Gone to Portland to show support for Tom et al during the crazy move across town to their interim house, a 1940's plywood rambler with attached car port situated on several acres of recently designated flood plain.

It's the middle of the day in the middle of the week. I'm caught up in the commercial flow on south I-5, hugged with the heat to the road under icy blue skies. It is perfect summer weather. I'm listening to Front242's new album.

4th Ave S., Seattle. A detour.

In Portland, the old house, the yellow house, the SE Portland house, has two fully loaded trucks parked out front. In the basement the family is packing—since when did my teenhood friend become a family? Dakota laughs and shrieks when Tom picks her up and whirls her around. Dakota's legs are long now, her body a kid's and not a toddler's. She's discovered her imagination. You can ask her a question and she'll think for a moment and deliberately give you the wrong answer. Then she'll laugh and laugh at the cleverness of her trick.

Tom's friend J is with them. He's responsible for the extra truck out front. I met J at the wedding, and when I see his face, I remember the wedding and him at it. But, most of the time when Tom mentions J, I remember the time we met him on the mountain biking trail and he was in his kit. I think his bike was broken and he had to walk a long way. It's strange to see him in regular clothes; it doesn't fit my mental image of him at all.

The house is nearly empty; these truckloads are about the last two. All that remains are the mail server (must not sever the mail server!) and clean up. As J puts the last of something into his truck, a glass jar of pennies and dimes falls onto the street and shatters. He picks up what he can and I retrieve a broom and dustpan for the rest. We sweep up a bunch of dirt with assorted small change. I suggest throwing the heap away, arguing that the amount of change in the pile isn't worth the labor of sorting it from the dirt. J dumps the pan into the truck bed. He says the wind will separate the change from the dirt as he drives. Tom asks him, "Are you sure about that?"

We caravan across town to the flood plain house, ditch the trucks and pile into my car to go get dinner at the only Red Robin Tom has not graced. I order a dinner salad and the teriyaki chicken burger with the chicken swapped out for a Boca. Tom says I've lost a lot of weight and I say that's because I've been riding 150 miles a week. As I chomp down bite after bite of that obnoxious burger, I think about that exchange. I can eat whatever I want; I don't feel like I can. Later, the three of us share a chocolate shake.

Turns out J used to road race in college, so we talk a lot about riding. We talk about bonking and about the STP. He says he stayed at Napavine, too. He describes sleeping on the gym floor: "Next time I'm bringing a tent."

Back on the flood plain, we unload the trucks and then, like movers, we stand around and shoot the shit for a good 45 minutes. I sleep in my sleeping bag on the couch.

In the morning the family and I, good Americans, pile into three cars and caravan back across town to the Hot Cake House. My favorite. Tom reminds us that we ate here together the morning of 9/11, when I was on my way to Bend.

Dakota squirms and chatters. She's such a happy little girl. Tom tells me the story of how Luana gave Dakota her first sip of Coke, thinking that Dakota wouldn't like it and that the event would prevent years of sugar/acid damage. But Dakota took one sip and asked for more. I say, "It's genetic!" But it's only to chide Tom, my compatriot in colaphilia. We know we're all hard-wired for the lusty drink.

We're doing the caravan thing again, but this time the family's going to work (and preschool) and I'm going home. I take an earlier offramp and zigzag my way across town to Powells.

Powell's bathroom graffiti (click for larger version).

When did I become such a fan?

A Walk in Portland, Oregon — Chuck P.
City of Glass — Douglas Coupland
Hey, Nostradamus — Douglas Coupland
The Scar — China Mieville

I walk two blocks north to the Torrefazione Italia (now Starbucks) and order a grande soy mocha, decaffeinated and iced. I dump three heaping spoonfuls of brown hippie sugar into the drink to give the chocolate flavor, put the lid on it, and give it several wrist-driven swirlies to activate the chocolate, which the barista left in a sludge at the bottom of the cup.

I sip my mocha and read A Walk in Portland while sitting outside at one of the sidewalk tables. After awhile, a man taking a walk in Portland asks me if this is the Pearl District. I say it is. He asks if the area has shops, and I say it does. He asks if it's best to see them by just walking up and down the streets. I say yes, that's right. He says thanks.

It's the middle of the morning in the middle of the week. There's some nighttime coolness left on the road and it laps at my open car window. I'm caught up in the commercial flow heading north on I-5.

I'm listening to every radio station, my finger on Seek. It's the 80's now, all the time.

It's Robert Plant and the sandy-haired boy sitting on the floor of my dorm room at Oberlin. He sits with his back against the wall, his legs outstretched and crossed and a can of Genesse Cream Ale propped on his thigh. His head rests against the wall and he's keeping his eyes closed. The song ends for the third time and he slowly reaches over to the CD player and gently presses the skip-back button. His eyes are still closed. I'm watching him from my bed, which I've elevated to create more space. I'm lying on my side, my head resting on my hand. I say, why do you keep doing that? He says because it's his favorite song. Because it has my name in it.

It's Another Brick in The Wall and the midnight Laser Floyd. The bunch of us are prone on the floor of the Pacific Science Center laser theater beholden to the hammer and the meat grinder. "How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?" We make this pilgrimage weekly and, even though I'm a waver and don't really like this music, and, in fact, am always bored at the laser show—more so the more I see it—I know every word and every image that will be drawn on the blackdrop. I only go because I want to be included. Eventually, the music grows on me, because Pink Floyd is good.

And then another song and another memory. And another after that.

Along I-5 in Pierce County, things are burning. (She lit one up again.) An enormous orange plume emanates from Fort Lewis. I can see it from as far south as Olympia. A Jolly Green Giant approaches the plume and turns away, approaches and turns away, like it's scared. I love Jolly Green Giants; I find them inexplicably cute. Like bumblebees.

In Tacoma, a news helicopter negotiates a white plume. I can see, by turning all the way around in my seat, an old brick building charred and steaming.

It's the middle of the day in the middle of the week. I'm home. I've got four books to read and a giant bed.

Trash can outside the record store.