Went down to buy a sack of weed.

Went down to buy a sack of weed. Thinking in the day, tis strange, the way i choose to buy, going down to Portland, paying more money, spending gas. Other people go to houses, usually in neighborhoods similar to their own, are invited inside, sit on a couch, pass the pipe around at the dealer’s expense, then they get a deal. I prefer downtown Portland. No phone call to get anything set up. No one I see regularly, tempting me, asking me if i need a bag. I am choosier now, going only during the day in times of high chance for a score. Beth thinks I’m on my way to get the license plate tabs renewed, it’s almost the end of August, we’re a month behind – in most things. Same with the telephone, i return calls months later. Sometimes i feel like i am preparing people & they are preparing me. Angels unearthed Jesus, awake in his tomb, drowsy, eager for light. Wide awake, ready for sleep. Skipping my day time sleep today.

First I check Hawthorne. Great noble Hawthorne, determined in it’s way to stay unchanged, small business, specialty stores, sidewalk cafes. Permeable smells of incense, body odor, old buildings, sweet India. Residents in the area plant stones & smooth glass & broken hand sized statues, in the dirt moats between sidewalks & houses, & draw dazzling designs in bright & deep sidewalk chalk, “change is inevitable” in swirly pink.

No one. No possibilities on the score. Women in long summer skirts that sway above their ankles & hug their hips. Parked in the shade on the side street. Just out of the car, I follow a 20 or 30 some full hipped lady’s white underwear for two blocks, ambulating beneath her translucent white skirt. Money in my pocket from my check, first one in a while that I knew I could afford the 40 bucks, got my tithe money too & the cash for the vehicle inspection.
People that look like tourists from the other side of town, young women in tight bright colored shirts, try to fit Hawthorn’s groove. In one retro or resale or retail shop, some people shop furiously, throwing garment after garment on the racks, dim lighting. Others quiet, & serious, seriously cool, fitting a boot. The live event is so dead in their clothes. It doesn’t have a groove.
Decide to leave the area. Around a corner side of a house covered in leafy vines, see a UPS man unexpectedly, clad in brown. He gives a quick eager smile that makes us both look away, wonder, how many years did it take to get that smile, strained with politeness. Wonder, if I drive for the freight company I’m working for, will it kill my humanity? Feel more alive, real, in summer walking sandals, than in socks & boots & starched uniform.

I stop by a yard sale, on my way out, money in my pocket. It is the time of yard sales, late summer, actually middle of summer. It’s the school calendar that says it’s late. I am not in school & am relieved. Earlier today stopped at a yard sale in my own neighborhood, with my unsigned check, 11 a.m. just off work 7 hours with a Friday donut benefit & a thirty minute unpaid lunch. We’re gonna work you here. Boss, so frantic & unclear about what he wants done, maybe I just feel his stress & don’t hear his words. Thinking, maybe if I look in the trailer & see what he’s talking about, I’ll know what he wants done, but no. “you want what & what taken off & what left on?” I ask, “ . . . so you want the top one on the manifest left on?”
“Yeah. these two here, those two there, this one behind that, that one to door 35.” I can’t hear & understand a million miles a minute, not with new jargon & first times. Shit, 35 hours this week and no benefits, 39 hours and no benefits, 40 hours which I won’t see & benefits. Low pay, making 5 dollars an hour more than I made 12 years ago just out of high school, doing similar work, except then I swept the warehouse floor while burning a cigarette between my lips.

The yard sale sign says unique music, free stuff. Two ladies sit in lawn chairs. The music must be gone. Dirty box of buttons, feminist books, the moon within you. The two women talk, as folks look around. Reclining she counts her cash, singing classic rock song, humming, “The UPS guy came buy, parked across the street, playing his radio. Said he had to wait for thirty minutes before his next delivery. I said if you’re going to be parked there you may as well play your radio; I could use the music. He sat there the whole time and said, he understood, without the music he would go insane.” I didn’t buy anything at either yard sale.

Driving out of Hawthorne area Beth calls my cell phone. Eventually I tell her where I am. “I had a feeling” she said. And then we argue. She hates the weed & fears my slothful addiction. In the midst of our argument I see a dreddy, dark skinned guy, tall, a red, black and green knit cap covering the top of his locks, carrying a backpack. I circle the block arguing, looking, but he’s gone & I can’t find him.

Drive over the bridge to the west side. Watefront Park is usually a guarantee. On the north side of Burnside bridge, I don’t see it. Old hobos dimly resting in the shaded areas, a sunbathing guy spreads his white skin over his towel on the grass, soaking up daylight. Walk down the sidewalk, just past the steamboat Portland maritime museum, playing turn of the century music over it’s decks, I see a group, sitting on the grass.

The usual introductions & I’m sitting on the blanket where a guy just got up, & said to the group as he left, “I’m going. Be careful.” He eyes me, “I’m scared,” & leaves. The guy sitting next to me places a rolled sack between us on the blanket. He has tall, wavy hair, big eyes that look boiled red. There are two other guys sitting on skateboards and a girl with long dark hair & a black shirt sitting on another blanket, talking. The guy on the long board throws down two thin sacks. He motions to the first sack, “there’s that,” then he points to his “or I’ve got these two dubs.” I pick up the first sack & he takes back his. Walkers & day-strollers, pass by & eye the subtle bags & the apparent transaction curiously. I sit cross legged & unroll the bag between my legs.
“I need 45 for that one” the guy says. I’ve heard it a lot, 45, 50, they got shorted or this or that or there’s something special about the bag. I eye the bag & see leaves & even a seed or two.
“Do you have anything else?” I ask.
“I’ve got another bag” he says.
“Is it a different kind?”
“No.”
“This looks pretty leafy.”
“I haven’t even looked at it. All my stuff comes from across the bay.” I worry about getting a bag of Mexican & paying kind price for it – I’ve heard of it happening. If I didn’t have to beat the Friday afternoon traffic back home to get to my evening job, I think I’d leave it & go check for something else.
“I’ve got the dubs.” They guy on the board says.
“I’ll take this one,” I say, “for forty. That’s all I’ve got.”
The guy with the tall hair and the guy on the skateboard, say something & sort of shrug to each other. “Alright.” He says.

The guys on the skateboards are brothers, from California. The one on the long board, selling the dubs, is the younger of the two. He’s selling just to get gas money, to go anywhere, out of here. Fucking Portland sucks shit. He nods to his brother “we are going to travel the world. We’re going around procreating making as many babies as we can.” His girlfriend left last night with his baby girl. “I’m going everywhere, traveling, so every time, all the time, my ex-girlfriend can see my face, everywhere.”
“How long have you had your long board?” I ask, it looks well worn, nicked around the edges.
“Long time.” he says.
“Can I ride it?”
“No.” He says.
“Why not?”
“Because. I don’t let anyone ride my board.”
“But I’ve never ridden one.”
“People ask me that all the time. I’ve got chicks asking me, ‘can I ride your wood’?”
I look over at his brother on the short board. He’s a couple days unshaved like everyone else. He has small black lines painted on his face, beside his eyes, on his cheeks. “How come you got the short board?”
“Because he doesn’t know any better.” His brother says.
“Fuck you.” he says to his brother. He shrugs, “I just haven’t found the right long board yet.” The guy that I bought the bag from picks up his board. “Like this, this is what you need.” It’s a length in between the long & short board. Then he goes back talking to the girl in the black shirt, who’s been talking the whole time without stopping.
“I piss on my board.” The older brother says. “I shit and piss on it . . . so if some girl wants to get on it, I’m like, ‘go ahead.’ If you want to sit in my piss you might as well fuckin’ wash my balls in the shower too.” He goes back to traveling around the world. “Wouldn’t it be cool if you could have a skateboard that converted into a snowboard? Like you could change the rails & have detachable bindings, a board for all year.”

I walk in the shade, under a bridge, out of the park, across Front street, through a fenced parking lot, down by the light rail tracks. I find my favorite spot for smoking -- a stair case beside an underpass, where the light rail passes below. & you see the people in the street train in snap shots & they see you the same, just a frame of an instant. I smoke & it is good. I exhale & smile at the instant faces. It is good. Life is good.

I feel social, prophetic, walking down 1st street, I see a guy, that looks like the street, dreaded hair, a big backpack, carrying a cardboard sign. I follow behind him then run up to him, “what’s up?” I ask, joining his stroll.
“Nothing,” he says, “howzit goin?”
“Alright.” he looks me in the eye, searching for recognition, watches my hands. His face is pierced & his eyes guarded at first then switched to friendly, relaxed, he’s carrying the cardboard sign against his knee & I can’t see what it says. “What are you up to?”
“Just going down to the park. Gonna sit down their for a while, enjoy the day.” Our paths diverge at the corner.
“Yeah, enjoy it. Gotta enjoy the days. There’s not many left.” His face is a question.

On the interstate, hot dry white concrete, traffic of glossy paint fenders, “The interstate is death” which leads to thoughts on ways out of the matrix. & think of the choosing of life, the rapture & if it is the believers departing skyward, what do you do? Reach out & try to take as many with you, grab their hands for flight. & think of Dad in his prayers, “forgive us our sins for they are many.” & never understood the pronoun for how can he petition the Lord for others’ redemption – then I realize it is Christ like “forgive them for they know not what they do.” That is Dad, that is his heart, asking the Lord for forgiveness for himself & those around him in the momentary and eternal circle of held hands.