Swept Away

I was walking the neighborhood on the morning of December 4^th when I heard siren after siren and thought nothing more of it than a probable automobile accident on a dangerous stretch of Highway 99 that parallels Westmoreland Park.

That evening, I watched the news on television and learned what the sirens were all about: at approximately 7:30 AM, high water on Johnson Creek in SE Portland swept away a man under the Tacoma Street bridge, the site of a homeless encampment.

Television crews broadcast from the bridge site and interviewed a resident of the encampment, who said the deceased man was his best friend, a tattoo artist, and they’d tried to save him but the current was too wild. It was unclear from the reports whether the missing man resided in the encampment, but he was there nonetheless. I did know he wasn’t a member of the Old Crow Book Club and that fact greatly relieved me.

The man’s body was discovered by a downstream homeowner two days later.

Five days after the death, the weather front that had produced record rainfall had moved east and the morning was dry and bright. By then, I’d read more media reports of the drowning and failed attempts at rescue. The man had yet to be identified to the public, perhaps he never would.

It was time to visit my father at his assisted living center. We would discuss the man’s death and converse about homelessness, one of our main topics of conversation.

I set out on foot. Not far from the house, I decided to detour to the exact site where the sweeping away occurred because I wanted to see it for myself. There was something about this death that really got to me. It seemed so much more awesome a tragedy than an overdose under a highway overpass. As soon as I reached the bridge, a thought overwhelmed me: what an immature writer’s conceit to consider this man’s tragic death something literary. I felt ashamed.

In the moments when I talk to my father about the deaths or imminent deaths of homeless men and women in my neighborhood, he always quotes a line from John Donne, “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind,” and he undoubtedly would again after hearing the terrible news of happened a quarter mile from where he lived.

I stood on the bridge and peered down to the encampment. It looked like a mortar round had scored a direct hit. People still lived there. I saw no makeshift memorial at the creek’s edge but perhaps that would come later after the water level receded. It was still running with fury.

Unsatisfied with the view from above, I took a side street off the bridge for closer inspection. I saw a well-worn path that led straight into the encampment but didn’t take it. It didn’t feel right—at this point in time.

What struck me about the entrance to the path was seeing several neat piles of split firewood. This was grade A Doug fir, seasoned and obviously not harvested from the woods in the area. Someone in the neighborhood was supplying the encampment with the firewood.

I kept walking. Fifty feet from the encampment a newly razed former manufacturing plant on a roughly two-acre lot was being graded and prepped for future construction. A thought materialized: this was a perfect spot for a temporary homeless encampment. It had water and power already on site. It had sewer hookups. It was surrounded by concrete and railroad tracks. There wasn’t a residential dwelling in site. There were already 20 or 30 homeless people living along the creek and in nearby RVs within shouting distance. The neighbor across the street was a public golf course.

If there were any urgency addressing the emergency of homelessness in Portland, this site could host temporary housing for 30-50 people in purchased second-hand trailers and fifth wheels. It would take two weeks to set up. Hire an onsite manager. Establish a residents’ council and draw up some rules. No accumulating shit. One strike and you’re out.

It was so obvious to me as an ad hoc solution.

I saw two men coordinating the grading and surveying of the site. I went up to them and asked what was planned for the space.

“Storage units. We’ll break ground in a month and have them opened by late spring.”

Storage units. Heated no doubt. I walked away knowing that my state probably builds more heated storage units than it erects unheated temporary housing units.

Swept away. Such poetry in that vivid image; it has the force of a folk song commenting on monumental loss. (Think “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” or that song Dylan wrote about a bear mauling people at a picnic.) Someone should write a song for this drowned man, but it wouldn’t be me, Someone should write an elegy for this drowned man, but it wouldn’t be me. I didn’t know what to do with the story.

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. (One is the graphic for this story.) 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.