Everyone is doing what they need to do to get by.
I say it to myself on the highway on Friday afternoons, speeding home to Portland after a day of teaching, while SUVs rocket past me and crouching sports cars cut me off. I stay to the right except to pass, and when angry determined drivers glare through their windows into mine I look straight ahead and sing a little louder. They are doing what they need to do to get home, I tell myself. They have had worse days than mine.
I say it to myself in the coffee shop when my occasional fumbling is met with an icy stare, and when my customers order with irritation and pocket their fifteen cents change. Not everyone knows how tricky this cash register can be. Not everyone thinks fifteen cents is worth dropping in a tip jar. Some people need every fifteen cents accounted for, and I’m lucky not to be one of them. They are doing what they need to do.
Sometimes when I get to peer into other people’s heads, and to hear the way the internal logic gets translated into words and actions, I am amazed. I am amazed any of us manage to communicate with each other at all. It is a glorious and unlikely thing, and it is unsurprisingly riddled with error.
Everyone is doing what they need to do, I tell myself, when I try to untangle why my friend’s girlfriend treated him so unkindly, and why my other friend’s husband seems so thoughtless, and why so many of the guys I have cared about recently leave me feeling bad about myself. I don’t think it’s what any of them set out to do. And that doesn’t excuse it, because despite hearing many arguments to the contrary I believe we are each responsible for the ways we make other people feel. But the accountability ball gets dropped all the time. And at these times, while I am wishing that we could all be a bit more responsible with each other, I am also trying to remind myself. We are all doing what we need to do.
can't fight this feeling anymore
Some of you have been following my love affair with Portland. You will remember the extended courtship, the flirting from afar, the eventual get-together made possible, as per usual, by a sudden and illplanned plunge at the end of a drunken vacation. And then the less flattering fall light that revealed a glitch in the romance, and who knew what would happen. And winter came, with that awful reality of being together but feeling alone.
I like my love big and senseless. So I am by now aware that these down times are part of the package, and I can’t say I wish they weren’t. I try not to seek out disaster but I try not to hate it when it comes. Big disaster is, if nothing else, big. And it is sometimes followed by big joy. And here we are.
I work for the City of Portland. Approximately once an hour, when I am researching perchloroethylene or photographing an abandoned gas station or even photocopying two hundred pages of an environmental site assessment I sing a little song, and the song goes like this: I wu-hurk for the Cit-tay of Po-ort-land. Sometimes I remember to sing only inside my head.
I leave my house when the sun is coming up, and I take the 9 or 17 or 19 bus over the Ross Island Bridge and it stops in front of my building, the Portland Building, no kidding, and I swipe through the turnstiles with my little plastic ID card that says Bureau of Environmental Services. I spend eight hours figuring out how to make contaminated properties safe again, and in the middle I walk to a block of food carts for lunch, and if it’s sunny I eat on the steps of Pioneer Courthouse Square.
I walk home over Hawthorne Bridge, over the river turning pink with sky, while bikers with blinking red tail lights stream past me. The skyline starts to light up. I pass the science museum with its half-sunk submarine and the Willamette Rowers boat dock, and I pass the McCoy Mill with its sweet smell of sawdust, and the booming Feed and Concentrates warehouse, and Dimitri’s Garage. I cross the railroad tracks where the dirty yellow Northern Pacific boxcars roll through with tanks of sulfuric acid and corn syrup. I come home and it's night, with a little crescent moon, and it is magic. It is the stuff of poetry and power ballads, neither of which, thankfully, I write.
A blog is the best I can do to declare my feelings for you, Portland. I'm glad that I stuck with you when you seemed mostly cold and indifferent. And I'm glad you came around even though I played dangerous games, fingering maps and Googling other names. My feelings for you are big and senseless and perfect. I love your easy conversation and your second-hand clothes; I love your bleary-eyed mornings and your questionable hygiene and the way you felt familiar all along. Sometimes other cities with accents and easy access to unpasteurized cheese cross my mind, and I smile because I could have loved them too. But I choose you.
small town
Tonight I felt like dancing so – this being the Year of Gusto, and this day so far lacking gusto almost entirely – I went dancing, though I couldn’t think of another soul who would want to go along. Not a soul in a thirty mile radius, at least. I went to the Goodfoot because the crowds there dance and because it is a spatially friendly place to be solo, and because a popular Portland bluegrass band was playing.
And wouldn’t you know it? There was Chief O’Brien.
The room was full but he suggested shimmying up to the front of the crowd where the floor was wooden and all the dancing was happening, where men were stomping their boots and women were gathering up their skirts. The band played for two and a half hours, their own bluegrass songs with banjo interludes of Elton John and Willie Nelson and the Violent Femmes. A girl with two braids swung me around and a guy in an embroidered cowboy shirt asked O’Brien if he could dance with me, and I tried to make eye contact with cowboy shirt’s friend which was perhaps bad form on several levels. But I can’t yet get past the fact that O’Brien reminds me of… well, O’Brien. The boy can dance though. We closed out the bar.
indiscretion
I broke an unspoken item of the Universal Barista Code tonight. In fact it may even be a spoken item, but I don’t hang out with many other baristas. Either way I’m sure it’s on there. I went out with a customer.
It wasn’t even really a date (though he did present me with a pocket-sized Portland bicycle map when we met up). All the same I feel guilty for doing anything that might even indirectly encourage coffee shop patrons to proposition their baristas. The barista/patron relationship is based on a delicate balance of affection that can only be maintained if all involved parties recognize its context and its limits. Suggest carrying that relationship outside the café and the whole thing falls to pieces.
That said, I sheepishly admit that there are several Celia’s customers whom I think are the cat’s pajamas. There’s the morning mocha guy with the kind eyes, and the bagel guy with the dog, and the guy who asks about my book. And then there’s this guy, who actually was never on the list because he rarely comes by when I’m working. But he’s from Louisiana, and we got to talking about that once, and somehow decided to continue the conversation over a beer.
We met for this beer tonight on the heatlamped back terrace of a local pub. In no time the Portland Mercury was spread open on the table and we were debating destinations for the evening, and after a bit of driving around to Eagles of Death Metal we settled on the Laurelthirst for a band named after the Canadian Mounties. And I have no idea what this is about, really, because he reminds me a little too much of Chief O’Brien from Star Trek the Next Generation and furthermore his accent is so thick I miss half the things he says. And yet somehow the conversation kept going, and also he likes to dance.
But don’t tell the other baristas. And for God’s sake don’t tell any of the guys with crushes on them.
let it
Today at seven thirty I opened my front door and all of Portland was white, and I stood there silently trying to make sense of what I was seeing. It was all covered in snow – the steps and the trees and the cars and every surface, covered in powdery snow that was still falling from the dim morning sky. That doesn’t really happen here.
I walked toward the bus stop in confusion and wonder, stopping to roll up the legs of my new work pants. My footprints were the only marks on the whole street.
At the bus stop people were bundled and anxious, and everyone wanted to talk. Do you think the buses are running? I’ve heard that classes are on. How long do you think it will stay? Cell phones rang all around. Have you made it in yet? I’m still at the bus stop.
Last week a predicted storm never came. School was cancelled and city offices closed, and then the day was clear and sunny. So no one expected anything today, a day following a string of welcome blue-sky days. At seven thirty this morning the bus tires had no chains on yet. No one had cancelled anything.
It took sixty minutes for my bus to come and take me downtown – a trip that usually takes ten. Other less lucky buses spun their tires at the sides of the road; passengers poured optimistically out of stranded ones and onto those still rolling until the aisles filled and the windows fogged over. Once we were over the Ross Island Bridge the driver announced Sherman looks all backed up, so if I take Naito Parkway will that be terribly inconvenient for anyone? We cheered a collective and enthusiastic No.
Portland has two snow plows. That’s one of the many rumors that was circulating. It might be true. I’d also venture to guess that Portland has zero salt trucks. When it snows like this, which it doesn’t, the snow stays, and the unwise drivers slide back and forth on the highways, and the children go sledding down the smallest hills. Even Portland’s hard core bikers cross the bridges by foot.
At lunchtime the city blocks were nearly empty, just a few office workers with suddenly inappropriate raincoats and stupid smiles on their faces, walking down the sidewalks gingerly with arms out to the sides. Portland in the snow feels like a village, all the villagers uncertain but hopeful, and all the streets perfect and still.
turnaround
There was a winter storm warning for today, complete with panicked predictions of the sort of snowfall that stops Portland in its tracks (approximately 3 inches). So when my alarm went off at five a.m. I wanted to pull the covers over my head. It was looking like a cold, gray, sleepy day of sparse customers and icy driving. And now it’s nearly three and I’m basking in a windowfull of blue sky. I don’t know what happened some time midmorning but everything started going my way. It’s time to give out some Gold Stars.
Gold Star to (let’s just call you) Ron and Bev, owners of Celia’s, who not only were incredibly patient during the “training period” during which I got every other coffee drink wrong, but also remain just about the nicest people possible to work for. You know the names, jobs, families, hobbies, and secret dreams of everyone who comes in for a latte. You give me a break after the morning rush to go buy a New York Times from the corner store. You round up everything when you pay me, as in you round up the credit card tips and then round up the tip jar tips and then round up the total. Bev, you read science fiction. Ron, you do Sudoku. What could be sweeter?
Gold Star to all the unnecessarily generous coffee shop tippers, at Celia’s and everywhere. I don’t know what possesses you to put a dollar bill in my tip jar after purchasing a dollar-and-twenty-five-cent to-go cup-of-coffee; it defies all logic. It’s an eighty percent tip. I basically just smiled and handed you a cup. And the seventy-five cents change you got is right there in your hand. But do you drop just one, or even two or three of those quarters in the jar? No. You give me a whole dollar. It shocks me every time. I don’t know if you used to be a barista, or if you are very wealthy, or if you are flirting, or if you are simply a generous person. I don’t care. There are enough of you out there that those dollar tips completely change my hourly wage, and I really appreciate it.
Gold Star to Joshua. You sent me an email today with links to the next Portland Roller Derby match and the next Portland Opera performance, because after the Blazers game on Sunday we talked about doing more miscellaneous things around town. I don't know who else would be psyched for either of these events, let alone both.
Gold Star to Ty. You sent me a big box of Pennsylvania’s own TastyKakes when you were home for the holidays, and I’m enjoying one right now. Mmmmm. Oh yeah, and you started a new job last week.
Gold Star to my housemate Brad. You put on yellow rubber gloves yesterday and scrubbed the downstairs bathroom, even the tub. And one for my other housemate Jamey, because you cracked the Sunday crossword theme, but then left the puzzle unfinished cause you thought I’d have fun figuring it out.
Gold Star to Scott Turpen. I’ve never met you but apparently you are the Administrative Services Manager for Portland’s Bureau of Environmental Services, in which capacity you signed the letter of hire that arrived in my mailbox today. I’m sorry you didn’t get to see the dance I performed upon opening said letter, but I assure you it was spirited.
Gold Star to Momofuku Ando. You died last Friday, but before that you invented ramen noodles, and for this the world is a better place.
cornucopia
I thought the new city job would start today but the paperwork hasn’t gone through yet, so it will start on Thursday. Which means Wednesday I will pull espresso and Thursday I will meet the Bureau of Environmental Services and Friday I will teach Landscape Planning. This is my kind of week.
The planning course is what I’ve worked on all day. I opened up my online class roster for the first time yesterday and it was full, and something about seeing the students’ names made it more real and very exciting. I have fifteen students for five hours a week for eleven weeks, and they have names, and I want them to think this class kicks ass. Which is taking some preparation.
Every Friday has a lecture and a studio, so every Friday I need a PowerPoint and demonstrations and in-class exercises and reading assignments, and then there’s the big final project. So today I’ve been assembling drafting tools and inventing drawing games. I’ve been sorting slides. I’ve been flipping through a giant tower of literature, excerpting Kevin Lynch and vetoing Carl Steinitz, pulling together a reader from academic theorists and design magazines and landscaping guides from the seventies. Trying to seamlessly integrate my socio-enviro-political agenda while leaving room for good debate; trying to work in Steven Krog. Steven Krog who wrote, “We must learn to tolerate two experiences that the design process is explicitly intended to circumvent: substantial personal terror and uncertainty.”
The world is full of heroes.
lost in translation
I once dated a guy who said I smelled like Christmas. When I attributed this to the rosemary in my shampoo he bristled. My twice-worn socks were irrelevant. People have smells, he insisted, and mine was Christmas, and furthermore being with me was like Christmas. It was like Christmas for three feet around me.
This same guy had a body that he described as a Troll Body, and it was, I guess, and it was great: it was a strong and safe body, and joyful, and I told him so.
And I do not smell like Christmas and he was not entirely unlike a troll, but these were not lies, or even pleasantries. These are just the ways that people see the wonders of each other, which is what makes relationships possible and also what makes them worthwhile.
Yesterday a friend of mine told me that I am a mean person. Upon further discussion about semantics we agreed that I am not mean but rather indelicate, which is a difference of intention: my presentation hurts his feelings, though it’s not what I set out to do. And on one hand the difference between mean and indelicate is everything, because I expend no small amount of effort on not being hurtful in this life. But on the other hand I’ve never given much credit to intention. Intention’s not what matters in the end.
What annoys my friend is my sarcasm. My sarcasm, for the record, is relatively unyielding, and delivered with minimal moisture. I can turn it off during business hours but otherwise the smartass thing is pretty much who I am. It occasionally crosses the line, or crops up at an inappropriate time, and when this happens my friends generally give me the finger, or a glare that is its equivalent. And then we all move on.
I think it would be fair to say that most of my friends do not just quietly tolerate sarcasm. Many of them seek it out, as I do. I just finished a book about life in the Alphabet City projects in the 80s, and the author describes the prevalence of Yo Momma sparring. The assumption, he realizes, is that everyone involved is actually on the same team. And so it goes with Smartass. You can only tell someone to fuck off if they know where you’re coming from, and you know they know.
So the question is, what do I do around this friend who can’t stand it? I have friends with whom I do not discuss politics or religion, but this is a different animal. This is not a specific subject, but rather the manner in which I discuss all subjects. The last time I made a concerted effort to smooth out my edge in a personal relationship was with Operaman, who seemed to need a little more Niceness in his life. But Splenda isn’t real sugar, and neither one, frankly, is a particularly compelling flavor.
In all honesty I’m not a Nice Person. I try to be a kind person, but Nice does not much interest me. Most people I’m drawn to are quirky and awkward and full of shit, as I am, and I find that delightful and puzzling and worthy of comment. I find that being pretty and polite does more harm at the end of the day, when we climb into our own heads and feel alone in the mess. I’d rather lay my mess out next to everyone else’s, and we can look at it and shake our heads and laugh our little troll laughs, and call it Christmas.
ergonomics
This morning I don’t feel like getting out of bed.
Partly because for the past two mornings I’ve had to get out of bed when the first digit on the clock was a big green 4, albeit a 4 followed by a 55 but a 4 nonetheless, in order to open the coffee shop. And partly because I haven’t been sleeping so well, which is exceedingly unusual for me. Give me a seat in a speeding Latin American public bus filled with sunlight, smoke, and a practicing death metal band, and I can still nap serenely. But not this week. This week my room feels too bright and too warm and I wake up listening for something, and when I fall asleep again I have restless dreams.
And partly, perhaps, because today is the last weekday for a while when I have no schedule whatsoever. I have things to do, but I can do them when I like. Whereas next week I will have five days of three jobs, and well… Hooray. But I’m enjoying this morning in bed all the same. I read a great article on Bill Clinton from a three-month-old New Yorker. I breakfasted on pretzels and dark chocolate. I wrote a letter and glued some things into my journal.
At no point have I gotten out from under my covers, so this tells you a bit about the things I keep close at hand. And considering I can also reach my laptop, my radio, my cell phone, a lunchbox full of art supplies, and a dozen books, I could pretty much stay here indefinitely. But I’m thinking maybe just until noon.
Then again I might go get some rice pudding from the fridge. There’s no motivation like the prospect of Second Breakfast. Sometimes I just love being an adult.
