Driving home from work
Hey dad, want me to pick anything up for you on the way home?
Yes a pack of cigs
Just one?
Yeah I've got to go to savmor for meds tomorrow and I'll stock up
KKCan do
I pulled out onto NE Fremont to make my way home. I knew the route. I’ve driven it daily, Monday through Friday, for several months now. My tiny piece of shit Accord wasn’t tall enough to see over the SUVs parked on the side of the road so I tried my best to see through their greenhouses, and took my best guess at an opening. Fremont is narrow here, lined with bars, shops, and coffee shops, and pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks. It was a cool, cloudy, warm summer day, the kind native Portlanders think of as normal warm weather.
Not for us, blue skies and hot temperatures. And I mean that we don’t like those days. Too hot. It needs to be a bit cooler so we can be active. Portlanders, by and large, are active. We run, we bike, we walk, and the rule of thumb I’ve learned is to dress for about 20 degrees warmer than it is, if you’re going to be active. 70-ish degrees is good. 50-ish degrees is better.
My car’s air conditioning has been broken all summer so I rolled the two front windows down, and cracked the back two, to get some air flowing past me. My phone played podcasts for me as I zoned out and drove automagically. David Chen, Jessie Earl, and Kim Renfro were discussing the House of the Dragons show, largely positively.
My senses perked up at the possible smell of burning oil. I should check the oil level soon, top it up if I need to. I wondered if my car would pass the DEQ test this year; I’d never had trouble before but the car is getting older and slowly falling apart slightly faster.
The drive home was mindless. I don’t remember any details specific to the drive, just the random images from every time I’ve ever driven this route. There’s the bar that looks like a great place for happy hour; laughing people with beers sitting on picnic tables outside. There’s the cheap gas station that always seemed busy. I passed the old empty sheriff’s building, surrounded by temporary chain-link fencing as it has been for months. What do they plan to do with that place, I wondered?
The organic produce market advertised Oregon strawberries but not marionberries. Marionberrys are, to me, the royalty of berries. Dark, tart, sweet, all in equal measure. They were developed at University of Oregon, and named for Marion County, a rural place far from the big small town of Portland. When I try to type “marionberries” on my phone, the autocorrect tries to make it Marion Berry, the former mayor of Washington D.C. who was caught in an FBI sting, I think. I should look that up at some point. Hey, I’m rambling here, don’t take this for fact.
I’m reasonably sure about the marionberries, though. I’m, like, 83% sure.
I pull into the Plaid Pantry parking lot, and wander the convenient aisles. OK, I’ll get some chocolate. Dad likes chocolate with almonds so I get a giant bar so I can split it with him. I wonder what the cashier thinks of an old white guy buying a pack of Marlboro Gold 100s and a giant chocolate bar. He seems friendly enough, though.
It’s another few blocks up the avenue until I can turn onto my street, then turn again into the parking lot. I slow down and take the transition into the lot at an angle to avoid scraping the bottom of my car on the hump. I back into my parking spot as I always do, for no particular reason, collect my things (laptop bag, cigs, candy bar), apply the Club to the steering wheel, take the faceplate off my head unit, unplug my phone and pull it out of the holder, and heave myself out of the car. My short legs, heavy weight, and armload of stuff make it a chore.
Front screen door was locked. I’d locked it this morning. Had dad not left the apartment all day? He does go outside to smoke but normally on the back porch so he could chat with Glasses, my next door neighbor, if she’s out there.
Home again, home again. Higgedy jig.