A week or so later, I caught up with Mark at the grocery store. I bought a copy of the newspaper and opened it up to see a feature story about Mark as a vendor. The piece also contained a mention of the Old Crow Book Club. Mark was in a great mood as he described his new life in the pod. It seemed like it was really coming together for him in less than two weeks in residence.
I told Mark I had procured all the supplies we'd discussed him needing a few days ago, and that tomorrow at 11 in the morning, would meet him at the Safe Rest Village.
What exactly does a now formerly homeless man need for a tiny home in a Safe Rest Village to start anew? I had the list but it seemed incomplete so I winged it and threw in some goodies.
A collection of writing by Harry Crews, a novel by Kenzaburō Ōe, Teach Us to Outgrow our Madness, (perhaps the greatest all time title for a novel), and a history of the French Foreign Legion; a Magic 8-Ball; fine pipe tobacco; a Norm Thompson sweater; writing materials, a clock radio...and....a brown and gray tweed jacket with suede patches (!) that I'd worn teaching probably 5000 hours in various Oregon high school classrooms. It was the Super Teacher Coat and when I donned it, the students knew it was serious.
But that life was long, long gone to me and the jacket needed new purpose, as all tweed jackets do when a certain purpose dies.
Mark would give it new purpose wearing it around the village. The ladies would love it!
The plan was for Mark to wait outside the village because management wouldn't let me inside without notification from Mark and Mark had no phone for me to call ahead. Or perhaps management wouldn't allow me in under any condition. Mark didn't seem to know.
He said he'd be ready at the appointed time and I knew he would be.
At that moment, the documentary filmmaker unexpectedly rolled up. He came over to us and said he wanted a final shot of Mark recounting his life in the village. He also wanted a few minutes of me and Mark talking about...whatever!
It was too loud in front the store to film, so we walked around the corner. Mark and I sat down on the sidewalk. You know how much it hurts your ass and back to sit on a sidewalk? Mark had been doing it for eight years.
The filmmaker set up his gear and I noticed a long-haired and bearded homeless man, probably in his 20s, carrying a skateboard and umbrella, had slipped around the corner, sat down on the sidewalk near us, out of camera range, watching us, obviously listening. I had the seen the man before, but never met him.
Then the resident from the neighborhood who had advocated for so long on Mark's behalf, writing emails and making calls to the the city, county, going gadfly, buttonholing elected officials about services for the homeless or lack thereof, unexpectedly showed up as well!
Over the course of next ten minutes, a beautiful chaos ensued of the filmmaker filming Mark, Mark and me riffing, the resident explaining her advocacy, interjections from the young homeless man what were a little spacey, and me trying to get the man's story of homelessness (ten years up an down the West Coast). I filled him in on Mark's situation, the film, and asked if he wanted me to refer him to the new agency that had assisted Mark into housing. He said, “Yes” and I told him to meet the following day at noon and we'd start the process. He said he'd be there.
I felt a palpable sense of anticipation driving to the St John's area of North Portland, to the Peninsula Crossing Safe Rest Village. Elmer the husky was in back, ready for a new adventure. I got some jazz playing on the socialist jazz station.
It took almost half an hour to reach the village, which is situated at the end of a narrow dead end street, right across the street from a goat farm, yes, a goat farm, and indeed, about a dozen goats of varying shapes and colors were frolicking when I pulled up.
Goats! The residents could step outside the village anytime during daylight and watch goats play! I suspect that might be better therapy for many of the residents than conventional therapy with its cliches and nostrums.
It surprised me to discover how many houses abutted the village. I mean they were fence to fence. They were neighbors.
I arrived at 10:36 and Mark was standing out front. He waved, came over, and said I wasn't allowed inside. That perturbed me, but it made sense. We briefly talked about the village and then I unloaded a box and drove to another side street to park. I returned on foot with more supplies. I walked back to the car to get Elmer and take him for a walk around the perimeter while Mark set up his pod.
During this back and forth from the village to my car, I observed many of the residents coming and going, with bags of cans, a guitar, pulling a wagon, bicycling. Some were pleasant when I greeted them; others seemed incoherent or menacing.
Elmer and I passed the goat farm and several of the beasts came up to him. Elmer didn't know what to make of them. We kept moving, accessed a green belt behind the village, and I could see towering oaks and Doug firs inside where Mark lived. Living under those trees has to nourish some of the residents, or at least I like to believe.
I noticed a spacious outdoor common area of grass and bark chips with chairs and picnic tables that was a perfect dog run or place to read or write or just stare up at the sky.
A few minutes later the filmmaker showed up and began setting up to film Mark in front of his new home. I put Elmer back in the car and joined them.
Forty-five minutes later, I was driving Mark back to the grocery store. We talked of this and that and both of us were in excellent spirits. At one point, I saw a man reading a novel while standing up in a bus shelter. I told Mark to check it out; it was such a novelty to see in our culture anymore.
“Mark,” I said, “you realize that's the only way we would have ever met? Because you were reading books?”
“I know,” he said.
I dropped him off, we said our goodbyes, and I searched for the young man to begin the process of referring him to an outreach worker.
He was nowhere around.
(Readers: Thank you for the positive response to this series about Mark finding housing. Many of you have expressed a desire to assist me financially in supporting other members of the Old Crow Book Club get off the streets. You can do this by upgrading your paid subscription on Substack or visiting my web site at nestuccaspitpress.com and make a donation through PayPal. It all helps and it all goes to fund my efforts.)
A wonderful series. I'm curious about your comment " I got some jazz playing on the socialist jazz station."
Thanks, Matt, for sharing this great series with us.