway 26, watching some other cops.  The interesting activity was taking place a few paces away from the stairway at the entrance to the parking garage.    

Two cops were standing behind a man seated on the concrete.  The man's legs were stuck straight out in front of him.  His hands were cuffed behind his back.  There was a cop hand on each shoulder and a cop knee on each side of his back.  In other words, a perpetrator was being immobilized as part of an arrest. He must have resisted arrest, or why the heavy force?  But he looked about as strong as your average wasted junkie and positively breakable under the control of the two cops.

Another cop, squatting in front of the perp, was going through one of those filmy white supermarket bags that biodegrade while you wait.  A transparent baggy lay on the concrete nearby.  From 10 yards away it looked to contain a handful or two of white powder.

Another cop was snapping pictures of the perp, the bag, the scene.  He was framing the shots with painstaking care.

A Beaverton police van marked with the word "Sergeant" was parked nearby.

I had stopped near the cops on the bridge.  Now I walked softly around the arrest area.  I think it's good to let cops making an arrest know that a citizen is watching.  Keeps them honest.  I don't want a cop getting nervous or adding my name to a report, though, so without acting creepy, I crept over to a vantage point from where I could see the bad guy's face.

He was a wiry young man with Mediterranean features and long, long black hair.  Terrorist material, if you're profiling, except that all the terror here had been struck into his heart and showed on his face. 


I had seen what there was to see and restarted the trek towards my job when yet another cop strode from the vicinity of the van over to the alleged criminal.  He wore blue latex gloves, a fashion statement, I suddenly noticed, being made by all the cops.  His busy blue fingers fiddled with an arrangement of fabric or plastic -- something that unfolded and which he fitted over the perpetrator's head. 

Before I could angle for a better look, a helmet followed the collar.  The blue fingers fiddled some more, attaching the one to the other.

The helmet encased the prisoner's head completely, clearly meant for restraint, not protection, a little prison cell in itself.  It had the gracious styling of a medieval torture device.  The man's eyes peeked out, an untrained astronaut.

The End


Nick O'Connor
copyright 2011

SPECULATIN'

Traveling on the Max from Northeast Portland through downtown and beyond with me was a young man who looked like Stacy Keach, the actor – Keach 30 years ago, that is – but smaller. He gripped one of the upright crossbar support posts with both hands. He had placed the point – or cleft – I couldn’t see the shape – of his chin on the post, bending his head back towards the ceiling. From the Lloyd Center until I got off at the Sunset Transit Center, he held that position as if tied down. As commuters disembarked, the car steadily emptied. Occasionally, the man's lips moved.

Physically, the man seemed sound – youthful, robust, standing on his own power, no tremors, seizures or outbursts. He was, however, breathing fast.

Unusual behavior, but since he was keeping to himself, no one else was paying attention. He wasn't doing anything wrong, wasn't violating anyone's personal space. You have to wonder, if a passenger dies peacefully in his sleep, will the passenger sitting next to him notice? And will the live passenger, anxious to get to work on time, interrupt her schedule and the schedules of the other passengers, to push the call button to the driver?

“What's up?” I wanted to ask the man. “What's up?"

Had I taken the initiative and asked him ,“What's up?,” what would he have said? Nothing, maybe. Waved me away. Blinked, like a cat waking from a nap?

What are the chances he would have been happy to talk? I didn't ask, so I'll never know. There are reasons for acting like you're in a waking coma. There's anxiety. There's the reaction to a drug taken for anxiety. There's “Rapture of the Ride,” when you're heavy groovin' on the tune coming through the earbud, or, less commonly, on the Tri-Met experience. There are chiropractor’s orders. There's trying not to throw up after a bad burrito. There are those who want attention but are too shy to get it directly. There are dozens of mental or emotional conditions from OCD to a phobia, and dozens of ingestable substances, from PCP to MJ, that could have been affecting the dude.

My favorite possibility is that he was a pilgrim on a spiritual quest, a self-transformative journey. He was praying for the rest of us. Why not? Why not take Tri-Met to the sacred grounds and study compassion on the way? A bus or train car is a cauldron of milling humanity. Where else in little old Portland can you consistently, daily if you like, take in the whole parade, every strata, color, and state of mind? For two dollars and change, your spot on the ride guarantees an opportunity to – in reality, not online – be with and tolerate strangers you generally want to have nothing to do with. This is a good practice.

Or maybe he was trying to win a bet. 

TALKING TANGO

Seats in the “new” Max cars – those of the yellow and blue color scheme and plentiful plastic – were designed for people smaller and chattier than the average Portlander. This is indisputable.

There are at least three discomfort zones in each car. At each end is a C-shaped curve of seats that is meant to encourage either conversation (which doesn't happen in Portland, in my experience, but don't get me started), or disorientation. You could be traveling backwards, which is disorienting by itself. But facing forwards in these cars can make you self-conscious.  Half the faces in the car look back at you and half face away.  Where to look? At the same time I wonder if the person whose reflected face I'm studying in the window is studying me, and if I'm alarming this or that rider by looking at them for too long.  Is it better to smile at strangers or keep a blank face?

Another dubious innovation is the conversation group of four seats. In this arrangement you sit directly across from another rider and so close that it takes an effort to keep from bumping ankles. And you're elbow to elbow with a similarly lucky couple. It's like being on a double blind date without so much as a glass of water, much less a waiter.

Then there are the seats situated behind the structural components, like machine gun nests. Each of these new Max cars has four pairs of seats blocked in by either a perpendicular extension of the wall, that is, a bulkhead; or by the plate glass divider next to the middle door of the car. Maybe the idea is to keep the riffraff from falling asleep.

I was stuck in this last discomfort zone behind a bulkhead, and had wedged myself into the window side, making room for a small child or contortionist. I had my notebook open, pen in hand waiting for a thought worth mentioning when, at the Lloyd Center stop, a young woman was asking if there's room next to me.

I shove over a little further for her. She smiles and comments on the tight squeeze.

“Yeah, you can hear the click as you snap into place.”

She said, “I see you're writing.”

Stop right there.

An attractive young woman might entertain a conversation initiated by an attractive young male stranger, if he happened to strike the right chord of bold sensitivity or raffish humor, and depending on whether her mood was on the upswing or downslide, and if his clothes were socially acceptable in the circles to which she aspired or in the slums she wanted to tour, and if Venus and the moon were aligned, and if the dog had been walked and the rent paid, and so on. All that having fallen into place, a charming and fortunate man, a young man with potential, might strike up a conversation with her.

No attractive young woman starts a conversation with a stranger in a crowded train by showing genuine interest in his notebook scribblings, and certainly not with a man whose jowls sag and whose hair is thin and graying, like her dad's, and whose smile is very slow to appear. Does she?

That's my basic line of thought.

So imagine my surprise when this young woman sits in the uncomfortable seat next to me and wants to talk. Her question about my writing led to my job, which led to my asking what she does.

She was on her way home from an all-night tango dance.

It had been her second night in a row of dancing all night, starting after dinner and going until dawn. Portland, it turned out, was hosting a major tango festival.

“Tonight's the last night. I'll be there. But it's only till midnight.” I shook my head sympathetically.

I've done some dancing, almost all of it during the first years with my wife. So I asked some informed questions, and we had more of an interview than a conversation, largely about the tango scene in Portland (500 impassioned tangueros and tangueras), but also about the dance itself (sternum to sternum!), her love for tango (“I'm obsessed,” naturally), and personal details I shouldn't tell here. I'll just say that tango has boldness, glamor, drama and melancholy, and it might attract people who have those qualities.

My wife and I used to contra dance, which is the opposite of tango. A contra is a line dance, with a caller (“Do-si-do and back to the line!”), like square dancing, backed by a string band playing traditional music. Gentrified hillbilly action to you, Snarky. We tried swing and lindy hop. We waltzed and square danced a little. But we met at a contra dance and contras remained our meat and drink. We danced at the local weekly contra dances, at weekend festivals with names like Fiddling Frog and Harvest Moon, and traveled hundreds of miles to week-long camps where you could dance till you dropped . And we attended a few all-night dances. I proposed marriage at the all-night New Year's Eve contra dance in Pasadena as 1994 became '95.

While my new acquaintance spun her glittering web, a whiff of those whirling nights came back to me. My wife is an excellent dancer; I'm not. But with the band smoking, the women flaunting their assets, the mischievous sideways glances and blatant stares, the stomping and shouting, the parade of attractive strangers, why, even a limping curmudgeon from the planet Grim might feel some pleasant intoxication.

At the Sunset Transit Center I said goodbye to the tango fan and slipped past her. She said “You should come tango sometime. We like beginners.”

It's a stirring thought, but no. not me, not now. The occasional dancing I do anymore is with my wife, in the kitchen, to the radio. Sometimes our daughter joins in. Maybe some day, when I've recovered from parenthood and a scientific miracle has restored my youth, tango will be in the cards for me. Still, as I cross the footbridge over the freeway, I'm tangoing in my imagination.

In my fantasy, I'm a tango master. My tuxedo fits like a second skin and feels like silk. My wife is dancing with me. She reminds me with a glance and a shift of her hand on my shoulder why I married her. We glide like tigers through a jungle of other couples. The music is so intense the bows want to fly from the violinists' hands into the hearts of those who are the most tangotastic.

At the office, I hung up my jacket and settled into the cubicle. I had trouble getting down to work; I was surprisingly aroused. Within a short time, however, the office worked its magic. It is, after all, one of my comfort zones.

Nick O'Connor

Copyright 2011

THE CAST IRON HOMING PIGEON

My nephew and his wife were having a housewarming. For the occasion, I bought a cast iron bottle opener in the shape of a bird.  It's definitely a bird, but definitely not a specific bird. It doesn't matter.  It's the thought that counts, right?  Right?

Anyway, the party was scheduled from 3 till 9 p.m. on a Sunday. I got a late start but expected to make it on time to see the house, greet the family and present the bottle opener.

At 7:20, the 77 bus picked me up at the corner of 17^th and Weidler.

At 7:40, I got dropped off at 58^th and Halsey to wait for the 71 bus. There was still some riding ahead, but enough time to see the house, greet the family, and give the gift.

I noticed another guy waiting a couple doors down the street, back towards 57^th. I thought maybe he was standing there for a view of the 71 bus, which turns left from 57^tth coming south onto Halsey and heads east. But no, he wasn't close enough to the corner to see up 57^th. Then I had the impulse to walk back to 57^th and see for myself if it was coming. The instant I moved in his direction, the guy crossed the street.

That's when he showed how far gone he was. As he crossed, his legs were misbehaving and he did a little half squat every few steps to keep from launching sideways. I calculated he was about one drink from final splat.

I think he was avoiding me, not because I look badass -- I'm a medium-size, mild-mannered, middle-aged guy in glasses – but because alcohol had short-circuited his judgment. I've been there. I think brother man was alarmed by his condition. Whether I was coming over to rob him, hit on him or just ask a question, he couldn't trust his wits with a stranger. He could die on the spot, or be humiliated and not even know it. But if he started moving now, into the well-lit, wide-open street, he had a chance.

When I returned to the stop, he returned as well, squat-lurching back across the street and then trying to keep his balance on an undulating piece of sidewalk about 10 yards away.

I had mislaid my cell phone and also maybe to screw with him a little, asked if he knew when the bus was due.

He managed to call the tracker. “Ten minutes.”

A conversation followed. He complained about the transit tracker's inaccuracy and praised Tri-Met, “rated the best in the country” (repeated three times, slurred not spoken), because “we do good work in Portland.” And never mind how good we are here, he was mad that the fares keep going up.

This sent us on a side trip to the Tri-Met budget, the federal government, unions and ultimately, his union and his job.

“I'm in mail. I just do mail.” At a printing company, he said.

He called his supervisor “a turd” – only the tip of the shitberg, of course. After railing against the supervisor, he railed against the company owner, who inherited the business and had no idea what he was doing.

“Two bad bosses -- I feel for you, man.”

“What?” He squinted hard at me.

“The supervisor and the owner. Right?”

He said, “No, It's just one guy. He plays video games and drinks beer every morning in his office.”

According to my unnamed acquaintance, his boss is not only a slob, but he overbids jobs, resulting in not getting the jobs, resulting in too little work and too little income.

“I was laid off for years. I had 18 vacation days taken away. Eighteen.”

I asked how the company could strip benefits with a union in place. He shrugged and said, “They've got no money.”

I nodded sympathetically. He said again, “They've got no money.” Shrugging again. Bottom line.

He said “They've got no money.” a couple more times, shrugging each time. He seemed to be fading.

It was about 25 minutes into our talk, and I excused myself to take a refreshing walk to the corner and back. He used the break as an opportunity to get behind a bush next to the front porch of the nearest house, where he took a leak. He concluded the festivities by dipping a wad of snuff into his cheek. Then he took a little walk down Halsey the other other way from me, using the entire width of the sidewalk as a giant balance beam.

He made a show of looking up the cross street. Then he looked down Halsey Street towards the neon signs of a couple of bars. For a second, I thought maybe he was going to go top himself off at whatever bar he'd recently left. Wisely, he chose to return to the busstop.

We continued the topic of his work. In that overly forceful and blurred way drunks have, he confided “I'm just about ready to say 'Fuck you' to the boss.”

I said “The bus?”

He repeated himself, verbatim but louder. “. . . THE BOSS!”

I could relate. Though my current boss and company are relatively enlightened, experience as a member of three unions has convinced me that labor and management are natural enemies.

The walk had revived him. He had a lot more to say about the printing company, the boss's family, the dire economic situation, and where was I going, anyway?

The boss finally arrived at 8:40. We called each other “buddy,” as in “Nice talkin' with ya, buddy.” He boarded, but it had grown too late for me; I crossed the street and walked all the way back to 42^nd to catch the 75 homeward, feeling extra safe with my hand in my jacket pocket on the cast iron bird.

Nick O'Connor
Copyright 2011