Death of Joe

Over the course of the last six months in Portland, I frequently drive the off ramp to Milwaukie Avenue off McLoughlin Boulevard. There, I would crane right toward the Willamette River to glimpse the flotilla of derelict boats captained by homeless pirates and then whip left to observe a tent constructed under some trees on a 45-degree slope of dirt and surrounded by guardrails, concrete and traffic.

It seemed impossible that anyone would choose to live outdoors in such an inhospitable space, but then again, men and women pitch tents in the medians of interstate highways in Oregon and across the American land. Will these encampments remain through the rest of my life? I don't know. If I was a betting man, I'd bet they will.

Hoovervilles came and went and largely without any government intervention. Now the encampments are here and growing and government is intervening. I don't know what to make of that, although it certainly challenges my faith in progressive governing. I am not alone in that feeling.

A few times driving by, I saw a man standing near the tent, sorting through his possessions. I never saw his face or heard him say a word. Once I saw a policeman talking to him.

The other day I was bicycling and noticed an art installation on the sidewalk and guardrail above this encampment. I stopped and beheld a roadside memorial to a man named Joe O'Riley. The encampment had been completely swept away except for a wooden coffee table and I quickly surmised that Joe was the man living in this encampment, that he had recently died, and his friends had erected this memorial.

And what a memorial it was. It deserves a lengthy description because I have never seen another one like it and I consider myself a keen observer of such memorials, to dead dogs, dead bicyclists, dead pedestrians, dead cops, dead mental patients shot by cops, dead veterans, dead children, dead drivers, victims of drunk drivers, dead bystanders of random violence in convenience store parking lots, dead gang members who died in a gang war, dead fishermen, the disappeared into the ocean, and even the greatest (and still curated) roadside memorial in Oregon, Pre's Rock in Eugene, the sight where the legendary distance runner Steve Prefontaine crashed his sports car in 1974 and died at the age of 24.

Joe O'Riley's memorial featured original pieces of art including a stencil of a green owl, a hand-lettered color tribute on a piece of scrap wood hung in a nearby tree, the famous photograph of Albert Eisenstein riding a bicycle, cardboard signs with inscriptions, statements written on the guardrail with a Sharpie and on the sidewalk with chalk, wildflowers and dill, a tip jar, shells, a toy, and Joe's name spelled out three times with agates.

Here's what was written about or to Joe:

2 young to 2 go

Fly high, friend, my angel

Party on safe travels

RIP Dirty Jo

I hope you see my boyfriend

I love you Joe

Your light will never fade

People judged U sometimes and like I always told you, I got UR back my friend

Joe, I can still see your smile. I will never forget your kind soul

Your heart always inspired me

Rock on Joe. Give them hell in heaven

Bless you Joe. You were a beloved man.

Always remember you. Your crazy matches me crazy

What struck me is that there wasn't a single photograph of Joe displayed. That's highly atypical for memorials of this kind.

Who was this man to inspire such an outpouring of art and sentiment? What had happened to him?

I had a million questions and took notes. I took photographs. My mind drifted to a selfish and immature thought: no one was ever going to construct anything like this to me when I died. My mind also drifted to a line from John Donne's poem “No Man is an Island,” a line my Dad quotes all the time: Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind.

Traffic was ripping by. The noise of the city snapped me out of my semi trance. I checked the sidewalk behind me and saw a man approaching. I moved my bicycle out of the way to let him pass. He was wearing sunglasses, a gray leather jacket from the 90s, and smoking a thin cigar. His hair was feathered. He was in his 40s.

Our eyes met, then I saw him looking at the memorial.

“Do you know anything about this?” I said.

“I do,” he said.

He removed his sunglasses and in due course, I learned: the memorial had been constructed not long after Joe O' Riley was struck and killed by an automobile at the wicked intersection of Holgate Boulevard and McLoughlin Boulevard, a few blocks away, less than two weeks ago, at ten in the morning on a weekday. The driver had abandoned the vehicle and run off. Police were still looking for him.

I remembered I had seen a brief report about this on television news. Naturally, television news hadn't broadcast any follow-up. It never does.

No one in media cares about the follow-up story after a tragedy. It doesn't exist although the follow-up is a thousand times more interesting than the initial cause of tragedy or the tragedy itself. And I would know this from personal experience.

I asked the man if he knew Joe. He said he did. He worked at a gas station near the intersection where Joe died. Joe often came to the station to charge his phone. He was an incredibly nice guy.

How old was Joe I asked. The man said around 40. The man also added that someone came every night since the memorial had been constructed to light a candle.

I am not an overly emotional person, but this account of Joe's senseless and criminal death, the memorial, the candle, overwhelmed me like nothing had in a very long time. I simply had to know more about Joe and I knew I didn't want to Google to find out.

It was time to leave. The man shot out his arm to shake my hand. It was my first handshake since the Pandemic had struck. I shook his hand. He told me his name and I told him mine, then I promptly forgot his name and for that I am sorry.

Two days later, I was walking around my neighborhood when I encountered Mark, a homeless man I'd met a few months ago. Mark was always reading novels and we developed a friendship over that interest and discussed books as well other cultural matters. Mark was sitting on his usual sidewalk and was joined by other members of his Cannery Row-type crew. They greeted me warmly like they always do.

It occurred to me that one of the signatures on the statements to Joe was from a Mark. I asked Mark about the memorial and Joe. Did he know anything about it?

Mark knew everything about it. He had attended the wake with about 30 people, all homeless. There was drinking and weed and art and candles and tears and testimonials. He'd written the line about heaven and hell. He and the other men all described Joe as a spectacular and kind man with a big heart. Joe also loved the ladies and apparently they loved him.

At some point I dug out a notebook from my bag to take notes, but I didn't have a pen! Mark produced one and the conversation continued.

More personal details about Joe emerged. He was somewhere from the Midwest and it was thought he had family there. He used to camp out near Eastmoreland Golf Course but had moved to the other encampment some six months ago. Mark called Joe Sisyphus because he was always pushing a shopping cart with a gigantic tarped load up the hill to the golf course. Said Mark, “Joe was always finding something in his cart and offering it to people. 'Hey, you need a flashlight?' and he'd pull it out.”

Mark went on to describe his first night in the neighborhood. He'd slept in the meditation garden of a nearby mausoleum and when he awoke he met Joe and Joe offered him four bananas for breakfast.

I also learned that a man named Donnie had arranged the wake. Donnie was living in a rehab center in downtown Portland and had ordered pizza and brought along Mountain Dew because Joe loved pizza and Mountain Dew. I didn't ask, but one of the crew said Joe struggled with meth but hadn't lost his mind to it.

It occurred to me that I was finally getting below the surface on one person caught up in the New American Diaspora and that man was dead.

I asked Mark if it would be appropriate to take the owl stencil. He said sure. I said I'd wait until the predicted rainstorm hit in a few days, when much of the memorial would most likely get washed away.

It was time to go. I fished out a $10 bill and handed it to Mark. He refused it. I insisted he take it and buy himself a good meal. He took the cash. I told him I paid for stories and he was a master storyteller who had enlightened and energized me to write with better accuracy and richness about Joe and what the memorial meant to me. That was easily worth ten bucks.

Three days later, rain was falling as I walked to the memorial on an early Saturday morning. It was Portland's first rain in over three months and I had listened to its sweet tattooing on the roof for most of the night.

For some reason, I was not sanguine about my chance of finding the owl.

There it was, soggy, splattered with road grime, but intact. I picked it up, cradled it under my arm and walked away. I was certain it would end up as part of the cover of the book I am writing about the New American Diaspora and as a featured piece of art in my writing studio. One day I hoped Mark would help me track down the artist so I could pay her.