mcleod

on a saturday afternoon sara and i walked through a park on burnside, close to the crowded missions and a charter school displaying artwork by eleven year-olds. a man in an oversized coat stood talking to a man with a white beard leaning on a tarp-covered cart.

“ladies, do you care to hear what this man has to say?”

his name was chanon—a religious man in his thirties who was on his way to give his coat to a homeless friend he had met earlier. sara and i did care to do so, since that is what we planned on doing that morning. we are the sandwich patrol—two girls who walk around the city with backpacks filled with sandwiches, exchanging homemade food for conversations. they are appreciative of the food, but mostly the ears and smiles we offer, and we are appreciative of their stories. it works well. an even trade.

the man with the tarp-covered cart was mcleod. he had a large, white beard and his fingernails were long and dirty, but overall he was clean and healthy looking. he wore small spectacles on the tip of his nose. he sometimes switched to speaking in a scottish accent that surprised us and made us laugh. he was born in scotland but considered himself a portlander at heart—a true oregonian.

“i lost everything, so now here i am, living in the great experiment.”

he and his wife were members of the upper-middle class living in a suburb of portland in a comfortable home and with a dog named mcguiver. he worked as an automobile inspector, inspecting the frames of vehicles and making sure they were safe to operate. his wife was a nurse in the er. they lost their jobs. in turn, they lost their home. in turn, he lost his wife.

she moved to canada to take care of his aging mother and was working as a nurse. he stayed behind.

“why aren’t you in canada with your wife?”

“this is my home. this is where i belong.”

he chose to stay in the city, depend on the social services portland offers, and build their lives to where they once were. he stayed in a “haunt” instead of a mission. he said he lived in the trees. he said he was a shape-shifter, a spiritualist who never used drugs or alcohol, who wanted to buy the empty space on the corner from which we were standing and turn it into an “89 cent store.”

“let’s just say the police know that i’m armed.”

although he never delved into any particular details, he said that life on the streets was hard, but he was used to it. he has been homeless since july without his family—his wife michelle of over 30 years, his daughter amy. amy is in school at the university of florida getting her masters in marine science. she does not have to pay a cent for her education.

“my wife and i saved up to make sure amy doesn’t have to worry about school. no matter how long she is in school, it is paid for.”

mcleod passes his time by doing puzzles and reading books. he particularly likes technical books—books about cars and machines, experiments and technology. across the street stands a powell’s—the only one in the city specializing in such a thing. he reminded us of a college professor, except that if he were that we would have attended every class, listened attentively to every lecture, asked him to coffee after office hours. he is currently writing to newspapers and public offices to explain, in detail, what portland lacks in social services.

“it is impossible to go hungry in portland.”

according to him, no person who lives in portland, no person who is passing through this city, has any excuse to complain of hunger. people hand out food everywhere he turns. he has been given submarines, sushi, pasta, salad—from hipsters on fixed-gear bikes, from men on breaks from work, from women walking their dogs. there are food kitchens all along burnside and in the chinatown district. but what portland does lack are places to sleep. the homeless lay on every street, no matter what neighborhood—from the metropolitan southeast to the posh northwest, from the hip southwest to the shady northeast.

mcleod never asks for anything. he never stands with a sign, carefully drawn on a damp piece of cardboard. people shove things into his hands, including sara and i.

at this point chanon left us to go find his friend after preaching about god, the love of jesus, and how everything would work out in the end. as i said, mcleod is a spiritualist. he lives for his family. he lives for himself. chanon asked us to take part in a group prayer. mcleod politely denied that request but allowed chanon to continue, saying that he would pray every day for us, including sara and i. chanon was missing many teeth. he wore a gold cross around his neck. he used to ride bulls at rodeos. he possessed a warm and caring heart, but one that was unable to see that mcleod did not need god or jesus to help him. he had his wife, he had his daughter, his dog, his city.

“i’m not going to give up.”

his family owns a cabin in the highlands. he and michelle have talked about going there. there is no electricity, no indoor plumbing, only a small shack barely standing up against the scottish winds. but for now they plan on buying that store, opening up a shop where everything is 89 cents, and living in the loft above the storefront with their dog. his cart is full of personal photos, knick-knacks reminding him of the life he had, the life he will never have again, and why, in a way, that is so liberating.

he speaks in a Scottish accent when he pleases. he lost everything he ever owned. he loves his family and still refers to his daughter as "my baby." he reads and does his laundry and tries to maintain a lifestyle he was once used to. he trims his beard, close to his neck, but forgets to trim his fingernails. he talks of scotland and a place he imagines as home. he lives in the great experiment.