Michael heads to river’s edge,
finds questions about toasters
Chapter 5.
Lloyd, a homeless economist
In Chapter 4, Michael decided to
follow some ‘signs’ (a pair of kings,
the color green) as a test of Sarah’s
philosophy of trusting the universe.
The Emerald is printing “And the
Dew is Our National Treasure” in se
rial form, with an installment every
Tuesday in the Pulse Relax section.
I emerge from the blackberry
swamp near Oaks Park, cross the Sell
wood Bridge and meander along the
developed side of the Willamette River
toward Portland. I have no food, water
or money, the day is warm and I’m
thirsty. At 1 p.m., I’m in a leveled in
dustrial area still two miles from the
ubiquitous drinking fountains down
town. I rest on a creosote log beneath
a hazelnut tree and wonder how any
of this relates to Kerensa.
“Hey, there.”
I come out of a heat-induced sleep
and squint in the direction of the
voice. A man, about 50, unshaven,
stands in the shade. He wears a jaun
ty smile. His faded shirt is tucked
neatly into ill-fitting pants so that the
buttons line up with his buckle and
his fly. Gray hair, clean and brushed,
hangs beneath a greasy hat that he
wears at an angle. From each hand
hangs a heavy plastic shopping bag.
“Hi,” I answer.
He sits beside me as though
we’ve been friends for years. “Ya
look tuckered.”
“I am.”
He pulls a dented Galistoga from
Where's
Keren sa?
one of his bags.
“No, thanks” I say. “I’m fine.”
He holds it before me until I take
it. I drink some of the warm water
and pour some on my neck.
“Homeless?” I ask.
“Nope. Houseless.”
I learn that Lloyd usually sleeps in
the doorway of a bakery, which he
sweeps in the morning for day-old
rolls. His other shelter is here in the
blackberries along the river.
“Most food comes from the Dump
ster,” he says.
“That should save money.”
“It saves the food from bein’
thrown away. And the plastic and
glass and aluminum and tin from
bein’ wasted. I recycle it all.”
“Really.” I pretend to care.
“It’s ‘right livelihood,”’ he says.
I must decide whether to stay
here in the shade and listen to Lloyd,
or walk a couple of miles in the hot
sun to the city. I won’t find Kerensa
either way. I stay on the log and look
across the river.
“Money’s weird,” he says. “What if
the GEO of GE took the $23 million
he gets every year and gave it to the
guy playing a harmonica in the ghet
to, what would be the effect?” I toss
a hand in disinterest. “Almost none;
no consequence. The $23 million is
still in the economy, and the har
monica man is still playin’. But
would the GEO still make toasters if
he wasn’t bein’ paid?”
I finish the Galistoga. Lloyd
takes the empty bottle and tucks it
in his bag.
“Money goes to the doin’ people,”
he says, “and the doin’ people get
money for doin’ it to the bein’ people.
And the bein’ people get done to. And
the animals get done to. That’s why
they’re disappearin’. There’s no mon
ey in bein’ an animal. And they can’t
be GEO. They’re in the environment,
and the CEOs rip up the environment
and make toasters out of it.”
I tighten my laces. “I don’t sup
pose you’ve seen my sister: tall,
medium-length dark hair, stands
straight, never wears makeup, natu
ral-looking?”
“Nope,” says Lloyd. “But the
berries along the river are natural.
And when you see the GEO, tell him
that an economy that uses up limit
ed resources is limited.”
“Sure,” I say. “And thanks for the
water.” As I walk north toward the
city, toward order, I curse this waste
of time.
Peter Wright is a printer living
in Portland. He received his
bachelor's degrees from UC Berkeley,
served in the U.S. Navy, worked as a stock
broker and taught at Stanford University.
© Peter Wright, 2002. All rights reserved.
Munchies
continued from page 5
Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, black
pepper, flour and herbs — were easy
to mix, but I’m ashamed to say the
shortbread emerged from the oven
tasting something like sugary Play
Doh. Maybe it was the recipe, maybe
it was my pathetic lack of skill, but
the “snack” left something to be de
sired. Had I accidentally made the
cat treats instead?
Appropriately, the milk toast in
the “Comfort Cooking” section
turned out a little better. A sugary
sweet concoction that only called
for a little cinnamon sugar, bread,
milk and butter, was far more edi
ble, and all I really had to do was
toast the bread. (OK, I know I said
that was cheating earlier, but I was
desperate at this point)
I didn’t discover the secret “joy
of cooking” that day, but the en
tire experience was interesting, if
not productive. If you’re up for
some late-night adventure and a
fun read, I highly recommend this
cookbook. However, those looking
for a mouth-watering delicacy
should find more sophisticated
fare. As for me, I’m sticking with
my Count Chocula cereal.
Contact the Pulse editor at
jacquelynlewis@dailyemerald.com.
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