Anniversary

17 years ago today, I flew into Portland and picked the keys to my new apartment. Like today, it was a Monday. My first night there I slept curled up on a pile of my clothes in the small walk-in closet. I had only brought two bags with me, the rest of my belongings were in storage across town. My cat slept next to me, both of us exhausted from having escaped an emotionally harrowing summer in LA.

One year later to the day, I had my toes amputated. A mild infection had blossomed and sent its roots into the bone. I had no insurance at the time, and had foolishly avoided getting help until it was too late.  

Escape, avoidance, concealment. All my life I have done everything I could to keep from facing the truth. I keep running from difficulty (or walking, rather; I'll never run again) -or hobbling, or rolling from it, depending on what kind of shape my foot is in at the moment.

And now I've dragged my carcass to a crossroads. I didn't just arrive here; I've been here for the past few years, splayed out in the intersection, pinned to the ground by fear and indecision. I think about leaving Portland all the time, but I don't know where to do or what I'd do when I get there. The idea of starting over somewhere new at this age is daunting, and the thought of crawling back to where I came from is depressing. It wouldn't be so hard if I wasn't doing this alone. But this is how it turned out, this is where those tactics of evasion and denial have left me: isolated and alienated.

If I were brave, I'd make some grand leap of faith, like I did when I left everything behind to move out here. I mean, it was stupid, it was impulsive, and it caused me lasting damage. But t was the one time in my life that I didn't give in to fear, the one time I took a wild, crazy chance. I'm not sure the gamble actually paid off, but I don't really regret it. My regrets have more to do with things I didn't do, the times I flinched or shuffled my feet. The times I said no to life. I don't want to keep saying no. I know I need to get up, to move. But I'm so tired. And until my foot heals up (again), I can't take a single step forward. 

So I wait, and I wait. And of course nothing happens, because like all the self-help books hammer into us, you have to make things happen. Carpe diem and all that nonsense. Life is short, etc. etc. And it's true, it is. All around me the country is collapsing and the world is burning and everyone is freaking the fuck out because they see it all crashing down and they're fucking terrified. So am I. The traffic speeds past and swerves to avoid me as I lay here at the crossroads, huddled on a pile of clothes, spending the first night of my eighteenth year in this city that still doesn't feel like home, trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with myself. I guess I could start by standing up, balancing on my one good leg, and whispering to myself "Happy anniversary." Or maybe I need to scream it.

Eggs

I have to tell you something, she texts.
I hadn't heard from her in a long time. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
What's going on, I write.
A few months ago I started getting this terrible pain in my stomach, she texts. It got worse and worse and I started spotting and it felt like there was a hard ball in my guts. I finally went to the doctor and he said it was cancer.
I don't want to respond but I don't know how not to.
It's ovarian cancer, she writes.
That's so scary, I finally write. Are they able to treat it?
I'm going in for surgery next week. It sucks they're making me get vaxxed
I fill a pot with water and turn on the burner.
I had two distant friends die of the vaxx, she continues. Did you get vaxxed?
Bubbles cling to the sides of the pot like tiny beads of glass. I ease in four eggs, think a minute, add another.
Yep, I type.
I told my best friend I have cancer and she sent me a fucking prayer emoji in response, she writes. What a bitch. 
I drop the empty carton into the bin. For a while, they were made of foam instead of cardboard. I have a sudden memory of cutting them apart and making them into caterpillars with pipe cleaner legs. I wonder if kids still do that.
People are terrible, I reply.
I hate emojis, she texts.
Me too, I say, watching the eggs knock gently against each other as they dance in the burbling water.  

 A man is wrapped in a sleeping bag near the back door of the museum. One of my co-workers politely asks him to move, because they're going to be loading some things through that door. After my co-worker disappears inside, the man stands up and starts screaming and gesticulating wildly. He reaches into his sleeping bag and pulls out a hatchet. The cops are called but before they can arrive the man grabs his things and stalks off, still clutching the hatchet. We joke about the museum buying us all hatchets to defend ourselves with.

The rest of the day passes without incident. As I slowly make my way home, I see that the words MARY JANE IS A RAT are written in big block letters on the wall of the Plaid Pantry. Usually they paint over the graffiti within a day or two but this has been there for weeks.

 As I cross over the 405, I see that someone has written a long note on the railing in blue marker, big looping letters with big spaces between each word:

My kids in real life need you now!
Silver Mustang 2015 tall dark haired man
Steph hack was here on Aug 2021
My kid is at a party. They are going to murder her. Help! to you Portland

The note spans nearly the entire length of the bridge. As I copy it down, a young dude with blond curly hair comes up and asks, "Hey man you got a spliff?" I say no and he stands there and stares at me like he doesn't believe me.

When I get home, I see that I have a text from someone calling herself Brianna. "What is ur first consideration when u wake up near me?" she wants to know. I don't know, Brianna, but all I want right now is to light up a bowl and was the words of smoke hang in the air, try to read them before they dissipate.