A piece of of paper was taped inside the front window of a leaning 30-feet RV with the handwritten side facing outward.
A note. I walked toward it on a cold Saturday morning. From a distance I could see it was a single spaced, full page note. That was rare in other such notes taped to windows and messages scrawled on the sides of derelict rigs I'd encountered over the years. Usually they were a few lines of profanity, poetry, intended timelines for departure, threats or requests for this and that. There were even a few pro Trump or anti Biden statements. One asked for anyone to “leave a message.” I would have had I had a Sharpie on me.
Right above the note was the familiar green sticker from the city warning the occupant to remove the vehicle or lose it. I'd seen dozens of such tow warnings the past year and it was typically 50/50 if officials enforced them.
The RV had been marooned on a side street near an apartment building overlooking a beaver-laden stream for four or five months. It sported one of my all time favorite RV brand names, The Flair. The Flair was in sad, sad, non-flair shape, so sad in fact that some heavy truck had towed it to its present illegal location. How did I know? The improvised tow hitch secured to the front axle and resting on the pavement gave it away. I tend to notice these things.
One of my eternal questions of the New American Diaspora is: how in the hell do owners of RVs that can't drive anymore, will never drive anymore, or owners of fifth wheels and trailers without vehicles to tow them, find people to transport their rigs to these encampments? Some underground business must have sprung up. It certainly is thriving.
I walked up to The Flair. There were bags of stuff and wooden picture frames off to one side. I heard no sound from inside. The RV seemed deserted, lifeless. I didn't feel nervous approaching the rig. The note had invited me and I accepted the invitation. I wonder how many other people walking by had done the same.
Considerable condensation beaded the interior of the window and made it impossible to read some words. But here's what I later transcribed from a photo taken by my phone. (I made no corrections to the text and inserted __?__ where some word or phrase was unintelligible.)
I have received the “tow warning” from the city of Portland's Bureau of Transportation asking me to comply or be towed. This is my home. There is no place that will rent space to my RV. I have tried with a comprehensive research. I was wrong to invest my money for housing in this RV. It is too late for me to change my __?__. I have been in touch with Tom from “Love One” to aid me in moving my RV and finding a place I'd be welcome and legal. I am actively pursuing a solution as aggressively as I believe I possibly can be __?__. Please allow me the time to transition without hindrance. I'm sure it will be better for whole affected community as we all have the same goal. I pledge to leave zero impact on my currently occupied__?__. ALL trash and repair of any errosive (sic) damage. To any who could have forced my exit but choose to wait, thank you. It was a __?__ winter but it could have been worse. I'm truly grateful.
David T
I read the note several times and then took my usual route through a small park and sat on a picnic table, watched the creek, and thought about what I had just read.
Was this a snow job? The Flair had listed there for several months, perhaps longer. How long does it take to make a transition of this kind?
Was the note all true? I knew for a fact that many RV parks with vacancies refuse space to rigs over a certain age or exhibiting obvious aesthetic or mechanical distress. The Flair exhibited both.
Was David a good neighbor? The area around his rig was relatively clean, but not spotless. Was their loud partying and late night visitors associated with The Flair? Someone had blown the whistle on the rig. I would have done the same had it been parked in front of my house or apartment for several months.
Then I reconsidered that. Would I have blown the whistle if David had been a good neighbor? No. I would have done everything in my power to aid his transition, but would have asked him to carry his weight. There needs to be reciprocity in these exchanges. That is not imposing an agenda, it is sticking to a handshake deal.
Maybe the neighbors had simply run out of patience at the sight of a derelict hulk in the neighborhood. It truly was an eyesore and posed a bit of a parking issue for nearby apartments.
How much had David invested in The Flair? Invest was an interesting verb to me. Maybe David's purchase was an investment in a better future that meant freedom from living in a tent or pallet shanty or under a tarp strung up in the willows beside a creek.
Who is Tom from “Love One?”
The mention of “we all have the same goal rang” true for me, but was it true of others? What happens when people living on the streets don't share that goal? Many, many, clearly do not and clearly are not right of mind.
If the city tows The Flair and impounds it, David will never get it back. Shouldn't the city have a dedicated space for RVs like The Flair as a temporary measure? Officials had discussed creating such a site but the idea (implemented elsewhere in the region) fell through when a government agency that owned suitable property balked.
I must have sat on the table thinking about The Flair for half an hour. Then I left.
A few days later, I took a walk and The Flair was gone. The area where it rested was clean. I wondered where it had landed...and then saw it two blocks away, parked alongside a different creek, across the street from houses. No note.
You tend to ask so many questions without answering them or even seeking answers. Be that as it may, the guy did what needed to be done. 'Nuf sed.