Wind tore through Coos Bay on a sunny weekday afternoon. Elmer and I forged our slanted way down the bay beach and back to the Empire Boat ramp.

Ahead of us, 50 yards away, a woman walked her bicycle with one hand toward us. In the other hand, she held a leash tethering a little tan mutt. She wore a full pack and bedroll on her back. Lashed to the bicycle was a crab ring. How she could ride with such a contraption and a leashed dog was beyond comprehension. I only wish I could see it in action. I was already writing the poem in my mind.

I leashed Elmer up, but then he saw the mutt, and reared up, ready for play. The mutt saw Elmer and he reared up as well.

The woman and I stopped just outside reach of the leashes. She was in her 40s, missing most of her teeth, wearing traces of Gothic makeup, a Misfits (punk rock band) hoodie), and a massive smile. She stood a head taller than me and outweighed me by at least 50 pounds.

I’d never seen her before.

“Are you new here?” she said as the dogs danced around each other.

New here?

“No,” I said, “I visit here every morning. I live in Empire.”

It hit me! I was unshaven, windblown, wearing a frayed and patched corduroy coat (stitched by Communist women in Yugoslavia in the 1970s and purchased in a coastal thrift store for 99 cents), mud-stained pants, and ripped sneakers.

She thought I was homeless! Is that my style these days?! What a way to recon for stories!

It’s not the first time a homeless or housed person has mistaken me for a homeless person in my meanderings around Oregon. I kind of dig it when the mistake occurs.

She introduced her dog as Sadie Lou and I introduced Elmer. She remarked how handsome he was.

“Do you live in the encampment?” I said, the one 50 feet away from us, with its revolving cast of miscreants and generally nice outcasts.

“No. I was just here to check on Morgan.”

Morgan is a long-time homeless resident of Empire and I’ve chronicled my experiences with her several times.

“No. I was just here to check on Morgan.”

She said her name was Noble. She said a Crow medicine woman had bestowed the name.

I told her I was Matt and asked if Morgan was still around. I hadn’t seen her in weeks.

“Yes,” said Noble. “She’s living in a tent she borrowed from me.”

The dogs were now running around each other, twirling their owners grasping the leashes. It was merry chaos.

“You have any rope for my crab ring?” said Noble.

I was sure I had some stashed in the Subaru and said so.

A couple minutes later, Noble and Sadie Lou stood next to car as I searched for rope.

Goddammit! No rope! A homeless woman wanted to go crabbing and I failed her!

I offered her a hoodie a student had left behind on a last day of school three decades ago, a toiletry kit, and a chocolate/peppermint energy bar. She accepted the hoodie and kit but demurred on the energy bar. I told her to take it for an emergency. She took the bar and placed it on the ground as she removed her backpack. Sadie Lou started ripping it apart with his teeth.

I dug into my wallet and fished out a one-dollar bill, the only cash on hand, and said it was hers.

“I can’t accept it,” said Noble.

“Why not?” I said.

“It’s bad luck.”

I’d never heard of this particular superstition.

“Do you have one penny?” she said. “Then I can accept it.”

“Yes I do,” I said.

I returned to the car and scrounged up 30 cents covered in grime and husky fur.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Good luck out there,” I said.

I drove home and went immediately to the utility room. The rope was there.

It’s now under the passenger seat of the Subaru.

In recent weeks I’ve used the Coos Bay Police’s online portal to report abandoned vehicles in my Empire neighborhood.

The police have responded with alacrity and some of the vehicles have been towed or the owners pushed them onto their yards.

Why undertake this effort? Because other residents don’t seem to care despite the vehicles posing traffic hazards, sheltering vermin, impeding street cleaning, and presenting general aesthetic blight.

I see my poor neighborhood trying to rally and one of the steps is removing these derelict vehicles.

But…

That one RV from the 70s, utterly decrepit, flying an American flag, parked on a public street alongside a dilapidated house, the same house on a corner lot with two camping decaying trailers from the 60s/70s marooned on the side yard. The RV (not the one pictured on the blog) has an extension cord running into the house. A former luxury sedan is parked facing the RV. Both are never driving again.

Elmer and I walk past this spectacle every morning on our way to the bay beach adjacent to the boat ramp.

The neighbors behind and adjacent to the house are screened by tall fences and overgrown hedges from observing the RV and the camping trailers.

The neighbor across the street, the owner of small, modest home, with a vacant lot on one side and a vacant house on the other side, is the only household that can see everything—from 50 feet away. They get the whole show 24 hours a day, and it’s been playing since I moved here a year ago, and who knows how long before that.

Something is going on with this house there that I need to understand as a person and a writer. How did this scenario unfold? Am I only the writer or journalist in Oregon who wants to dig into these stories? I hope not.

On our walks past the spectacle, I have rarely observed around the RV, camping trailers, around the property, and what they are doing when I do observe them is totally inexplicable to me. Who are these Americans? Is it drug abuse, complete dissolution, or something else?

The RV rests near an intersection and its presence blocks the view of the intersection. It creates a dangerous blind spot for children waiting at the corner bus stop and then boarding the bus; I have seen this blind spot in action multiple times and can’t believe school authorities haven’t reported it.

Why this RV hasn’t been reported astounds me.

Or does it? Perhaps the neighbors met the residents of the marooned domiciles. Perhaps they know their stories and empathize. Maybe they don’t care about the presence. There is zero garbage around the house. Someone even mows the lawn and weeds the sidewalk! They decorated the house for Halloween and Christmas!

Should I report the RV? Help clean up one block in Empire? That RV is someone’s home and the occupant is obviously connected in some capacity to the homeowner.

I live four blocks away and only have to see it once a day. Why should I care? Should I mind my own business. Is having that RV towed away a meaningful act of addressing the crisis of homelessness in my struggling neighborhood?

If it was parked across the street from me, I would have acted within days after moving here. Or would I have acted before meeting the occupants. Garbage strewn around the hulk or no garbage? I have yet to face this type of dilemma, but surely it’s coming one day, especially in Coos Bay.

One fine morning, Elmer and were walking home from our bay beach adventure, when I saw a young woman leave the house across the street from the RV and walking to a pickup truck idling in her driveway. She was probably on her way to work.

She saw me and Elmer and remarked how handsome Elmer was. I stopped and struck up a conversation, thanking her for the compliment and remarking she must be relieved that the house next to hers was now vacant and all the derelict boats, trailers, trucks, discarded appliances, barbecues and general shit had been hauled away last week.

Yes, she was incredibly relieved. Someone from out of state had bought the property and cleaned it up. I asked her about the house across the street and the RV. She sighed and told me the following:

They (meaning her partner) had discussed reporting the RV, but hadn’t done so yet. She had briefly interacted with the occupants of the RV and camping trailers (not the homeowner) and the interactions had been nonchalant, perfunctory. Infrequent bursts of late-night noise and chaos related to the occupants of the RV and camping trailers had alarmed her, but she had never called the police, nor had they ever showed up after an incident. She didn’t feel threatened at all. She considered them an atypical neighbor.

I said she had demonstrated remarkable tolerance by not reporting and that it had inspired me to rethink what I might do in a similar situation. She smiled and thanked me. She seemed almost relieved to have discussed the dilemma with a total stranger.

We said our goodbyes and Elmer and I walked away toward home.

I would file no report on this particular RV