Ode to Olaf

When the sun shines on Portland, the rainbows run away. I found that out easily enough this afternoon as I awaited the 35 bus to downtown. A fair-weather glinting ribbon half-arced the sky in blustery hues, seeming to land directly on top of the Plaid Pantry across the street, luring the Power Ball putzes toward its beeping entrance. "A pot of gold can come in many forms," I venture to myself, knowing full well that the gamble's in the gutter, not the gale. And with that, the wind picks up and whisks the sun, the half-sleeping moon, the promise of a mid-day respite from the frost-bitten throes of winter, and the rainbow all away with one big WOOOOOOOOSH.

Earlier - much earlier, in fact - as I awaited yet another goddamn bus at 6th and Pine downtown, katty-corner from the breakfast rush at the Downtown Chapel, I wince at the wind and the rain pick-pocketing my warmth, and am approached by a walking garbage bag, rooted by heavy black work boots. A little beanie hat bill peaks out from underneath the shiny cloak, and I can see he's just crossed Burnside from the Chapel, and is headed over to the bus transfer station, to convert two bucks fare into five hours of warmth. There's no better seat in town, and he knows it.

But the lanky vagabond is getting nearer and nearer, and I realize he's coming to talk to me.

"Hey, man, you happen to have an extra cigarette?" he asks.

"Uh, yeah, I do actually," I offer cautiously. I'm no stranger to good will, but I've also not had much practice in the subtle arts of speaking to enormous Hefty-clad transients, so I give him the cigarette, smile, nod my little "you're welcome" and swivel heels to get a view of something that didn't frighten me. The cross-street fountain, with its teasing geysers did wonders for a second, until I'm tapped on the shoulder by the immense, gloved paw of something much bigger than me.

"Dude," the bagged-bum begins, summoning a tone so rugged and low in the throat, you'd have thought his Adam's apple might be rotten, "you packed these smokes killer!"

I take a breath. He's friendly. A little dumb. A little pushy, but harmless in spite of the assumptions derived from his physical wealth. He gives me a grin. He's got a chipped tooth that makes him seem even more loopy, but he's not drunk. He's not on drugs.

"I've been trying to quit, man," he says, "but one vice at a time...I've been sober for a month and four days...or was it five?" he gestures to a far-less imposing sidekick.

The sidekick nods.

"Five days," he ends. "By the way," he begins again, "my name's Olaf. Olaf [unintelligible]."

I don't hear or understand the flippy-tongued last name, or whether it was a last name or middle name, or if the whole fucking thing was made up.

"Try to guess where my family's from?" he bribes.

"Uhhh, Germany?" I shrug.

"Yep, you got the first one; what's the second one?" he says.

"Ummmm, Beeeellllgiiiiuummm??" I trail.

"Nope." he says.

At this point I don't give a shit anymore. "There are hundreds of countries I've never even heard of, so why don't you just tell me," I think of saying, but then weigh the four-inch height difference, steel-toed combat boots and the fact that his name is Olaf into consideration. I shrug again.

"Norway," he boasts proudly. "This town is stuck on stupid," he then exclaims. Before I can take offense - which would have consisted of my abrupt departure via ANY bus that happened to open its doors at or near that moment - he clarifies himself. Luckily he's not talking about me. I swallow Mount Lassen down my throat.

"You hear about them stabbings down 'round here?" he asks. "I was minding my own business down at Sisters of the Road, try'n to get some food, and you see my bag over there?"

I look, and see a blue mini briefcase latched on top of another small piece of wheeled luggage.

"That's a Sampsonite," he lies. "Some guy, a black guy, comes over wobblin' 'round by my bag and opens a beer over my bag!"

I'm supposed to be feigning shock at this breach of the Hobo Handbook, but instead I choose for some reason to stare directly into his eyes without even a modicum of emotion over what he'd just said. Maybe I've just had too many beers spilled on my bags to care.

"I said, 'Sir, can you please not open up your alcoholic beverage over my bag?" continues Olaf. "And the motherfucker pulls out a knife and threatens to cut me with it!"

I reveal a slight look of surprise to him. The other public transit patrons are peering out of the corners of their eyes, silently reprimanding me for their assumption that I'm humoring this homeless man for lack of the stones to send him on his way. In reality, I'm starting to warm to Olaf.

"What did you do?" I ask.

"Pulled down my shirt like this..." he says as he pulls down his shirt like that. "I said, 'do it, man! Do it!' 'cuz I knew he wouldn't do it. He ended up leaving, but then two days ago, he came back to the same place and stabbed somebody. Fucker got picked up, went to jail, everything. I ain't about to get cut up, but you can't mess with a man's bags; especially a homeless man's bags, you know?!"

Olaf starts to giggle, revealing that chipped-beef tooth. I muster one of those lethargic "phew!" expressions to him and for myself, and we share a brief moment of camaraderie. He shakes my hand in his; like a salamander greeting an ape.

Even earlier that morning, before any bus had any business out on those roads, to pass Olaf and his nameless sidekick on the freezing streets, I was kept awake by dreams, stress, worrying about money just one year after I'd decided I could live without it. The fact that I'm making a little bit of it now is probably the cause. It's easy to say something is worthless if it's not around.

But talking with Olaf in the slick shadow of Big Pink, under the windows of some of the wealthiest citizens in the city, discussing the plight of a knock-off Samsonite's near collision with the foam of a dive-bar beer, the near-death experience he endured, and me with $700 bucks in cash ready to deposit into the bank to pay rent later that day; I could have cried. I gave him two more cigarettes; one for him and one for his buddy.

"Take it easy, Olaf," I said as I boarded my bus.

"Safe travels, friend," he returned.

I'd have felt better for Olaf, his sobriety, his somewhat genial disposition, had his optimism not seemed illusory. I came close to where he's at not too long ago. I held the knife a night, dared myself to do it. I can't pretend I'm better. It's a heavy feeling to know there's no more wisdom hiding under a warm blanket than under a garbage bag.

Safe travels, Olaf.