Swept Away (Part 2)
A day later I walked to my local dive to drink a dark beer and begin writing up the story. Everything was so incomplete with any possible editorial approach, but sometimes you just start and see where it goes.
I ordered my beer at the bar. It was just me and the bartender, Cassie, who had once been homeless herself years ago and lived in an encampment downstream from where the man had been swept away. Cassie and I have discussed the homeless issue many times when business is slow and she knows many of the homeless in the neighborhood because they often come in a for a drink or to play the slot machines. When they do, they also charge their phones, use the restroom, keep to themselves, and try to keep it together. Most do. Cassie and the rest of the bartending staff treat them with incredible patience and compassion.
The joint had a new stout on tap, and as it settled before taking it to my customary table, I asked Cassie if she'd heard about the drowning.
Cassie knew a lot. She'd spent the past two days consoling Kenny, the man who had appeared on television after he witnessed a raging creek sweep his friend away. He shared with Cassie everything he remembered from the incident, but it was still so raw.
Half an hour later, I had heard what Kenny had told Cassie of the death and Sean, the person. It wasn't the full story, or at least the full story I wanted to know, but it helped fill out the picture of a human being who was gone forever.
At least with this information, news the media will never report, those of you reading this can consider the loss of another person in connection to the homeless crisis and assay how that one loss diminishes us all.
His name was Sean Struckman and he was around 40 years old. He had a young son who lived in the Portland area with his mother, Sean's ex. Sean was not homeless when he died, but perhaps had been at some points in his life. He lived in an apartment in North Portland but often traveled to Sellwood for days at a time to hang out in the encampment with friends. Sean was a small man and exuded a skater sort of vibe. He admittedly suffered various mental illnesses.
Sean was a tattoo artist and tattooed housed locals and homeless people in the neighborhood in their residences. He was not affiliated with a shop. Cassie had bought some of his tattooing equipment for her daughter when she became interested in tattooing as a possible career. After Sean's death, Cassie gave Kenny one of Sean's tattoo guns as a memento of his friend.
Kenny said Sean had thrown a seat cushion into the current before he ended up there. He wasn't sure why. He thought Sean might have jumped into the creek as a kind of joke or was just horsing around with nature, but he didn't believe his friend committed suicide. Who really knew? No one would ever know for sure.
What Kenny did know for sure was the last time he saw Sean. The current was ripping and roiling and turned Sean momentarily around. Kenny got one final look at Sean's face before he went under and it registered a look that he would never forget: I fucked up!
Kenny hadn't slept since he'd last seen Sean's face.
As I sat at the bar listening to Cassie tell the story, a stillness overtook me. I wasn't taking any notes. I didn't drink my beer.
Cassie concluded the story and I went over to my table and sat down. I drank my beer and pulled out my notebook. I wrote nothing.
I returned the next day to see if Cassie had learned anything more about Sean's death. I asked if she knew anyone who had one of Sean's tattoos. She told me Johnny had one. He was right outside!
Cassie retrieved Johnny and introduced me. Johnny rolled up his left sleeve and I saw NATIVE inked on his forearm. Johnny told me it was very recent. He said, “I think I was the last person he tattooed.”
Johnny went to the bar and sat on a stool. I bought him a whiskey. He recounted the night before Sean died. He had been with him near a convenience store. Sean was extremely upset about a breakup with a woman. He had two black eyes. In the morning, he ended up in Johnson Creek at flood stage and lost his life.
I left Johnny and Cassie and went to my table and took a few notes. A few minutes later, Cassie came over with some of Sean's artwork. She remembered she still had it tucked away in the bar. I didn't ask the provenance of it.
Cassie placed two pencil drawings of women on a pool table and I took photographs of them. Shadows made for tough picture-taking. Cassie said she could make photocopies for me. I said that was a great plan. I could scan them at home for whatever I was going to do with them. I told her if there was some kind of fundraiser for Sean's son, I wanted one of the drawings. I was good for a hundred bucks. Cassie said she'd let me know.
On my way home, with the photocopies staring at me from the passenger seat, the idea of what to do with Sean's story of being swept away hit me and hit me hard.