That is the smell sitting at the painted red benches in the alley between Voodoo Donuts and Captain Ankenys Well. Down the way a bit is a petite bohemian bar called Valentines, where the music is too loud for old people and if you try to lurk outside for too long, they will close the curtains on you. Shame.
Portland is as alive as ever. Hipsters and homeless surround every block. Seems to be a careless tranquility among the dirtiest and confusion that floats through the streets here. Youngsters with thrown aside potential. Magical musicians playing their souls and sounds into the streets for the tourists and the aimless. For those wondering and wandering. Here I am in the middle of it. In the middle of the river as it sweeps me away.
I wander over to Skidmore Fountain and light a smoke. Some not so fresh stick from the shop on 1st street. This girl is pacing around talking to herself, she does a U-turn when she sees me, and she walks over to me and she asks for a light and she talks about the crazy assholes and how that makes her clench her fist and that is why her cigarette is crushed and she says that she is so pissed. I tell her everyone is a little bit of an asshole. She mumbles incoherently. Then says something about a flash and laughs hysterically.
She has a sweet smile, was probably beautiful once. Now she twitches and tugs at her shirt. Heroin and other opioids taking hold. Her stare is darting around, only occasionally looking at me in the eyes, but when she does, I can see a lost little girl. Suddenly, she looks over my shoulder, and her eyes grow large and her face darkens. “That is mine!” she yells out as someone walks too close to her pile of stuff. She sprints off across the plaza towards a wall where her pile was sitting and starts screaming at the guy. “What are you doing! Didn’t you know that wasn’t yours?! It’s not yours!”
I take the opportunity to slip away back up Ankeny toward the light and the music where I find a red picnic table to stop and sit and listen for a little while.
