O REGON S GAY/LE S BIAN/B l/TRANS NEWSMAGAZINE
AUGUST ZI 20 0 9 3
B
J
M
VOICES
Seeing the Sod Signs
I know things are getting bad when the
bartender at Silverado cuts me oft'. Time
to go, I think, push through the crowds o f
drunk men to the black door, step out onto
the wet sidewalk. Before me looms the
building that was once my office-it and
I become slick with rain as I look up at it,
thinking o f the strange past when I wouldn’t
be wandering the streets after midnight on a
Tuesday night.
I am almost two months into unemploy
ment, and the ennui o f purposelessness that
I had heard hushed rumors about is kicking
in. The rain reminds me that I do indeed still
live in a wet city. The water runs over my lips
and the taste reminds me o f the dark and
gloomy Portland winters. Not now, I think
to myself, not this year. I'm not ready fo r the
rain this year. Not yet.
In my pocket, my phone vibrates-oh,
thank God, it’s Chase. “Where are you?” he
asks. “Come over. Bring Pita Pit.”
Now I am on Park Avenue, ringing
Chase’s doorbell, ascending in his elevator,
two paper-wrapped parcels o f lamb gyro in
hand. The door opens, and Chase hugs me
warmly. As he steps back I see the wet im
print I leave upon his shirt. The new Soft
Tags EP plays softly on the speakers and I
drip rain onto his carpet, tell him about my
night, the maudlin wandering that his call
interrupted.
—
D avi d
REMEMBER
TO
BREATHE
b y Nick Mottos
“I c a n s e e it," I s a y softly
to m y s e lf ... I c o n se e
this d e s c e n t, am a w a re
o f th e su b tle in d ic a to rs
o f s a d n e s s -a n d th e
stro n g est Inner port
o f m e know s th a t this
re c o g n itio n m e a n s I c o n
re c tify this. I c o n m o k e
m y life o h a p p y o n e
now a n d th ro u g h o u t th e
b le a k winter.
“It doesn’t sound like things are going
well. W hat are your sad signs?” he asks. I
look blankly at him, wipe Tzatziki sauce
from my lip. He clarifies. “W hat is it that
you do that makes you realize that you’re
descending into a bad place emotionally?”
W . O w ens
The rain smacks the window, streams down
the glass. I realize I have no idea-Am I even
in some sort o f descent? I shrug.
“I’ll start it out,” Chase says, smiling
kindly. “When you’ve been logged in to
Manhunt for so long that your profile ap
pears on the last page...”
“Well, getting cut off at fucking Silverado
is one. Is there even such a thing as being too
drunk for Silverado!?”
“Apparently so, Nick. L e t’s think o f
more. You know you’re in a downward spiral
when...”
- “When you don’t leave your apartment!”
“When you’ve eaten exclusively Thai
takeout and 7-Eleven Taquitos for a week!”
“When you wake up in the morning with
your boots still on, your pants down around
your knees, and the word ‘bitch’ scrawled on
your arm with Sharpie pen!”
“Jesus Christ, Nick, did that seriously
happen?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
“All right, Drinky Crow. Just stay aware
o f the signs-and eat dinner before you go to
the bars, O K ?”
It is half past three, Wednesday morning.
The Hawthorne Bridge is alive with flash
ing lights and bells, and before me a boat
glides soundlessly past. I am soaked in rain,
full o f pita, drunk, and realizing that Chase
was right: I am in a bad place, the sadness
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this summertime rain bullshit. He is the Port
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editor o f the literary zine When to Change.
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settling onto everything like a fine layer o f
dust. Here on this bridge I am observing my
life, staring expectantly into the confusing
patterns, and am amazed that the reality o f
my situation is popping forth like a Magic
Eye stereogram.
“I can see it; ” I say softly to myself, to
the orange lights and the huge, silent ship. I ‘
can see this descent, am aware o f the subtle
indicators o f sadness-and the strongest in
ner part o f me knows that this recognition
means I can rectify this, I can make my life
a happy one now and throughout the bleak
winter.
“I don’t have to be resigned to sadness!” I
declare aloud like a spell. The moment this -
leaves my wet lips, in ridiculously cinematic
fashion, the lights stop flashing and the bar
ricades raise up. I stand with my mouth open,
the bridge toward the rest o f my life before
me. I am soaked and full and drunk, perhaps
still sad but now full o f courage, brimming
with hope. I smile and walk while, down the
river, the ship sounds its horn once into the
darkness, then glides onward, intently, in
silence.
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503-846-4734
www.co. Washington.or.us/hiv
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WASHINGTON COUNTY
2161 NE Broadway
Portland. O R 97232
815 NW Glisan Street
503.33 1 . 1 8011
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503-719-5996
info@gallery815.com
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