An Unlikely Meeting
My mind raced fulfilling the checklist of things for Dad's pending move into an assisted living facility:
Make deposit
Schedule and cancel medical appointments
Arrange visit from a home health care aide
Secure landline for new residence and buy new phone
Coordinate with my sister about furnishing new residence
Buy shower curtain
Arrange for an in-home manicure and pedicure
Keep relatives informed of situation
Manage financial transactions
Two falls within ten days and a visit to the emergency room had raised alarms and necessitated the decision to move Dad into the facility, located a mere half mile away in Sellwood. He had accepted and even embraced the change.
I had been living with him and administering care for almost two years and had finally reached a point of total exhaustion in the aftermath of the fall as the caregiving needs had ratcheted up considerably.
It was also during this time that I was trying my hardest to get Mark into housing, and well, you've read about my misadventures in the abyss. But still, knowing what I now knew about the Street Response Team, I held out hope that Mark would soon become a resident of the Multnomah Safe Rest Village or some other place, and perhaps begin the turnaround we had discussed. The plan might not work, and Mark might very well return to the sidewalk. If that happened, we'd take it from there.
My Dad and I had discussed the homeless issue at length many times, How could we not? It was all around us and I interacted it with it two or three times a day. He knew of my ongoing attempts to find Mark housing and laughed at the reports of the antics of book club members. We'd also read and discussed poems written by homeless men and women recently published in a newspaper. The poems were raw, confessional and even cynical at times. But they were living proof that the poets were alive and wrestling with their circumstances.
It was a weekday around noon and I was walking in Sellwood on an errand for Dad when I saw my sister and brother-in-law sitting outside eating lunch at a swank chicken joint. They saw me and waved. I came over, sat down, and updated them on the latest developments regarding Dad's move.
We talked for ten minutes. It was a pleasant day in the neighborhood. People strolled by with their dogs and children. Across the street, brats raised hell in the playground of a day care center.
I turned left and there was Mark, a few feet away, walking with a woman pushing some wheeled contraption full of cans and bottles.
“Mark,” I cried out.
“Matt,” he cried out.
He stopped. The woman kept rolling the contraption. I stood up and introduced Mark to my sister and brother-in-law. My sister said she was happy to meet him, “I've heard a lot about you.”
Mark laughed. My sister asked him to join us, he agreed, and sat down. My sister offered him an unfinished basket of some deep fried finger food with a tangy mustard sauce. Mark thanked her and began eating.
What ensued was a conversation that ranged from Mark's homelessness, our futile trip downtown, preparations for Dad's move, the neighborhood, the finger food. Mark even gave my sister and brother-in-law the “I'm dead Jim” quiz and they failed!
At one point, a server materialized. She glanced at Mark and a smidgen of disdain emerged. It's a typical enough look in many Portlanders, but not all. She asked if we needed anything. My sister wanted to know if Mark wanted anything to drink. Mark cracked an impish smile. Sweet Jesus! He was going to order malt liquor!
“Don't worry,” he said to the server, “I'll not be ordering anything today.” He said it with such panache that it broke us up laughing, even the server.
I asked Mark if he'd filled out the bogus intake form and he said he had not. The form was now somewhat damaged because it had been left out on the sidewalk overnight and for the first time in 57 days, rain had fallen in Portland. I decided not to take that as a bad omen because I never associate anything bad with rain.
Mark ate some more finger food and I briefed my sister and brother-in-law on my possible Jim Rockford scheme. She shook her head and wondered aloud if it was legal.
I said I didn't give a shit. Besides, I doubted the necessity of running the Jimmy Jo Meeker con because of my recent encounter with the Street Response Team. Nevertheless, Mark needed to fill out the form as backup. His answers also might prove interesting to read. I told him I'd print out a new one and bring it around later today or tomorrow.
It was time to go and complete my errand. I said my goodbyes and left Mark talking to my sister and brother-in-law. The last thing I heard was the trio laughing.