Iron Fist

I found a nice bench in the North Park Blocks after breakfast where I could sit and read my book. I’m usually not too picky about where I sit in the parks around here because gosh, it’s Portland, the most threatening things in our parks are usually the squirrels.

This particular morning in the park was a little different. The guy sitting next to me, the one with his pants hitched up to his sternum, was telling an unusual story to his friend, and I say it was unusual because it didn’t seem to include the normal story arc that you’d expect or even a punchline, but just sort of kept running on and the teller cued us for the funny parts by barking out laughter periodically. This was helpful, because I would never have guessed those parts were funny. it was distracting, too, but not enough to make me want to get up and leave.

Then there was the lady laying spread-eagled on the grass in hot pink shorts, singing and shimmying along to a song that only she could hear, and that seemed to involve her making gun-fingers quite a bit. This, too, I could overlook.

But I decided I should probably get up and move when the sweaty guy walked by, calling out in the style of a stadium vendor, “Methadone, methadone! Heyyyyy, methadone! Anyone here want to buy some methadone? Heeeyyyy, methadone!”

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