Then I went to a neighborhood called The Pearl – a pretentious few square miles full of the worst sorts of people, in my opinion, people who build enormous condo towers that they call “green,” people whose millions hijacked a neighborhood they wouldn’t have set foot in 15 years ago, people who bitch about the noise made by the mail trucks and the trains and the parking garage cleaners, all the while congratulating themselves for being “urban.” It is sort of fun to walk around there, though, and since I had time to kill before meeting my friend for dinner, I did some walking. I didn’t make it very far, because I found this cavernous place so crammed with stuff that it took a while just to look. In addition to an entire wall of kimonos and massive oak chests and candle gear that recalled the Spanish Inquisition, I found a pretty good card selection. One of the strangest things about Portland, in addition to the low-grade stamp selection, is the card situation. In a city so precious, it’s shocking how hard good cards are to come by. I found some, and I bought some.
I do believe in following the crossing signals. I stood on the corner of one of the major north-south streets through the Pearl and when the signal changed to “WALK” I did just that. A woman in a pale blue Prius waited with her right-turn signal on as I crossed. The guy driving the car behind her – a Mazda, or a Honda or VW perhaps, black – honked his horn. Then he honked again. I walked across the intersection. More honking. I stood on the corner and the woman in the Prius stayed put. Maybe she’s screwing with him, I thought happily, and took a nice drag from my cigarette. I turned to see that there were two more people crossing the street. The woman inched forward. I caught her eye and waved and mouthed “thank you,” to her. She nodded and smiled. The guy honked again. I caught his eye and gestured toward the two people crossing. With one hand he pointed at his watch and then honked again. The light turned yellow, the last of the two people crossing the intersection reached the sidewalk, the Prius took its turn and the honking man pulled up to the intersection, where he was stopped by a light that had just turned red. I’m not sure if he was about to have a heart attack, or if the mother of his unborn baby was about to deliver, or if his own mother was on her deathbed, or if he was late for a meeting, or if he just thought his schedule was more important than people crossing the street – not sprinting, but not slow poking either. The two other street crossers and I set out into the intersection to walk in front of him, and I was in such a good mood, so happy about any number of little things, that I took another deep drag off my ciggie and then flicked what was left of it at his windshield, adding my quite advanced flick skills to the already long list of what made Tuesday a very enjoyable day.
