Backpack
Mark and Donny sat on the sidewalk. Another man I didn't recognize stood near them. His bicycle and attached cart laden with cans leaned against a tree. He was tying and untying various nautical knots on a long coil of white rope.
It was a hot afternoon and Mark said hello. We then all launched into a conversation about the clearing of a homeless encampment near Westmoreland Park, half a mile away. It was the one I walked or bicycled through almost every day. At last count, it tallied 12 derelict RVs/trailers, five vehicles (three up on blocks) a pallet/plywood shed crammed full of bicycle parts and lumber, five tents destroying a riparian area of Crystal Springs Creek, and a tent camper buried in a mountain range of accumulation where a heavy metal guitarist lived and rocked out.
Earlier that morning, I had sat in the bleachers of a ball field and watched the clearing operation for two hours. It involved five tow trucks, a semi truck-sized trash hauler, a clean-up crew of six, and ten city employees. There wasn't a single employee from a homeless non profit to assist the residents into housing.
One RV nearly split apart as a tow truck yanked it away from its resting place. Metal clanked and sparks flew as it bounced off the street. A half dozen rats scurried away as a result.
What had struck me about the operation was how calmly it unfolded. The residents and crew exhibited friendly and efficient collaboration. They shared smokes and water. They looked at goofy things on their phones and laughed together. I was also struck by how many people drove up in cars and trucks they were obviously using as domiciles to help transport the residents' most important belongings, including, from the mountain range, three acoustic guitars and a drum set.
I was surprised at how poignant the moment felt to me. This was not at all what I'd felt watching such cleanups on local television news or reading multiple accounts in the press, including the weekly newspaper covering the homeless issue.
They were taking care of one another. They were not crying on the sidelines. They were hustling to live. They were jury rigging life. Where the displaced residents would go was unfathomable to me, and perhaps to them. The most arresting image was of a man in his 40s bicycling away from his trailer as it was towed away with nothing but a backpack. How he came into possession of that dilapidated trailer was beyond my consideration, as was how he'll probably find another such old RV-type domicile and start all over again.
After seven years, this encampment was finally cleared. That is, until it returns.
Mark said he was happy to see it go. It had brought some undesirables into the neighborhood and he couldn't countenance the trash.
Donny said he knew one of the men living in his vehicle in the now former encampment. He was 58 years old and a former violinist with the New Orleans Symphony Orchestra. His parents were dying in a nearby assisted living facility and he couldn't afford an apartment in Sellwood.
I asked how in the world had a professional violinist ended up living in his vehicle in Portland. The man tying knots asked the same of a decorated vet from the war in Afghanistan. I didn't know if it was a comparable downward journey but I admitted he had a point.
Mark mentioned his backpack was stolen the previous night and with it his stash of pipe tobacco. Could I bring him some more? I said sure and I'd try to rustle up a backpack.
An hour later I was in the garage and emptying the contents of a red backpack my late step mom had purchased as an emergency earthquake preparedness kit. It was over 30 years ago and hadn't dated well. A battery-powered transistor radio probably wasn't going to cut it anymore.
I thought some of the stuff Mark could use: first aid supplies, an emergency blanket, and a two-pack of Coast Guard meal rations that utterly dumbfounded me because of their sheer presence and directions: Don't mix with sea water. I also added two tins of pipe tobacco and four mini bottles of Fireball.
The next day I delivered the backpack to Mark and he was delighted with it and the contents. I dared him to try the rations and he said he might. Washed down with Fireball, of course.