Woke this morning to a darkened cave, moisture dripping from the walls. I reached up with my left hand to search for one of my lighters on the makeshift shelf I created just a couple days ago. Once found, I lit one of the four candles we had in the cave, three of which were lifted from the local Safeway.
The cave smelled dank, as Chris would say. I quickly lit the other three candles. There was Chris, sleeping, just inches from me, under a pile of blankets. I reached for one of the many snipes arrayed on the shelf that ran along the length of my body, about a foot and a half above my head.
My first breath of tobacco is my first breath of life in the morning. It's what gets me going and what motivates my day. I'm not saying that I live for cigs, but I spend a lot of my day looking for snipes or buming smokes. I'm saying that niccotine is a cool drug, and for now it gets me through the day and the night too.
I left Chris sleeping in the cave and took a bus to the MAX platform. From there I rode the train into Portland, where I caught another bus to NE Ainsworth. That's where the Day Center is, a place where HIV possitive people can: eat, relax, take a shower, do laundry, use the phone, pick-up mail, access the internet, play pool or foos-ball, watch t.v. and get a free montly bus pass.
I ran into Ricky at the Day Center, and I knew he had weed. I had been rude to him the first time he tried to introduce himself only to learn later what a cool guy he is. I showed him my little cigarette shaped one-hitter that Brandon gave me just the day before. I asked if he had a nug for my hitter and he said sure he'd go out and smoke with me.
Ricky lead me out into the alley and down a side alley to a little nook where a tall fir tree grows on a mound of dirt. He dropped his bag down and I sat mine next to his, near the fence. Then he unzipped one of the pockets in his backpack and removed a black tin. It was an old tea-tin, with artwork on it. The egdes were rubbed clean of paint in the places where hands had lifted the lid and reclosed it countless times.
Ricky opened the tin to reveal about a quarter ounce of weed. Green, stinky bud danded across a silver floor, as he shifted all of it from one side to the other and then held it in place so all the bud fell together in a pile at one corner.
He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a glasss pipe. It was all one color, smokey brown, and not like other pot pipes I'm uses to seeing. It looked more like a tobacco pipe with a long narrow, tappering stem and a large, perfectly shaped bowl.
He packed that thing full and we smoked three of those large bowls together. Ricky began to tell me his story. He's a small guy, probably four-eight or four-nine. He has coa-coa tan skin and small beady eyes. He has a way about him that is at once endearing and offputting at the same time. He's very flambouant and flirtatious and also very gentle and kind.
It's his kindness that won me over. He opened up his life to me the way an art collector shows off his prized posessions. There was: the time he ran away from home when he was only nine years old; the many lovers and the four partners who all left him pennyless. He talked and packed bowls. We both smoked, and I mostly listened.
When we were finished smoking, he gave me some to take back to Chris, and then we went back inside the Day Center and played a short game of foos-ball. The table was old, and one of the foos-ball players was pretty chopped up, but we played like we were two teenagers, just hanging out in my parents garage. It was a blast.
Later, on my way home, I stopped at the Tri-Met office in Pioneer Square to use the bathroom. On my way out I ran into Zaza, an old friend from the days of my early HIV diagnosis. Zaza and I hung out for a while in an adgacent park, smoked a little weed, and I got introduced to his new companion pet, Lucie. I enjoyed petting her smooth coat. It made me feel a little closer to Lexi and Max. Zaza gave me a little money and his phone number.
When I got back to the cave, Chris was there waiting for me. He was beaming that I brought him some nugs to smoke. I was pleased with the small acts of love I had experienced, from Zaza and my new friend Ricky. It was a day of magic... no, it was a day of love.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
The big move
Last week, the winter shelter I was staying at closed, and about six of us guys packed a bunch of tents and equipment out to a swampland in Forest Grove. I set out with a couple guys Tuesday night, cuz I wanted to get a head start on setting up camp. It felt like a new adventure after spending the last two months lining up for everything at the shelter and being told when to eat and when to go to bed and when to leave in the morning. FREEDOM was on my mind, and boy did I feel free.
I was wet too, wet and loaded down with gear. I was with Dan (the caramel man) and Chris (sunshine). Dan is a couple years older than me, but looks at least 15 years older. His back is all screwed up and he required help with his pack.
Chris is 24 years old, but he acts like a teenager, all depressed and mopey all the time. Chris is a good guy, he's loyal to those who are loyal to him, but you can't wait for him to do anything. The only time he shows any initiative is when his immediate comfort is being challenged, and then he just might bark at whoever is telling him to pitch in. He is having trouble adjusting to his homelessness, but hell, we all have trouble with that.
Dan's a medical marijuana guy who makes pot caramels that he was handing out at the shelter. Dan was a lot of fun to hang with at the shelter, cuz he always had pot. So, at least you could get stoned. I had my best night's sleep at the shelter after Dan smoked me out on my birthday. Dan kinda knitted Chris and I together; we both were hanging out and getting stoned with Dan.
This was the crew I went out to the swamp with. There were a few other guys who came out there and camped too, but we hardly ever saw them. They were tweekers and we were pot smokers. It's funny but on the street you can kinda sort people by the drugs they do. Most street people smoke cigs, but not as many are outright drunks as you might think. Most smoke pot, but not everyone. Tweek is such a crazy drug that tweekers usually stay with their own, while the pot smokers and drinkers hang pretty good with most people.
Well, we were out there working our asses off getting our camp set up and even hauling in bags of gravel from the train tracks to prep the ground for a new site in another part of the swamp that would get us onto dryer ground. We had just finished a day of hard work hauling rock, when a voice was heard calling out in the swamp. It wasn't a voice any of us recognized, so Dan went out to see what was up.
Dan cam back and told me that the owner of the land we were on had come out to do some target shooting, and discovered our camp. He said we had to get all our shit out of there that night. All of our heads were spinning. We quickly went back to our tent sites and gathered up what we could carry. Dan was trying to get the rest of us to help him with his gear, which he a had plenty of after days of constantly bringing stuff in. Chris looked confused and I was asking Dan what the plan would be for all of us after this. Dan said that it was all over and we were on our own. He offered a bowl of weed in exchange for helping him get his crap out of camp, and I saw that as a dead end.
I didn't want to spend a bunch of time assisting Dan, who could stay with his sister if he needed to, only to end up stuck with no where to sleep for the night. So, I told Chris to grab his stuff and get it out to the tracks and that I would meet him out there. Chris and I took off down the tracks and didn't look back.Chris was pretty fed up with Dan at that point. Dan had been barking orders to everyone, but Chris took it personal telling everyone that he didn't like being told what to do.
I led Chris out to Beaverton where my friend Travis camps. I thought maybe Travis would put Chris and I up in his tent for the night. On the train, I found a complete pack of smokes that someone had dropped, so we had smokes for the night. While we were waiting for Chris' phone to charge a little on the MAX platform, Chris managed to get hold of his buddy Larry who just happened to be staying at the local Motel 6 one stop up the tracks from where we were. We hooked up with Larry and his girl Carlie who were both drunk and wrestling all over the room, but we got showers and a bed.
The next morning Larry led us out to his campsite under a bridge off of T.V. Highway. That's where we are now, Larry, Chris and myself. We'll see how this goes.
I was wet too, wet and loaded down with gear. I was with Dan (the caramel man) and Chris (sunshine). Dan is a couple years older than me, but looks at least 15 years older. His back is all screwed up and he required help with his pack.
Chris is 24 years old, but he acts like a teenager, all depressed and mopey all the time. Chris is a good guy, he's loyal to those who are loyal to him, but you can't wait for him to do anything. The only time he shows any initiative is when his immediate comfort is being challenged, and then he just might bark at whoever is telling him to pitch in. He is having trouble adjusting to his homelessness, but hell, we all have trouble with that.
Dan's a medical marijuana guy who makes pot caramels that he was handing out at the shelter. Dan was a lot of fun to hang with at the shelter, cuz he always had pot. So, at least you could get stoned. I had my best night's sleep at the shelter after Dan smoked me out on my birthday. Dan kinda knitted Chris and I together; we both were hanging out and getting stoned with Dan.
This was the crew I went out to the swamp with. There were a few other guys who came out there and camped too, but we hardly ever saw them. They were tweekers and we were pot smokers. It's funny but on the street you can kinda sort people by the drugs they do. Most street people smoke cigs, but not as many are outright drunks as you might think. Most smoke pot, but not everyone. Tweek is such a crazy drug that tweekers usually stay with their own, while the pot smokers and drinkers hang pretty good with most people.
Well, we were out there working our asses off getting our camp set up and even hauling in bags of gravel from the train tracks to prep the ground for a new site in another part of the swamp that would get us onto dryer ground. We had just finished a day of hard work hauling rock, when a voice was heard calling out in the swamp. It wasn't a voice any of us recognized, so Dan went out to see what was up.
Dan cam back and told me that the owner of the land we were on had come out to do some target shooting, and discovered our camp. He said we had to get all our shit out of there that night. All of our heads were spinning. We quickly went back to our tent sites and gathered up what we could carry. Dan was trying to get the rest of us to help him with his gear, which he a had plenty of after days of constantly bringing stuff in. Chris looked confused and I was asking Dan what the plan would be for all of us after this. Dan said that it was all over and we were on our own. He offered a bowl of weed in exchange for helping him get his crap out of camp, and I saw that as a dead end.
I didn't want to spend a bunch of time assisting Dan, who could stay with his sister if he needed to, only to end up stuck with no where to sleep for the night. So, I told Chris to grab his stuff and get it out to the tracks and that I would meet him out there. Chris and I took off down the tracks and didn't look back.Chris was pretty fed up with Dan at that point. Dan had been barking orders to everyone, but Chris took it personal telling everyone that he didn't like being told what to do.
I led Chris out to Beaverton where my friend Travis camps. I thought maybe Travis would put Chris and I up in his tent for the night. On the train, I found a complete pack of smokes that someone had dropped, so we had smokes for the night. While we were waiting for Chris' phone to charge a little on the MAX platform, Chris managed to get hold of his buddy Larry who just happened to be staying at the local Motel 6 one stop up the tracks from where we were. We hooked up with Larry and his girl Carlie who were both drunk and wrestling all over the room, but we got showers and a bed.
The next morning Larry led us out to his campsite under a bridge off of T.V. Highway. That's where we are now, Larry, Chris and myself. We'll see how this goes.
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