Saturday afternoon, September 5th, 2020. It’s the fourth day of our enthralling sojourn in the northwesternmost upside-down horse hoof of Oregon, and extra-pensive (although not extra-expensive) THC cookie day #3. The weather is sunny and warmer than normal, but not as hot as mid-week in the lower Willamette Valley. After strolling the riparian greenway to the award-winning Main Street of Oregon City, I am now sans-souci settled; just serenely watching the I-205 traffic rumble-hum across the tranquil, olive-colored, lazily north-flowing river. The synthetic-rubber-slatted armchair on our 3rd-level balcony at the Best Western Plus Rivershore Hotel is surprisingly comfortable. I begin musing about the mid-morning to midday sequence of events. Well, it all started fine. The Northwest Point bus arrived right on time. [9:20 AM at Midtown Cannon Beach] We didn’t forget anything in the hotel room. Much thanks to an odd god. Or two. But gosh, was so mentality-a-muddled when we arrived at Union Station [downtown Portland] at 11:29. Thoughts kept looping. And became knotted. Like baby ring-necked snakes. Though, shouldn’t it be neck-ringed snakes? Or even more precise, ringed-neck snakes? Should not have eaten those extra-spatial cookies on back-to-back days. Miscalculated. Can’t believe I forgot to buy the Amtrak tickets to Oregon City. Though, a blessing in disguise. Actually. A six-and-a-half-hour layover was never going to work anyway. Not on foot with rolling luggage in that stumbling-block area. Way too much scary bummerazzi [sic] for Monique. [code name for Agent 32] That hopping-across-the-railroad-tracks gambit at the Oregon City Amtrak station. A mad dash through the little patch of woods to the gated – with that adjacent Picasso-esque-painted Port-a-John door – dirt road. Then passing under the freeway. [Interstate 205] Concluding with a final, ‘look like you live here’, walking-on-eggshells, spicy-dicey phase: traipsing (i.e., trespassing) through that just-recently-finished upscale apartment complex [Edgewater at The Cove] to the strip mall. [Oregon City Shopping Center] A quasi-epic adventure that was meticulously studied and plotted via aerial imagery – and somewhat feared – for four months. Yet, how I paradoxically looked forward to the peculiar-routed, self-created challenge. It all came to naught, though. Probably for the better. Too old to be attempting such unauthorized cut-throughs. ‘You’re a somewhat-respected safety professional at an accredited college. What the hell were you thinking?’ Crank up the chortle-a-rama. Though, [deceased in January of 2013] Agent 107 [Frank von Peck] would have done it without a second thought. ‘Don’t be a wuss-wad, [sic] 33; let’s get going.’ Sure do miss him. Gone way too soon. At least we managed to get on the [MAX light rail] Orange Line. But only after going the wrong way on the Green Line. However, caught that error fairly quick – right after the Rose Quarter stop. Glad I was able to correct our course before we ended up at Gateway station. Or the final stop: Clackamas Town Center. Though, Monique would have been fine with that. But, mall-shopping day is tomorrow. Whew! Was thoroughly immersed in some dense mental fog at the Milwaukie Main Street MAX station. And Monique becoming more and more PMS-irritated with me. ‘Ok, so where do we go now, 33?’ [my agent no.] And I had no satisfactory answer, only ‘somewhere near here’. Kept repeating it. So very glad we stumbled upon that triangular food-truck court along SE 21st Avenue. [Milwaukie Station Food Cart Pod] Monique sure was disappointed that Filipina Cuisine was closed. ‘Where is she? This isn’t a Philippine or American holiday!’ Though, the Chinese food [from Happy Delicious] momentarily satiated Monique, and bought me some time to regain my bearings. Hard-boiled ball bearings. Showing cracks. From age. And stress. And that kind Chinese American fellow. What a helpful soul. Researched our dilemma on his smartphone and pointed us to the [Trimet Route 33] bus stop. [at SE 21st & Washington] I owe him. Maybe send him something in the mail. But, food trucks don’t have mailing addresses. Need to mull this over. Really botched the photo-shoot with Monique. ‘Get the whole body – the whole scene.’ Kept wandering in with the camera. Wanted to zoom-in on her face. And now, we’re very quiet. It’s ok, though. She took a pill; she should be feeling better soon. Not feeling frazzled and disoriented anymore. So exquisitely über-relaxed at this moment. In time. 4:37 and 29 seconds. Wonder what that semi-truck driver [who just passed westward on the I-205 bridge] was thinking at that exact second. Sports? Weather? Politics? The wife/husband/significant other? The kid(s)? The home? The money? The tailgating blue sedan? A secret rendezvous? Will his/her rig ever be involved in a wreck? What a horrible thought. Bad karma coming my way (again) for that one. 4:37:29 PM PDT. Hmmm … that’s 11:37:29 PM GMT. Wonder if anything noteworthy occurred at that exact intersection in space-time. Did a bullet graze someone’s skin right at that second somewhere on this oblate spheroid? Another terrible thought. Though, strongly suspect that some awful event happened right then. Somewhere. Or, did something incredibly propitious happen right then? Also. Did some lucky someone fill out a winning lottery ticket at 4:37:29? Was that when the last correctly chosen oval was pencil-shaded on her/his slip of paper? Maybe find out tonight. Must remember that –
“Hello, my fired cameraman, are you ok out there?” Monique queries through the sliding, halfway-in-the-track screen door.
“Doing better,” I reply. “Just reviewing day 4 up to this point.” What?! Does he expect to ‘review’ it beyond now?
“Well, please don’t review it over the railing. It’s a long-enough way down, and your flapping arms would be no good as wings. Splat!” Does she think I’m suicidal? Gimme a break! C’mon now.
“I’m perfectly fine right here in this chair, Agent 32. The only way that I’m going overboard is if a magnitude-8-point-8 earthquake jolts me upward forty-four inches.” [1.12 meters] He needs a jolt alright – a jolt to his brain.
“Speaking of going overboard, 33, someone just jumped off that boat out there into the water.” Is that river water clean?
“Yeah, they’re doing some tubing,” I reply. Huh?
“What is ‘tubing’?” Monique asks, completely bemused.
“It’s where you lay on an overinflated truck inner tube that is attached by a strong rope to the transom of a motorboat, and hang on for dear life. My brothers and I used to do it on the lakes around Charlotte in the summer. Whoever was at the helm would try to create a spectacular dismounting by whipping the inner tube back across the boat’s wake. The rider would usually be sent airborne by the third slingshot turn. Fun times.” Fun?!
“Think I’ll pass on that, 33. Need anything to drink?” The Motrin must have kicked in. Her mood is so much better.
“Ah, thanks for asking, sweetie, but I think I’ll go beer-less today. If you decide to make some green tea, I’ll just go with that. Signed, your bana [‘husband’ in Cebuano] aka Mr. Healthy.” Mr. Healthy? Oh, please. He seems so relaxed – too relaxed. I bet he ate another one of those kooky cookies. Such a sneaky kano. [Filipino slang for ‘American’]
“So, you don’t want to come inside and watch some TV?”
“No. This is a truly ineffable scene out here, Monique; it’s much better than any television program. I’m trying to savor every minute; I know I’ll miss it.” Way overblown. It’s obvious: he ate another cookie. I’ll surprise his ass later.
“Ok, dear, suit yourself. I’m going to take a nap.”
“Sweet dreams, my princess.” Princess? Yep, he’s high on something.
“Ok, do you want the glass door shut?” Monique asks.
“No, you can leave it open. That way you can hear my thud.”
Monique shakes her head. “Whatever, 33. Just don’t crush that nice bush down there.” She quickly retreats to the king-size bed, and is asleep in 4 minutes, 37.29 seconds.
After that stark warning, I begin thinking about what my sage Iraqi dentist-friend (who lives in Baghdad), Wid, relayed to me. Incomplete consciousness is the problem with us humans. Animals live by instinct; they don’t sit around and ponder abstractions outside of their needs for survival. When the lion savagely kills the beautiful gazelle on the African savanna, it’s not done with malice or out of a fit of jealous rage; it’s just his nature – the way his species was designed – determined by a combination of genes and hormones that were processed and refined over thousands of years by evolution. Biologically, we are very similar – physiologically, anatomically, and histologically – to all mammals, especially primates – obviously. Lions have no innate hatred of gazelles; they’re just their preferred food source. We humans have a unique self-awareness, unlike the lion, and consciousness, but it’s not whole; it’s incomplete – only partial. Thus, humankind is somewhere in between all-instinct mode and a wholly benevolent omni-consciousness mode of living. That’s why our social systems are not truly based on real justice, equity, fairness, or forthrightness. Notice all the disingenuous advertising. It’s why compassion often rings hollow. It’s why love often only exists when convenient/pleasurable/profitable. It’s why we have these moral dilemmas. Over and over again. Always unresolved. It’s even why our politics are so immoderate. The lion only kills and mates as necessary. It only maintains and defends enough territory to maintain its pride’s existence. Many humans kill other animals for fun. Some even murder and rape total strangers. And as we certainly know from the hundreds of wars, groups of humans are always wanting the adjacent clan’s territory, usually due to a perceived impending resource-shortfall, but just as often to merely be in control of the other group’s turf. Instinct-driven animals don’t do such spiteful things. Hmmm …
I shift my attention and thinking to the long, protruding-at-an-acute-downstream-angle boat dock on the hotel side (the eastern bank). A Caucasian family of four are loading their outboard-powered bass boat for an outing. The teenage daughter is giggling. The college-age son spies a young lady who is water skiing upstream. The presumed mother passes the cooler to the presumed father, who is at the right console. It’s a quintessentially all-American scene of a day out on the boat. It sends my mind back over four decades to a chilly March day in 1979 on Lake Norman (slightly north-northwest of Charlotte): the maiden voyage of dad’s just-purchased, bone-white, 19-foot-long, [5.79 meters from prow to stern] high-bowed Alindale skiff (more of a saltwater craft; somewhat of an anomaly on the North Carolina Piedmont lakes). Ah, that unnerving boat ramp scene. The launch went ok. But, not so good trying to get it back on the trailer. Joe [my next youngest brother] and I … gosh, we were so inexperienced. But learning fast. Those black rocks along that jetty. ‘Fend off!’ The chilly, raw, biting wind. ‘Brrr …’ Can still feel it on my back now. Those foreboding nimbostratus clouds. ‘How is this going to end? Badly? Tragically?’ And darkness was rapidly descending. Felt like a movie – an ominous movie. Sure was glad to get home. Dad going over nautical terms with us later that night. ‘Right is starboard, guys; left is port, but it was once larboard, which was replaced because it sounded too much like starboard.’ Strange what one remembers.
“Really should have done better, dad,” I subconsciously mutter. “Blew it.”
“Who are you talking to, 33?”
A red alder leaf passes through the railing.