82nd Avenue Hope

I drove home from the airport after dropping off a great friend. It was a gray morning, the day after the election. Rain fell. I did not drive any of the interstate highways. I never do when driving to or back from the airport. My route is always 82^nd Avenue: the most teeming, gritty, squalid, vibrant, strange, blasted, diverse, reckless, dangerous, “massage parlor” infested, fascinating roadway in Oregon. Nothing else comes close.

There are never stories on interstate highways, except road rage. Driving along 82^nd Avenue at any time of day or night is an American writer’s dream. A soggy buffet of stories moving in real time. I could write a book on that roadway, or better yet, start a weekly newspaper that reports only on matters of 82^nd Avenue and only distributes the edition via racks and homeless newsies. The office of the paper is the dive bar with the two derelict RVs marooned out front. They get a free ad as payment.

The morning felt grim. My friend left in an utterly forlorn mood because of the election results.

As for my mood, on that drive home from the airport, I was searching for hope, not in my mind, but my country. This roadway was perhaps the unlikeliest place in Oregon for such a search, but there I was. You search where you are.

Traffic backed up where 82^nd Avenues flows under I-84 and I came to a complete stop almost directly under the overpass. I looked left and saw several homeless men wander around in an obviously drugged-out state. I saw a tent and someone pushing a contraption conveying cans and bottles. The city had installed huge concrete barriers under the overpass to prevent camping. Barbed wire was also strung up everywhere.

I looked right and surveyed a former motel now converted into transitional housing for homeless families. A school bus stopped a few vehicles ahead of me flashed its blinking red lights. A Latino girl, probably in third or fourth grade ran in the rain to board the bus. Her mother was right behind her, wearing pajamas and a hoodie. She smiled and waved at her daughter as she disappeared into the bus. Seconds later, the mother came up to a window, smiling, and yelled something to her daughter inside.

I got my fix of hope. Red lights went dark and traffic lurched forward. I went forward as well. Always forward in these times.

Don’t look back, said Bob Dylan.

You look back, you end up as Lot’s wife.

Advance, always.