I was out on the back deck reading an anthology of greatest hits from Sports Illustrated, published in 2004.
What writing! (All by men of course, and that was an unfair, sexist era but why dismiss the suburb quality of what was written back then?)
RIP Sports Illustrated, although you’re not officially dead. I read you religiously in junior high and high school and it must have inspired me in some small way to become a writer. And I did write sports for a rural Oregon newspaper for two years!
A call came in. It was from my neighbor who was standing in her driveway not far from the deck but didn’t know I was there. I answered the call, stood up, then when over and hailed her.
She said a maintenance man working on her lawn sprinkler system had found a confused elderly woman in front of my neighbor’s home. My neighbor was about to take her dog out for a walk and had him leashed up. She and the maintenance man had asked the woman, who had no ID or phone, a few basic questions and had determined the woman was lost, bewildered, tired, and a resident of some assisted living village somewhere nearby.
My neighbor figured it was the center where Dad resides.
I leapt into action and went outside to help.
Sure enough, It was a woman who lived in the same building as Dad. I introduced myself and asked her if she recognized me because I had seen her dozens and dozens of times in the lobby, hallways and dining room.
She did not recognize me and said so with a British accent. I said I would drive her back to the center and she was relieved to hear it.
Her name was Patricia.
We loaded her into my car and buckled her up.
On the one-mile drive to the center, I asked a few questions and she couldn’t answer them. She kept asking me not to report her situation to the front desk and I said I was obligated out of concern for her personal safety. She nodded an OKAY.
I pulled into the parking lot and helped her out of the car, ready to escort her inside. A Latina caregiver was walking out of the center, her shift presumably over. A Latino man was idling a car, and waiting to drive her home.
She saw me with Patricia and ran up. I gave her the lowdown and the woman helped Patricia into the center.
I drove home with one thought: I am not going out that way. But then, how do you control such matters?
On a sheer lark, I had a friend versed in various AI matters to tell ChatGPT to “Write an essay about Oregon’s beaches in the voice of Matt Love.”
I did so because I was curious about the state of AI writing and had read many reports how it threatened many writers’ livelihoods and was of course, being used for prolific cheating in high schools and universities.
The program would have plenty of my Oregon beach writing online to digest, blend and “create.” I have written more about the legacy of Oregon’s publicly-owned beaches than anyone in the state’s history and most of it is online on dozens of sites and platforms—I estimate well over 300,000 words, maybe more.
Here is the result of ChatGPT’s writing about Oregon’s beaches in the voice of Matt Love:
Ah, Oregon’s beaches. You know, they’re like a patchwork quilt stitched together with threads of mist and salt, each one telling its own story. Now, I may be biased, but there’s just something downright magical about these shores that beckon to the soul of a writer like me.
Picture this: the rugged coastline, where craggy cliffs meet the relentless crash of the Pacific. You can feel the raw power of nature here, reminding you of your own insignificance in the grand scheme of things. But it’s not just about the drama, no sir. It’s about the quiet moments too, when the fog rolls in and wraps around you like a cozy blanket, muffling the sounds of the world and leaving you alone with your thoughts.
And let’s not forget about the treasures hidden in plain sight. From tide pools teeming with life to weathered pieces of driftwood that seem to whisper secrets of the sea, there’s always something waiting to be discovered if you’re willing to look.
But perhaps what I love most about Oregon’s beaches is the sense of freedom they inspire. Here, you can leave behind the hustle and bustle of everyday life and lose yourself in the rhythm of the waves. It’s a place where time seems to stand still, and all that matters is the here and now.
So if you ever find yourself yearning for a taste of the wild, just head west until you hit the coast. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed. Oregon’s beaches are calling, and they’re ready to welcome you home.
As you can see, I have nothing to worry about. This is Chamber of Commerce pablum, riddled with cliches, banalities, a model of vacuity. Nothing about free public beaches, Tom McCall, the Beach Bill, Oswald West, socialism, driftwood forts, bonfires, cheap wine and messages written in the sand. This has nothing to do with my writing and voice.
And Hollywood writers were worried about AI writing their scripts?
And high school teacher or college professor with moderate intelligence could spot AI-generated fluff and crap and you certainly wouldn’t need software to detect it.
Maybe the programs will get better. I’ll check back in a year to find out.
And hey readers, why not support a real Oregon writer who writes with passion and humanity and gets out in the world of Oregon to uncover and share stories with you? How about making a donation to support the Meditations blog or buy one of my books! Strike that blow against AI!!!!!
Mark, charter member of the Old Crow Book Club, and a homeless man, sat across from me at the same picnic table in the park where I’d staged the launch for the book about us, nine months ago in what turned out to be the greatest experience of my literary life. I didn’t sell a single book that afternoon, (gave away 50!) but that hardly mattered. What mattered how that event created a special community for the neighborhood’s homeless community.
If only I could have followed up on that special moment by building more camaraderie between the homeless and the housed in the neighborhood, but I did not.
It was a bright sunny morning and the creek ran swift behind us. Mark and I conversed as a filmmaker shot footage for an upcoming documentary about the book club, Mark, and my unsuccessful efforts to obtain housing for one Oregon-born homeless man in his late 50s who had suffered two heart attacks ten months ago.
It had been a long time since Mark and I had really talked about books, history, politics, Oregon, his plight, and the fate of other members of the club. Winter rain, wind and snow was part of that, but also, Elmer the husky had taken up a lot of time and pulled me into other stories about the homeless. Funny, how a dog can change your editorial mission!
Mark was drinking a can of malt liquor and smoking a cigarette. I was wearing my beloved corduroy car coat because it felt like spring, real corduroy weather! Both of us were in voluble mood and we riffed away on the book, his homelessness, books, mutual friends, and frustrations with the city, county and non profits’ chronic and farcical indifference and incompetence when it came to housing him. For almost three years, Mark, with help from me and other residents of the neighborhood, had been trying and failing to secure housing.
But today, this very day (!) the City of Portland had launched a new outreach program through something called the Street Services Coordination Center to assist the homeless find housing based on referral from a concerned member of the community. The program was chronicled in various media outlets, including the Oregonian:
“An outreach worker will respond to where the person is living outside within three days, though ideally they’ll be able to respond within one day, according to Hank Smith, Mayor Ted Wheeler’s policy advisor who led the effort…
“This gives us the ability to be more responsive,”Smith said. “We heard a lot from the community that this is needed and I agree.”
Smith said he has heard from concerned neighbors asking how they can help unhoused individuals obtain services…”
In fact, Smith heard repeatedly from a resident in my neighborhood who complained about the multiple problems of helping homeless people, namely Mark, into housing. The resident had read The Old Crow Book Club and sent Smith a copy. Maybe it played some small part in having the City establish this outreach program. Clearly, the conventional methods for housing someone like Mark and other members of the club were not working and this newfangled outreach program offered a new direction, at least in my mind. A paid City employee was going into the field and try the one-on-one approach and meet a homeless person who wanted off the streets where that person lived or hung out.
We had to give the program a try. So we did. As we told the filmmaker, we weren’t going to quit.
Naturally the new program involved a website and filling out a form online and then waiting for something to happen.
For those interested in what the form looks like, go to:
https://www.portland.gov/sscc/homelessoutreach
I had read the form before meeting Mark and planned on filling out it with him. Right on camera.
After a rowdy conversation and answering questions from the filmmaker, I briefed Mark on the program and asked if he wanted me to refer him. He said “Yes” and thus we began another attempt to get him housed.
I began filling out the form on my phone and had almost completed it, but couldn’t pin Mark’s location on the map because my fingers couldn’t do it on a small screen. If his location wasn’t exactly pinned, the form could not be submitted.
My frustration mounted. I cursed and eventually gave up. I told Mark I would complete the form at home on my computer and would pin his location in front of the grocery store where he was practically every afternoon selling the weekly newspaper advocating for the homeless. He had to be there for this to work. He understood.
The very odd aspect to the program states that the person making the referral, in this case me, would not be informed if Mark was contacted. That made no sense at all. Shouldn’t I know if outreach was attempted? Successful? A failure? And if Mark wasn’t contacted, should I keep filling out the form and pinning his location at the grocery store? Should I fill out the form every day for the rest of the year until Mark qualified for housing? How about signing up 50 people to fill out the form on behalf of Mark every day until something happens? That might move City Hall.
The program prioritizes certain people for outreach/housing, although it doesn’t say actual willingness to go into housing is part of the criterion. Mark is ready, willing and able. He’s not out of his mind on fentanyl or impossible to locate or communicate with. He’s not so physically incapacitated that he can’t take care of himself, like many homeless people are.
As I submitted the form, I wondered if it would make a damn’s bit of difference.
Four days later I stood on my back deck talking to an outreach worker responding to the form. I was utterly shocked to have received such a call from a real person whose job entailed going out into the field, meeting homeless people, establishing rapport, and trying to secure them housing.
At long last!
The staffer was new; the program was new. His team had trained for two months and now they had the green light to take action. It felt like Mark was going to be his first attempt.
He had called me because I had listed my number for Mark, who had no phone. Otherwise, I would have never known of any attempt at contact. I briefed the staffer on Mark’s location, back story and his desire to reside in a nearby Safe Rest Village that was close to the neighborhood. Unfortunately, the staffer informed me that he had no way of knowing of availability at that particular site, which made no sense to me, but I let it go, as I did other serious gaps in his knowledge about the system. Stay positive! No time for cynicism!
As we conversed I felt myself having high hopes for Mark and this staffer. We hadn’t quit. We were nearing the goal line and I wanted paydirt (football metaphor) for my friend.
I asked the staffer why I couldn’t just schedule an appointment for Mark and made sure he showed up at the grocery store. Apparently, and inexplicably, that’s not the way it worked. I told the staffer I would drive Mark to where the staffer was! No, it didn’t work that way, either.
So, I didn’t push it.
The staffer said he would try to make contact with Mark at the grocery store during the window of time Mark was normally stationed outside the grocery store, selling papers. The staffer said he would attempt to contact Mark three or four times and then, “I have to move on.”
I said I understood his position but if this initial series of outreach attempts failed I was referring him again, again and again. He didn’t respond to that. I thanked him for his efforts.
He said he was speaking from a nearby Safe Rest Village and was about ready to head out and search for Mark. Today!
We ended the conversation. I felt fantastically giddy. I roughhoused with Elmer the maniacal husky. We then went out for our fourth walk of the day and I thought about how all of us would celebrate if Mark got housed.
Then it would be on to help other members of the club and continue to build an effective relationship with this one particular staffer.
The next afternoon I would search for Mark and see what had transpired. If nothing had happened, I would fire him up with profane football coaching cliches from my youth and make sure he was stationed in front of the grocery store for the next three days—weather be damned—and he better lay off the sauce!
Rain was falling the next day at noon. I drove to the store. No Mark. I returned an hour later. No Mark.
I drove to the store the next day at noon. No Mark. I took Elmer to the wildlife refuge for a long walk. I returned to the store. No Mark! But I did encounter three other members of the Old Crow Book Club in the parking lot and it was a grand reunion, mostly because I always think one or more might end up dead.
Donnie was fresh out of detox and shilling papers like a carnival barker.
Sean and Jacob were hanging out in Sean’s new mobile domicile, a tricked out van from the 90s, drinking malt liquor and sharing a joint. Sean was looking better than I’d seen him in a year. Jacob told me he’d quit his job at a deli because too many people were using hard drugs there. He’d just put in application a a burger and beer joint across the street from the grocery store and was confident he would score the gig.
I asked where the hell Mark was. They didn’t know. I gave them the lowdown on the new outreach program and how it imperative it was for Mark to camp out in front of the store in the afternoons the next three days. He had to hear the news that a worker had called me and said he was going out to look for Mark. Something was in the wind! I gave Donnie a note I had written Mark with all the particulars and told him to give it to Mark if he saw him.
Another vendor of the paper came up, a formerly homeless man and military veteran named Troy who had let Mark crash in his subsidized apartment during the recent cold snap. He said Mark was on his way, walking down the avenue.
Upon hearing that news, I started running toward Mark’s direction. He had to hear about the new positive development from me.
It’s a strange and incredible feeling to be jogging toward a homeless man who is your friend and needs help and you may have some help to offer.
Three blocks later, I saw Mark, somewhat hunched over, walking very slowly toward me. I came to a walk and yelled out to him. He saw me and waved. We met. I gave him the news and informed him of his duty to be at the grocery store during the designated hours. It might not amount to anything. It could be everything.
I walked back to the grocery store with Mark and said I’d check back the next day to see if contact had been made.
The next day I met Mark in front of the store. He was reading a book and sipping a can of malt liquor. It was 41 degrees and raining. I asked him if anyone from the city had contacted him.
YES! YES! YES!
The outreach worker briefly interviewed Mark, apparently inputted some information, and said Mark was now on a waiting list (of some kind) for a spot at a nearby Safe Rest Village. Apparently there was new money allocated or finally being spent to place the residents of Safe Rest Villages into subsidized apartments, thereby opening up spaces.
Mark wasn’t sure how the worker would contact him once a space became available. I still didn’t understand why the new program didn’t allow a staffer to call me.
I was downright giddy at the good news. Mark was substantially more subdued. He said he’d believe it when it happened and I couldn’t argue with that.
A song popped into my mind, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.” I loathe that 80s schmaltz classic, but I started belting it out and Mark nodded along. I saw a couple of people watching me sing and they looked a little sour, kind of like those folks did in the opening title sequence of the Mary Tyler Moore Show when Mary tosses her knitted hat up in the air in the middle of downtown crowd because she’s so on fire to live and put her special positive energy into everyone around her. Who can turn the world on with her smile?
“We’re almost there Mark,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
“I didn’t even have to go full on Jim Rockford. I’m almost sad.”
We laughed, said goodbye, and I drifted away while Mark went back to reading his book.
Almost a week passed. One of the residents of the neighborhood who had advocated relentlessly on behalf of Mark emailed me and asked for the phone number of the outreach worker. She was considering calling him to check on the progress of finding Mark housing. I provided the number and then she emailed me again, suggesting since I had already talked to him and he knew me, that I should make the call.
I had a better idea. Mark would call the outreach worker on my phone and advocate for himself and share the news that the place where he normally slept, the back porch of a vacant church, wasn’t available in a week because of a new congregation renting the church. Mark had slept on the porch for over a year. It was private, safe, and the neighbors never blew the whistle because Mark kept a very low profile.
The resident thought that a good idea and also wrote she would follow up with further communication to the new program.
The next day, I found Mark in front of the grocery store hawking newspapers. I asked if he would call the outreach worker and give him an update and generally keep him on the front burner. To me, it would sound much better coming from Mark.
Mark agreed and called the outreach worker. No one answered and Mark left a voicemail. I bought a paper from him, told him to keep the faith, and went on my way.
Later that night, I received an email from the resident saying she had received a call from the Mayor’s office about Mark. He had been offered two placements in Safe Rest Village but they were not his preferred choice of the nearby Clinton Triangle, so he had turned them down.
What? My emotions took off like Olympic sprinters when the starter’s pistol fires.
Mark had said there hadn’t been any further in-person communication from the outreach worker since initial contact. Had everything gone down after we left the voice mail message, a narrow time frame of roughly five hours? That seemed impossible. The outreach worker hadn’t called me to discuss Mark’s refusal, but then again, he wasn’t officially obligated to do so.
I could not, would not believe my homeless friend would lie to my face and stage a phony call. We had traveled too far together to find him housing and never once had I felt he had deceived me or embellished or omitted any part of his story of homelessness.
Something didn’t seem right. I emailed the resident in the morning asking for clarification and/or confirmation. She wrote back an hour later saying she didn’t know the timing of Mark’s refusal.
I had to know the truth. I would seek Mark out that very day and ask him. It would or would not be a confrontation.
Elmer the husky and I took our second walk of the morning, this one through the wildlife refuge, and thoughts of my impending conversation with Mark dominated my mind. My preoccupation was so intense I didn’t even stop and marvel at a peregrine falcon perched in a leafless oak.
I found Mark at noon sitting in front of the grocery store reading a book, selling newspapers, his one bag possessions resting neatly next to him
Jacob from the Old Crow Book Club was there.
I got right to the point. Five minutes later I had learned:
Mark had not turned down placements at two Safe Rest Villages because no one had offered them. He hadn’t seen his outreach worker since initial contact a week ago. No one else from the program had contacted him in person.
Jacob confirmed that he had been with Mark for most of the last 24 hours and no one had shown up and offered Mark housing.
Mark had said he would accept any placement. It didn’t matter anymore, if it ever did.
What the hell was going on?
I let out a stream of profanities. Once more into the breach of bureaucratic maze of molasses and mayonnaise indeed!
Obviously and predictably, there had been some kind of colossal miscommunication or incompetence at some administrative level, something that has distinguished the city, county and non profits’ attempts at alleviating the crisis of homelessness.
There was no time to dwell on this. I pulled out my phone and walked around the corner to muffle the street noise. I called the outreach worker. He picked up! I asked if Mark had turned down two placements. He’d didn’t know what I was talking about. There was nothing as yet available for Mark. I told him about the communication from the Mayor’s office. He didn’t know anything about it. I thanked the outreach worker’s effort on behalf of Mark and said I was ready to assist in any fashion.
I walked back to Mark and Jacob. I told Mark I had made contact with the outreach worker.
For the next few seconds we hashed out possibilities of this snafu. Then I asked Mark to swear he told me the truth, and said to place his hand on a copy of The Old Crow Book Club while doing so. We laughed but he complied.
We all laughed and then Mark said, “I always tell the truth…except about getting laid.”
That broke us up again.
I said goodbye and returned home.
Two hours later I received a call from Jacob.
“Matt,” he said, “you won’t fucking believe what just happened!?”
“What?” I said.
“The outreach worker showed up about a half hour after you called, and arranged for a taxi to take Mark to a Safe Rest Village!!!”
I could not believe it. I started crying. Jacob provided a few more details. Mark seemed a little shell shocked at the whole prospect, but he got in the taxi and left to a new life, if he wanted it.
Jacob also said the outreach worker took his information and he was now on a waiting list!
I told Jacob I would try and find Mark tomorrow in front of the grocery store and see how his first night went at the Safe Rest Village.
It had been years, perhaps decades since I’d felt this happy. I knew there was still a ways to go with Mark, but it didn’t feel as long as before.
Two days later I saw Mark walking toward the grocery store carrying his possessions. It was one in the afternoon, cold and raining. He saw me and waved.
I had tried finding him the previous afternoon for an update on his first night in the Safe Rest Village but wasn’t successful.
Mark was here now. He crossed the street and we stood under the store’s awning. I slapped him on the back and said, “Well done!” He smiled and then I grilled him about his experience in housing, or “pod” as he called it. “I’m a pod person now,” he said.
We laughed at that. We always laugh together.
It was definitely something different, according to Mark, having a roof over his head, a heated and private space, with communal restrooms and showers. And it was secure; he finally didn’t have to worry about his stuff being stolen.
There were some “tweakers” about and the management of the village hadn’t provided any real orientation, but he would figure it out as he went along. He was sleeping reasonably well that first night until the sounds of raucous sex from a nearby pod awakened him.
We laughed at that!
Mark spent most of the next day in the pod reading, barely venturing out because of the terrible weather. He probably had a lot to sort out, too, in the solitude of his new home. He’d been living on the streets since 2016.
I told him once he figured out what he needed for the space, make a list and his friends would procure the items. I said he certainly needed a bookshelf and he agreed.
It was a 45-minute bus and train ride back to the grocery store, and I said, “So what? Just read.”
I told him of my pride in him for boarding the taxi and trying to make a monumental change. Many people cared about him and were elated to hear the news. He nodded his head.
At some point, I told Mark I wanted to come visit, see the village, and celebrate. He said there were some outdoor areas with tables and chairs. Perfect! I’d bring a pizza. No Old Crow, however. Gotta follow the rules.
It was time for me to go. I loaded him up with five copies of The Old Crow Book Club to distribute at the village and said goodbye. I told him I’d come around in the next couple of days for an update and that list of supplies.
I was almost gone when I turned around and came back to Mark.
“Mark,” I said, “today is my 60th birthday.”
“Happy birthday!” he said.
“Thanks for the gift.”
We both knew what I was talking about.
I gave him another pat on the back and walked away.
A week or so later, I caught up with Mark at the grocery store. I bought a copy of the newspaper and opened it up to see a feature story about Mark as a vendor. The piece also contained a mention of the Old Crow Book Club. Mark was in a great mood as he described his new life in the pod. It seemed like it was really coming together for him in less than two weeks in residence.
I told Mark I had procured all the supplies we’d discussed him needing a few days ago, and that tomorrow at 11 in the morning, would meet him at the Safe Rest Village.
What exactly does a now formerly homeless man need for a tiny home in a Safe Rest Village to start anew? I had the list but it seemed incomplete so I winged it and threw in some goodies.
A collection of writing by Harry Crews, a novel by Kenzaburō Ōe, Teach Us to Outgrow our Madness, (perhaps the greatest all time title for a novel), and a history of the French Foreign Legion; a Magic 8-Ball; fine pipe tobacco; a Norm Thompson sweater; writing materials, a clock radio…and….a brown and gray tweed jacket with suede patches (!) that I’d worn teaching probably 5000 hours in various Oregon high school classrooms. It was the Super Teacher Coat and when I donned it, the students knew it was serious.
But that life was long, long gone to me and the jacket needed new purpose, as all tweed jackets do when a certain purpose dies.
Mark would give it new purpose wearing it around the village. The ladies would love it!
The plan was for Mark to wait outside the village because management wouldn’t let me inside without notification from Mark and Mark had no phone for me to call ahead. Or perhaps management wouldn’t allow me in under any condition. Mark didn’t seem to know.
He said he’d be ready at the appointed time and I knew he would be.
At that moment, the documentary filmmaker unexpectedly rolled up. He came over to us and said he wanted a final shot of Mark recounting his life in the village. He also wanted a few minutes of me and Mark talking about…whatever!
It was too loud in front the store to film, so we walked around the corner. Mark and I sat down on the sidewalk. You know how much it hurts your ass and back to sit on a sidewalk? Mark had been doing it for eight years.
The filmmaker set up his gear and I noticed a long-haired and bearded homeless man, probably in his 20s, carrying a skateboard and umbrella, had slipped around the corner, sat down on the sidewalk near us, out of camera range, watching us, obviously listening. I had the seen the man before, but never met him.
Then the resident from the neighborhood who had advocated for so long on Mark’s behalf, writing emails and making calls to the the city, county, going gadfly, buttonholing elected officials about services for the homeless or lack thereof, unexpectedly showed up as well!
Over the course of next ten minutes, a beautiful chaos ensued of the filmmaker filming Mark, Mark and me riffing, the resident explaining her advocacy, interjections from the young homeless man what were a little spacey, and me trying to get the man’s story of homelessness (ten years up an down the West Coast). I filled him in on Mark’s situation, the film, and asked if he wanted me to refer him to the new agency that had assisted Mark into housing. He said, “Yes” and I told him to meet the following day at noon and we’d start the process. He said he’d be there.
I felt a palpable sense of anticipation driving to the St John’s area of North Portland, to the Peninsula Crossing Safe Rest Village. Elmer the husky was in back, ready for a new adventure. I got some jazz playing on the socialist jazz station.
It took almost half an hour to reach the village, which is situated at the end of a narrow dead end street, right across the street from a goat farm, yes, a goat farm, and indeed, about a dozen goats of varying shapes and colors were frolicking when I pulled up.
Goats! The residents could step outside the village anytime during daylight and watch goats play! I suspect that might be better therapy for many of the residents than conventional therapy with its cliches and nostrums.
It surprised me to discover how many houses abutted the village. I mean they were fence to fence. They were neighbors.
I arrived at 10:36 and Mark was standing out front. He waved, came over, and said I wasn’t allowed inside. That perturbed me, but it made sense. We briefly talked about the village and then I unloaded a box and drove to another side street to park. I returned on foot with more supplies. I walked back to the car to get Elmer and take him for a walk around the perimeter while Mark set up his pod.
During this back and forth from the village to my car, I observed many of the residents coming and going, with bags of cans, a guitar, pulling a wagon, bicycling. Some were pleasant when I greeted them; others seemed incoherent or menacing.
Elmer and I passed the goat farm and several of the beasts came up to him. Elmer didn’t know what to make of them. We kept moving, accessed a green belt behind the village, and I could see towering oaks and Doug firs inside where Mark lived. Living under those trees has to nourish some of the residents, or at least I like to believe.
I noticed a spacious outdoor common area of grass and bark chips with chairs and picnic tables that was a perfect dog run or place to read or write or just stare up at the sky.
A few minutes later the filmmaker showed up and began setting up to film Mark in front of his new home. I put Elmer back in the car and joined them.
Forty-five minutes later, I was driving Mark back to the grocery store. We talked of this and that and both of us were in excellent spirits. At one point, I saw a man reading a novel while standing up in a bus shelter. I told Mark to check it out; it was such a novelty to see in our culture anymore.
“Mark,” I said, “you realize that’s the only way we would have ever met? Because you were reading books?”
“I know,” he said.
I dropped him off, we said our goodbyes, and I searched for the young man to begin the process of referring him to an outreach worker.
In 1973, Oregon State University Press published Men in Exile: An Anthology of Creative Writing by Inmates of the Oregon State Penitentiary. Twenty-two of Smoky Epley’s pieces appeared in the book, including the one here, “Robbery.”
Smoky spent most of his adult life in state and federal prisons for robbery. In 2008, during one of his brief stints of freedom, I met Smoky after I had written a newspaper column about Men in Exile and and he had reached out.
He returned to prison in 2009 after forging a check. Upon his release in 2011, I encouraged Smoky to write a memoir. He completed half of Auto before dying in February of 2013.
Nestucca Spit Press is proud to present The Savage of State Street: The Thieving and Literary Lives of Smoky Epley.He is the greatest unheralded writer in Oregon history and also one of its more mediocre, colorful and persistent thieves. The book is available through nestuccaspitpress.com and Amazon.
Robbery
Have you ever read a newspaper account of a robbery and wondered what it was really like? The following is a true story—even to the grapes. The robbery occurred in a small town in Oregon at approximately 3:15 p.m. on a Saturday, September 22, 1968. In March of 1969, I got ten years for it. I got busted because the man at the store remembered me and described the gun to the police. When I was arrested elsewhere for forgery, I still had the gun in my possession.
The story is written with very little regard for the standards of English usage. The tense changes; the mood changes. It is written in the style stories are told on the yard, the style, with reflections, that I’ve listened to, spoken to, spoken in, and sometimes even thought in during the past ten years.
So we’re just driving around on Saturday afternoon, minding our own business, looking for someone to rob. We only got a couple dollars and don’t feel like working; besides, free money’s easier to spend. We drive past this country store situated at a crossroads and I tell my partner to go back and we’ll have a look at it. He goes in and buys a pack of cigarettes, then comes out and draws me a map of the joint and tells me about the people inside. You see, I never go into a place until the cameras roll. That way I stand very little chance of being identified. If people only see you once they’re less apt to remember you, especially if when they see you that once you’re holding an automatic on them. It sort of takes their eyes off your face if you know what I mean.
Anyway, my partner runs the joint down to me and I decide we’ll take it. I get to make this decision because I’m the one who puts himself out front; I’m the stick man. I gamble my life against a couple hundred dollars (that’s all you’ll usually get out of a mom and pop store). My partner’s just wheels and his life isn’t on the line.
I can gamble my life because, you see, my life ain’t worth but maybe a couple hundred dollars. I’ve just finished serving thirty months for the feds and I’ve only been out thirty days. I got no job because I quit it; I got no family because I left them; I got no friends except the guys I’ve done time with all my life and most of them are behind bars some place or other. You see, four days after I left the feds I really wanted to go banging on the front gate, crying “let me back in where my friends are.” But I was a tough bandit and tough bandits don’t do that. That would be really foolish. Tough bandits pull some chicken-shit caper and go back talking big shit.
Now this store is situated on a crossroads and the man who built it built it to be robbed. All four roads lead to a highway. A quarter mile to the west is an old graveyard with several exits and a quarter mile past that is a freeway. About half a mile to the east is a highway. To the south is the city and to the north a maze of country roads that my partner and I grew up on, roads we know better than the bulls possibly can.
So we drive into the city and rip off a new Ford. We park that behind a warehouse on the highway to the east. We make another trip and steal a Plymouth. This is one of the most exciting parts of the game, writing the script. It’s got to be just right because, you see, every time I rob someone I’m playing to a camera. I’m on stage, the center of attraction; and I wouldn’t want anyone to think I didn’t know my business.
So here’s the plan. My partner drives up beside the store and lets me out; then he parks out front, keeping the motor running. He can’t look to conspicuous because there’s a gas station across the street and a lot of traffic on the roads. I’ll go in, take care of business in less than four minutes and calmly walk out. The door on the passenger side is left ajar with the window rolled down so all I have to do is pull the door open; by the time I’m in the seat we’re down the road. We drive off calmly and slowly so as not to attract attention.
If by the time we get to the graveyard there’s one behind us we wheel in, change to the pickup and away we go. If there’s someone behind us (anyone might remember a Plymouth driving into a graveyard) we circle back to the Ford, drive right past the store again and then change to the pickup. It’s all very simple, smooth. We each know our part and are ready for action.
One more question. What if there’s trouble while I’m inside? If my partner hears my pistol speak a single word he splits. If hears it bark twice he comes to help me. Now, he can recognize my pistol’s voice just like a good hunter can recognize his hound. And if I ever bust a cap I’ll bust two. If I don’t pull the trigger twice it means I can’t and if he hears another piece go off and mine don’t answer, it means my trigger-pullin’ days are over.
The curtain rises, the cameras roll and the absurd drama opens.
I’m wearing a black sweat shirt (you can tell I’m a bad guy) and blue jeans and my piece is tucked in my belt. I walk in the door and glance around. There’s a young girl running one register and an old lady piling her purchases on the counter. She’ll be here awhile. That’s good; she’ll keep the kid busy. I don’t like to mess around with broads, especially young ones. You never know what they’re gonna do. Young guys are bad, too; sometimes they like to play hero. The best type of person to rob is a middle-aged man. An old man or woman has the “all my life I’ve worked for what I’ve got and no punk’s takin’ it away” attitude. A middle-aged man knows he’ll get it all back from the insurance company with interest and he’s usually pretty calm.
I see my middle-aged man back in the meat department and I know he’ll come up to ring up my stuff.
Here’s where things get a little ridiculous. I forgot my bag. Now, I can’t go back out and get it; my partner will think I’m losing my touch. So I go over to the produce counter and put a few grapes in the bottom of a paper sack. I carry the bag to the end register. There are four registers and I figure I’ll get the butcher to clean out the first then march him down the row—pickin’ greenbacks.
The man sees me and starts over. I’ve got my back to him, pretending I’m looking at some small stuff on the shelves.
He says, “Yes, sir?”
Quartering away from him, I place the grape sack on the produce scales and say, “There’s about a pound of grapes there—and all your money.” And I pull my piece.
The guy knows the game; he’s been robbed before, he’s watched a lot of television. Anyway, he puts up his hands and stretches.
Very calmly I tell him, “Put ’em down and open the register.”
Now he’s the butcher and he’s got an apron on with a whole lot of knives in it. He sees me looking at them and very politely asks me if I should get rid of them. I smile and tell him no. Then I sneer and tell him again that I want that register opened—now!
He flips the little bar on the side that opens the till. I point my piece to the bag and he begins filling it. I notice he starts with the ones and works up, and that he’s working pretty slow. It’s amazing how lazy some of these storekeepers get nowadays.
So I says, “This thing makes a big hole and I don’t want to have to shoot you.” That’s just what he needed. He even lifts the till drawer and throws in a couple of twenties. Then he looks at me questioningly.
“Spare the change,” I tell him. “Let’s go next door.” And I motion with my power piece.
This is where the guy gets real smart. Now he don’t know any more than I do what the young broad’s gonna do when I drive up on her. So he decides he ain’t gonna let me get the next door. But he knows better than to rush me. So he goes into an act. He puts one hand over his heart and starts taking deep breaths and gasping.
“I gotta bad heart,” he says.
“Just calm down. I ain’t gonna shoot ya.”
And he says, “ooooooooooo” and falls to the floor, banging his arm on the scales as he goes. I mean, he really did a good job of acting. I can respect him for it and so I don’t get mad. I just look down at him, say thank you and walk out. As I reach the door I put my gun in the bag and calmly walk to the car. I don’t look behind me; that’s my partner’s job. He’s watching my back and he’s got a thirty-eight in his lap to help him pay attention. I open the door and we’re off.
We make the switch at the graveyard. It takes a couple minutes to start the pickup, but that’s all right; I need the time to puke. You see, I gotta be so calm and sure and debonair in the store and the tension builds so much that by the time I can relax a little my gut just goes wild.
We change shirts and drive off. The grocer must have got to a phone pretty quick because by the time we get to the freeway there’s a state bull pulled across the access. My partner looks at me and I nod. We don’t have to say anything. There’s only one cop in the car and we’ll play bluff or bulldog. If he lets us through, we go; if not, I kill him. Or he kills me—it doesn’t make much difference.
We drive onto the access. Now, we’re in an old rattletrap Chevy pickup with a rifle and a shotgun in the rack overhead. You can tell by looking at the rig that it can’t do over forty. And if we’d jut robbed somebody we sure as hell wouldn’t be driving calmly up to a cop. Did I say calmly? I’m clutching a nine-mm. automatic in my hand, holding it between my legs and I’m tense as a truck spring.
The man pulls out of our way and we drive off into the sunset, counting easy money and eating seedless grapes.
I’d like to announce the release of my new book, The Old Crow Book Club. It emerged quite unexpectedly from my writing of this newsletter, which will continue for the foreseeable future because the issue of homelessness is something I can’t stop caring or writing about. I like to believe I engage it in a novel and meaningful way.
If you purchase the book through my website at nestuccaspitpress.com, I will throw in an extra copy for you to leave in a free street library in your neighborhood. I can also supply a cheap set for a book club.
You can also help the book’s distribution by making a donation via the website to hire homeless men and women to stock street libraries around the Portland metropolitan area. I’ve already implemented this unique distribution model and could use additional support, and perhaps, one large benefactor.
I will derive no profits from any sales of The Old Crow Book Club. All monies earned will fund expanded distribution. Thank you for your support and keep reading the newsletter. I have a lot more stories to share.
The introduction to The Old Crow Book Club is below:
I had written over 200,000 words about Oregon’s homeless crisis in multiple genres: essay, satire, short story, children’s story, a Hallmark Christmas film treatment, stream of consciousness, memoir, reportage, epistle, polemic, even a poem set in a dystopian gas station.
If I published all the writing, it would amount to an 800-page book!
A lot of it was writing about how I was writing about the homeless. I had name dropped Jean-Paul Sartre, Gertrude Stein, Rebecca Solnit and Denis Johnson. No one wanted to read that meta drivel. No one wanted to read a Manhattan phone book without a narrative or denouement.
It was all one big fat misshapen mishmash of a book, with even a real kitchen sink thrown in and other images as well:
A game of foosball in a homeless encampment.
A baptism of a homeless man in a kiddie pool.
An osprey that dropped an eel from the sky into a homeless encampment and they fried the damn thing up for supper!
A domicile constructed from discarded encyclopedias.
A homeless man blowtorching crawdads on a grill.
A homeless heavy metal guitarist who lived in a tent camper surrounded by dozens of Santa Clauses and headless dolls.
A dumbwaiter constructed inside a two-storey pallet shanty.
A women living in a homeless encampment who erected a stripper pole.
A homeless man mushing a team of huskies pulling a trio of baby strollers loaded with cans.
A pirate fleet of derelict boats in the Willamette River that raided decks of luxury houseboats for furniture and propane tanks.
A homeless man who used an abandoned refrigerator as an armoire.
What did I really have? What was worth keeping? What was worth distilling? What was worth publishing? What to say about a national emergency that breaks my heart every moment I encounter it, something that occurs two or three times a day in Oregon wherever I go?
I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood and held out hope that some guidance might emerge.
A block from home, I looked left up a street and there was my homeless friend Mark, sitting on a sidewalk, reading a book, and drinking a can of malt liquor. I stopped and stared.
Mark was the book! Mark the bibliophile, Mark and his Cannery Row collection of other homeless men and women in the neighborhood with their bittersweet storytelling, hilarious conversations and addled antics that all went down precisely where Mark was now sitting.
I didn’t know how the book would turn out. I did know it wasn’t going to be a microcosm of anything. Instantly, I cut 190,000 words from the manuscript and felt so happy I almost kicked up my heels.
And I already had the title: The Old Crow Book Club.
I seem to have come to the end of a phase in my writing life. It lasted over 20 years and began when I founded Nestucca Spit Press (NSP) in 2002 to disseminate my writing, and as it turned out, many other writers.
NSP isn’t going away. Indeed, the plan in 2023 is to publish three of my books and perhaps a volume of poetry by another writer.
I sense this current phase ended because I have absolutely nothing pressing to write about. It’s not writer’s block; I have never suffered from that pretentious affliction since I left Portland for the Oregon Coast in 1997 at the age of 33 in one last attempt to become a writer after so many futile years of trying and non-trying. I found dogs, beaches, driftwood forts, trees, clearcuts, dive coastal bars and finally got it going.
There is nothing happening in the world or within me that engages my creative mind and compels me to write. That is not to say the state of the world or my personal life don’t cause me serious contemplation. They do. I just don’t have anything to write about it for the public.
I’m approaching 300,000 words on writing about the homeless and my interest wanes a bit more with every daily encounter.
I have three novel projects in mind but they are years away, if ever, from completion.
Writing about Oregon Tavern Age life is pretty much dead because Oregon Tavern Age life has almost gone extinct thanks to Donald Trump.
Writing about the Oregon and American political scenes doesn’t interest me.
Writing about my experiences helping my dad in assisted living doesn’t interest me.
Writing about the fallout from my nuclear extinction of self seven years ago doesn’t interest me.
Writing about rain has dried out.
Writing about losing one of the greatest loves of my life doesn’t interest me.
I took writing about dogs as far as I could.
I ran out of interest writing absurd, socially-conscious erotica.
I can’t write about Oregon’s socialist public beaches because I don’t live at the ocean anymore.
I can’t write about RV park living because I don’t live in an RV park anymore.
Portland doesn’t interest me as a subject.
I do want to write about one of the strangest and most dynamic men of letters in Oregon history but his family faded away and I can’t really do the project justice without their help or blessing.
So often in the past, a literary project found me: the Yaquina Bay Bridge book. Bonnie and Clyde, and the rain book were like that. So is my forthcoming book about the homeless in my neighborhood.
I sense the days the days of walking unexpectedly into a project are over.
About the only subject that does interest me is the old beaver I recently saw swimming in my local creek. He’s missing his right ear and sports a gray muzzle. The other morning I saw him glide right into his tiny lodge and was beyond enchanted.
Yeah, the old beaver interests me! A lot. If I do write about him, I’m going to call him Gus.
So here I am writing about that I don’t have anything to write about. Maybe after a prolific 20 plus years run of writing 25 books and thousands of articles, columns, reviews and blog posts, I simply ran out of things to say or avenues of finding inspiration.
I always knew it could happen one day. At least I got the work out there. And a lot of readers responded well to that effort.
