I'm typing my final Portland blogpost from a miniature desk crammed into the chaotic mess in the main room of the Love Shack, a place I have enjoyed for almost eighteen years. It feels surreal to be leaving. I can't believe this is really happening, even after I loaded up a U-Box with most of my possessions and approved its departure to some unknown facility in Tucson. I am fully prepared to never see my stuff again. My next challenge is to get myself there. Departure is set for Thursday.
On the opposite end of the delusionary scale was my assumption that buying a used car would be an easy, smooth, painless process. I'm not even factoring in the tooth extraction and subsequent round of antibiotics (I'm fine now, thanks). You should assume that people don't sell cars they love. They only sell cars that are currently or imminently going to have a conniption fit. On the bright side, I have learned so much about myself in the process of getting a new radio installed. I look forward to another learning experience tomorrow when I attempt to locate a mechanic who can diagnose and resolve the mysterious check engine light, the dreaded indicator that could mean mutiny among the oxygen sensors.
I fear my apartment has more stuff in it than can fit in the car with me on this trip to Tucson. I've built boxes for Mom's TV, my computer, and my computer monitor. Perhaps I was overly generous with the cardboard, I don't know. I'm not sure there will be room for me in the car. I laid some boards in the cargo space to get a sense of a floor plan. In my mind, I pictured something larger. That is another instance of delusion usurping reality. Reality wins every time when it comes to cargo space and cubic feet. I may be sleeping in the driver's seat.
Another delusion I have entertained lately is the idea that I will be a different person when I move to a new city in a new state. I know in my heart that executing a geographical won't change me. However, I am hoping that I might, I don't know, be able to eat things that normal people eat. Bread. Cheese. Pasta. Milk. Sugar. I might start wearing bright colors, cotton dresses, bras, sandals. Hey, I might not like eating cheese and wearing dresses. To be honest, I doubt I will feel comfortable wearing a bra ever again. However, I reserve the right to try on another persona, at least for a while. Everyone who moves far away should have the right to make new style choices. I might even grow my hair, who knows.
Yesterday while I waited for my new radio to be installed, I visited a nearby grocery store and bought a Honey Crisp apple, a protein bar, and a box of plant-based chocolate chip cookies. I ate the apple first, sitting on a bench in the shade outside a Kohl's store. Between bites, I wrote in my journal and consulted my calendar to make sure my afternoon was on track. The weather was gorgeous, summer-like temperatures and soaring blue sky. The heat felt great, even though the dry air was turning the skin on my hands into crepe paper. Next, I ate the protein bar. Feeling adventurous, I tore into the box of cookies. Six cookies nestled in a plastic tray and wrapped in plastic. I didn't feel quite so happy after seeing the wasteful packaging (and realizing only six cookies came in the box).
I bit into the first cookie (mmm, chocolate) but was distracted by a commotion ensuing about thirty yards away, outside the door of the store. A large bedraggled white woman and a chubby Black teen in a heavy jacket were coming toward me. The kid pushed a beat up bicycle. The woman was yelling, "I need to sit down, my feet are f**king killing me!" Despite other bench options, she made a beeline for my bench.
As she aimed her butt toward the space between me and the arm of the bench, I hastily closed my notebook, stashed my pen, stuffed the box of cookies in my bag, and leaped to my feet.
"You don't have to leave!" she whined. I don't know what she saw in my eyes. Being so close to another human felt shocking. I was wearing a mask. She was not. She wore dirty leggings, Birkenstocks, and a stained skirt. I suspect she was on drugs, not that I'm an expert. Her companion walked his bike away from the woman, moving from the shade into the sun. "Winston, wait, don't leave me!" He kept walking across the empty parking lot.
I backed away from the bench expropriator. "Wait, is this yours?" She picked up a piece of metal from the bench. We both stared at the object. It looked like a large paperclip, bent out of shape. I shook my head, confused. She tossed it toward me, and it bounced off my sneaker. "Oh, sorry," she laughed.
I hiked with purpose around the corner of the building, trying to avoid the other local houseless crazies and druggies who wander the parking lots, panhandling and socializing. They live in tents tied to fences and trees and inhabit decrepit RVs rusting along the nearby side streets. I could so easily be one of them. Yesterday, temporarily, I was an impostor, sitting on a bench eating my snack, briefly blending in with the other parking lot zombies while I waited for a radio to be installed in my fancy used car. When I walked back to the shop, the technician demonstrated the radio. The gizmo lights up, connects to my phone, and does everything but call me by name. As I sat in my fancy car looking at my fancy new radio, I still felt like an impostor.
I am guessing a road trip through the desert will change me in ways I cannot yet predict. I'll update you when I find out who I am.
