Tuesday, Late Morning

Running of the Bulls

Portland, OR
Route #19, North on 4th Avenue

Don't ask how, but I knew he was suicidal before he indicated as such. Worn black pants, rolled up to just below the knees. Fixed gear bike, no brakes. He's clipped in. His bare calves sport tattoo's. Ragged black t-shirt and waterproof messenger bag on his back.

He stopped to greet another rider on the sidewalk; the two, still on their bikes, nearly bumped front wheels the way dogs bump each other - part of the ritual, but somehow accidental.

It's always difficult to tell the bicycle messengers from the hipsters. Usually the hand radio cliped near one shoulder is the key - neither of these dudes had radios.

They finished their pleasantries as my bus pulled away from the stop. The first rider sprints into the lane, aside the massive transporter. He outraces it, momentarily, swerving at the last minute to avoid the parked car ahead. My bus is merging left, as is the rider, right off our front nose.

This looks incredibly dangerous, as most public buses fill the lanes around us. The cyclists leans back to the right, splitting the near and parking lanes with another bus.

The other bus slows to make a turn as my bus shifts back right for another stop. The rider gently raises his left hand, placed on the door of the bus, and changes lanes with us. It's behaviour that's expected out of would-be bicycle couriers - to ride the traffic as if it were a great bull stampeding down the streets of Pamplona - to tempt mortal danger but remain unscathed.

Meanwhile, a third rider gently coasts along the sidewalk, listening intently to the small radio clipped to his side.

Sunday Afternoon

Why am I here? What did I come for again? Oh Yeah,
A moment later I was next in queue, handing a middle-aged asian man my credit card. He scanned my beer.

Wait. Add some Funyuns to that. I pull the chips from the stand.

OK. Deep Breath. Why'd I get so high? Was I still high?

"Nice Haircut."

Why's he saying that? It was the asian clerk. Broken English. Heavy Accent. Why did he mention my haircut? Does he recognize me?

"Oh, thanks," I mutter in response. He's swiping my card. I wanted to add that I'd just gotten it cut that day, but I couldn't get it out.

We waited. "I get lazy when it's nice like today..." the clerk told me. "Summer is over," he added ruefully. Fuck man. I was definitely high.

I had to add something in response. "Well, it's supposed to be nice all this week." The reality was it was fall, my words echoed in the cold air.

I stood nervously. I'd paid for my beer, but I was still waiting. I think the receipt was supposed to print out. I used my PIN, do I still get a receipt? If I just stand here and don't get a receipt, he'll know I'm high for sure.

Relax. It just printed a receipt. No worries man. Get back home.

Jay-walk for sure. Cut across the street. Down two blocks. Turn right, across from the park, you're there. Just get back home. You know the way, just do it.

Friday Night

"And it was your... left knee that was operated on?". She asked in the loud manner reserved for party hosts to let new guests introduce themselves.

I passed. "Yeah, left knee," I murmered, maneuvering my folding chair into the circle of unfamiliar characters.

I looked around. Other guests were engaged in conversations, but I was keenly aware that they were feigning disinterest at my arrival.

"So, you just got back from Seattle?" She asked again. I didn't have much to say, so I looked silently at the fire and swirled my drink.

I looked up at my host - she was smiling, but behind her smile I could see the desperation in her eyes. It wouldn't do for me not to provide some entertainment in the otherwise dull affair