Yet again, a Short Story From the City

Rain falls. Sun shines. Hail collides.

I stocked two free street libraries with my books. It’s pretty much the only way I distribute these days. But when I return, the books are always gone. I can’t say that about bookstores. Free is good. Free books find their way to the most interesting of unforeseen readers. I’ve heard from a few in recent years.

I was in this coffee shop 23 years ago on the day it opened. A few minutes ago, I met the man that opened it and he still owns it—remarkable. We talked about the time he installed the red tile floor and the gentrifying changes in the neighborhood. He told me wanted out, out of Oregon, perhaps to Tennessee to start a commune of sorts on cheap land. I’ve been hearing similar stories of real or potential exodus from many long-tern Oregonians. Something has dramatically shifted and they are highly irritated. The owner then began talking about the late Republican Governor Tom McCall’s bold governing initiatives. I produced a reproduction of McCall’s 1970 campaign bumper sticker from my back pack and presented it to him. He nearly fell out of his chair. He thanked me and got up and affixed the bumper sticker to the front window. He came back over and sat down. “McCall was something else,” he said. “Have you ever heard about that rock festival he put on? Vortex?”

“I’ve heard of it,” I said.

We talked of Vortex for a few minutes and then he drifted away. I went back to writing a love letter to someone who loves me but doesn’t want to love.

An elderly woman wearing a red smock dragging on the floor reads a newspaper.

An elderly man reads a novel and mouths the words silently as he reads. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that.

Ryan Adams plays softly. Drunk Ryan Adams, not the boring, later sober Ryan Adams.

I have not seen a phone in use. Places like this still exist in the city but they border on museum exhibit. Maybe I’ve become a walking Oregon museum exhibit. Dig it.

My mind floats to an old girlfriend I used meet near here—The Ship—a classic OTA dive bar. It’s still diving, thank god. I wonder what happened to her. I wish I knew where she was. Great first name—Tina. She kind of looked like Mary Tyler Moore but without the huge smile.

Another older man just entered carrying a huge three-ring binder. They are rare in public these days. Once, the nuclear codes were stored in three-ring binders. I think we might have been safer then.

Two older women take a window seat. They start talking in whispers. Secrets!

I’m wearing a 50-year old plaid Pendleton shirt that was originally given to my father by my grandmother. After I die, I want it to go to the right person. I’ll mention this in my will. I know the person. She might even wear it without irony.

Why do I write these stories from the city? They aren’t even stories. Nothing happens. I suppose that’s a kind of story, a slow-motion story of nothing.

The man opens his binder and I notice notebook paper with notes and diagrams. I think he’s studying for a test.

Time to roll out onto the streets. I wouldn’t mind feeling hail. Hail hurts, but I like the sting on my face.

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