Heat Wave
The sizzling Portland summer continued with no relief in sight. I decided to check on Mark and see if he needed anything. He wasn't one for cooling centers although I had offered transportation to one. He and other members of the club would just ride it out under the shade of trees.
I saw Mark sitting on the sidewalk, his back against the fence, head slumped over. I walked up to him. He took absolutely no notice of me. His eyes were closed. He was either asleep or passed out. It was probably the latter because two empty cans of malt liquor rested near him. A volume of the Dune Chronicles and a can of chili with a spoon sticking out also rested nearby.
The sight of Mark in such a terrible state in 100-degree heat jolted me. This was well, well beyond any Cannery Row moment. In fact, it struck me then and there that Mark and the Boys (and Girls) of Sellwood Row had always been well, well beyond Cannery Row and I had to quit fucking around.
He was a friend and slipping away and I wasn't doing nearly enough to stop or even thwart the slippage.
Should I rouse Mark? Was this finally the time to call 9-1-1? It occurred to me that I was probably never going to get Mark's permission to call 9-1-1 and receive the instant assessment/evaluation the city required to qualify him for possible admittance into one of the sleeping pod villages. Maybe it was totally absurd and morally negligent to even ask for permission!
You don't ask someone self-immolating permission to call 9-1-1 on their behalf!
I stood there for a few seconds. A couple crows landed in the tree and didn't make a sound. I didn't rouse Mark. I didn't call. I walked away debating with myself.