The Northern Lights

         The night sky shimmered with psychedelic swirls of green and magenta as the Northern Lights made a rare appearance over Oregon. I didn’t even bother to look up, assuming they wouldn’t be visible with all the light pollution, but the following day the internet was filled with photos. I felt sad that I had missed them, but heard they might be visible one more night.

        A little before noon I took the bus up to St. Johns for the yearly St. Johns parade. The Widder lives up there and was marching in the parade with the food bank. I had asked Robyn if she was going and she said oh hell no. 

        “I guess I’m the good daughter now,” I said. 

        “I guess so,” she agreed.

        St. Johns is a neighborhood of Portland that was once a separate town founded by a man named James Johns. He wasn’t an actual saint, but people called him one because of his generosity to the poor and homeless. The parade would run through the almost-charming downtown area. 

        The curbs were all taken, but I set my camping chair in a shady spot  near the announcer’s tent just in time to see the parade begin, to the sound of RESPECT played by the Roosevelt High marching band. A number of antique convertibles followed, each carrying a beaming Rose Festival princess doing that slow, dreamy princess wave. 

        “And here come the real royalty,” the announcer quipped, as a mob of the Rose Festival Clowns performed their somewhat subdued antics.

        More old cars followed, all of them driven by old white guys. The last of these drove a roadster painted with flames. In the passenger seat sat an enormous plush Minnie Mouse. Next were the Royal Rosarians, a local Shriner-type organization, only wearing boaters instead of fezzes. The Elks were right behind them though, and they do still wear fezzes, though they’ve traded those little cars for mopeds, which is a shame. 

It was the first hot weekend of the year, and even with my blurred vision I could see that the women of Portland had responded the way they always do, by exposing as much of their pasty skin to the sun as possible. It threatened to distract me from the balloon-festooned SUVs and ATVs ridden by bankers and housepainters.  

A group carrying a banner saying West Coast Fitness passed by, with no music or costumes. Some Senator I’d never heard of drove past, followed by people holding signs imploring that we vote for various candidates. A woman sitting next to me screamed “NO MORE PIPELINES, I DON’T WANT TO BLOW UP!” 

        The oddly named Floyd Light Middle School played Another One Bites the Dust. A small herd of John Deere tractors rolled by. There were little leagues and credit unions, the staff of a place called the Your Inn Tavern. The announcer would sometimes read off ad copy for the businesses or make mild jokes. “Hoop dancing, it’s not just for kids anymore. It’s all about self expression and finding your voice.” A young girl walked by, wearing shorts that read “I ♡ MY BOYFRIEND” across her skinny ass. A group of unicyclists wobbled by, Portland’s sort-of-beloved Unipiper not among them.

        I was a little tense since I needed to be ready to jump up and take pictures the minute the food bank float arrived. In the meantime, there was the Clark County Fair Equestrian Club -cowgirls and horses alike covered in spangle and flowers and fringe- and blooping cop cars and first responders, and a city bus that may have just disregarded the reroute. And let’s hear it for the good folks from Teeter Roofing, serving the community since 2012, call this number for a free estimate.

        A fire truck with World on Fire Brigade lettered across it was followed by an oil tanker from a train train, sporting an  enormous sign that read PEOPLE AND PLANET OVER PROFITS. The woman who didn’t want to blow up squealed and ran into the street and took a lot of pictures. The vehicles were covered with vague, ominous slogans. A third truck read simply GLOOM OR BLOOM. 

        Finally the food bank folks arrived, pulling a model of the St Johns Bridge and blasting Weird Al’s “Eat It.” An entire pantry’s worth of costumed volunteers surrounded it, drooping a little in the heat. There was a pea pod, a banana, a container of cheese balls, a rather miserably looking slice of bacon. I took some pictures and waved to the bottle of mustard, but she didn’t see me. 

        There was one more high school marching band after that, then nothing. There was no closing statement from the announcer, the parade just suddenly ended. One small group of people, obviously not an official part of the event, marched down the street carrying FREE GAZA signs, but the crowd had already started to disperse. 

        I strolled through the arts and crafts tents, briefly tempted by the allure of macramé plant holders but otherwise bored by the same crap I see at every outdoor event. Jars of raw honey, garish photography, loads and loads of jewelry. I watched a guy mold clay on a bicycle-powered pottery wheel for a bit, then hit Revolutions Bookshop, a tiny but mighty shop equally stocked with interesting literature and progressive political books.

        The Widder texted me when she had changed out of her costume, and said she would drive me home, along with some bags of food from the food bank. She’d been keeping me supplied with fish and vegetables while I’ve been unemployed, and I owed her a great deal. She was kind of my Portland mother, and I saw her more than I saw her daughter at this point. 

        However I did have plans to see Robyn that night for dinner and a show of Ethiopian music. Before she and her boyfriend picked me up I called my brother and asked him to bring Mom flowers for Mother’s Day tomorrow. 

        Alex drove and Robyn told us about a homeless guy named Damian she had bought a cup of coffee for. “He offered to give me some meth,” she said. 

        “I hope you took him up on that,” I said.  

        A few minutes later she screamed, “Oh my God stop the car that’s Damian!” She threw open the door before it came to a stop and raced to the sidewalk, screaming “Stop that! Get the fuck away from him!” A man and a woman who didn’t look like they were drinking age were beating and kicking the shit out of another man. Robyn continued to scream at them but they ignored her. Another woman was sitting on the ground nearby and the first woman switched over to hitting her while the man continued to work Damian over. A few other people stopped and finally the assailants stepped away. 

        “That’s what he gets for trying to take my woman!” the man yelled. “You try to get with my woman, you get beat, motherfucker!” The young couple walked away, the man still throwing threats, his tank top soaked in blood. 

        The other woman just sat there while Damian staggered tp his feet. He had a horrible gash on his forehead. Robyn brought him some money and first aid supplies. “Did he take them?” I asked. 

        “He took the money,” she said.

        As we drove off, Damian started yelling that he was going to fucking kill that guy. 

        Shaken up by what had happened, we got sushi and went to see the Ethiopian band. The food was good and the music was joyous, but I while I had a nice time, I didn’t feel particularly moved by either. I felt disconnected, like there was a shell around me. I was shielded from the drums, the blood, the sun. They dropped me off at home and before I went in I remembered to look up, but all I saw were some glittering crumbs of stars, a crust of moon. There was no teal or violet or magenta in the sky. Only black.