I was leaving some fancy grocery store in Portland one early summer eve when some old bum sidled up to me.
The funny thing was that he was trying to give me money?! “Could ya buy me a bottle of port?” He pleaded, holding out a 10 dollar bill. “They won’t sell me none” he exhaled, somewhat defeated. He didn’t seem that drunk. They probably just didn’t want him in the store I thought. “Sure buddy.” I shrugged. I had no place to be. So I went in and got him the bottle he had described. And boy was he tickled pink, when I came out and handed it to him. He even tried to get me to keep the change. I gave him his money, but he only excepted once I agreed to have a drink with him. Hell why not. I was just wandering around stoned looking at all the pretty colors and taking in the sounds and smells of the city. Portland is a beautiful fucking city, especially when yer young and its summer. I could still smell the earlier rain in the air. A few bucks in my pocket… hmmmm endless possibilities.
The old bum leaned up against the concrete wall and spun the lid of the port and he handed me the bottle. The port tasted like sweet rotten red wine. We sat down right there on the sidewalk, leaning against the storefront wall. Watching all the cars and people… And he began to tell me stories… hopping freight trains, picking fruit, a bar fight gone bad, someone dying, jail, love & leaving. He’d stop every so often, take a tug off the bottle and sum it all up in a sentence or two. “The man who say he don’t know fear, is a lie.” I just nodded, passed him a smoke and listened. Then he told me about the time that Mount St. Helens blew up. “We was all sacked out down on 3rd street by the fountain. It was the middle of the afternoon and I woke up all the sudden and it was dark, like it was nighttime only it was daytime and it was snowing, snowing ash.” He leaned in close to me and his eyes got real big like a childs… he whispered “We thought it was the end of the world!” Then he shook his head and smiled a big ol toothless smile.
