"You make me twist and crawl"
-- English Beat, Twist & Crawl
Cinema 21 was one of Portland's few single screen theaters. It was a bit more traditional -- no tables, no pizza. It provided a steady diet of independent films and classics. A quick search showed that they were still in business and were currently showing Ruby Kiss. Which appeared to be a documentary on lesbianism in vampire films. That, at the very least, would be entertaining. The next showing wasn't for a couple of hours, plenty of time to scope out the landscape, and work up my nerve.
My whole life I've been deathly shy. If left to my natural inclinations, I'm content to keep to a tight circle of friends, and interact in the most casual way with everyone else. Meeting people, or talking to strangers, makes me feel uncomfortable. A ringing phone can make my guts twist. It may be my natural state, but that doesn't mean that I like it that way. In my late teens, I decided if I wanted to get anything done in this world, I would have to fight my instincts. Sadly, it doesn't get any easier with time. I have to constantly remind myself the reward is greater.
I paid the check and left. It wouldn't pay to get to the theater too quickly. It wasn't that far from Becks' last address, and I was more than familiar with the area. My chances of running into someone I knew would be much greater. I could have chosen to bide my time in the pub, but I was itching to see the city. I wanted to see if I could find anything that felt like home.
I took my time driving around town. The Willamette River bisects the city, and there are a series of bridges that hold the two sides together, like staples, or sutures down a wound. I laced my way up the river, crossing each bridge listening to the different sound each bridge makes. I drove up into the hills, in the direction of the Zoo and, ultimately the cemetery.
Cemeteries fascinate me, though I have no desire to be buried in one, or leave any permanent marker that I had ever been here. I don't share our culture's morbid taste for bones -- saving them against need in the ground. I do enjoy walking in cemeteries. It is our contradictions that make us interesting. At the top of the hill I saw a couple of Goth teens having a picnic. That brought a smile to my face.
I always liked goths. I found their affected depression cute. It started as an offshoot of punk and the new wave, and grew into a scene of its own right. Its themes and fashions focus on the darker side of life: death, loss, forbidden love, sweeping sadness -- all the things that appeal to a teen. Making out in the graveyard would play into all of that.
There was no point in disturbing young love. I changed direction before they could notice me, and let Cities in Dust, by Siouxsie and the Banshees drift into my head. I wandered amongst the stones. Each marker told a story in a symbol and a handful of words. This person lived a long life, with fresh flowers on the ground. Here was a family buried together -- mother, father, and two sons -- all died the same year. There were graves of people who died more than a hundred years ago with neat graves and new flowers. I could only imagine that they had been adopted by some organization.
Sooner than I thought I would, I came across the stone of Judy Alice Quinn -- Travel Agent, wife, karaoke lover, and hit & run victim. She'd been hit crossing the street -- tragic and random. I hadn't been looking for that particular headstone, but I knew my meander would eventually take me there.
I'd only been here twice, once for the funeral, and once when I left. Becks had been with me for the funeral. After everyone else had left, I pulled a ring from my pocket and pushed it into the dirt by the headstone.
"What was that?" she had asked.
"A token of my life before this one. Time I said goodbye to that too." I had answered. It was my class ring.
"From when you were in the Army?" She asked. I knew she was curious about that part of my life, but I rarely talked about it.
"Yes," I had answered.
A fact drifted to the top of my memory: 16,716 eggs were consumed at West Point in 1913. They had taught the Plebs to remember things like that.
"You couldn't have been in that long?" I think she had harbored the thought I had done something to get thrown out.
"Just over two years, after I graduated." I said. "I'd planned on making it a career."
"Why didn't you?" She asked.
"My father died, and my mother got cancer. I was given a compassionate discharge so I could take care of her. After she died, I thought I might go back."
"Would they have taken you back?" Becks had put her hand on the small of my back. She rarely made direct contact with people.
"Oh yes," I said, "but by then I'd met Judy. I found a job I enjoyed. I met this girl..." I winked at her. I had hurt so much, but it was hard not to be playful with Becks.
"Goof" she said, her voice was gentle and soft. She had not been unaffected by Judy's death. Her eyes had bags beneath them. She had made a point of not leaving me alone, and I hadn't been sleeping.
"It's true," I had told her. "You are part of what holds me here. I decided it was better to have a life than a vocation. Come on, let's go." We walked back down the hill. Becks drove me to the wake.
The second time I had been here was the day I left town. I stopped here on the way out. It hurt so much to see Judy's grave. It was a reminder of everything I had lost. I had only stayed long enough to pull off my wedding ring, and push it into the dirt next to the other. That time I was alone as I walked down the slope.
This time it didn't hurt to look at the gravestone. Bit-by-bit, I had let go of that pain. There had been no moment of catharsis. I made no great speech to the dead. It had just faded so slowly that I don't think I really realized it was gone till just now. It was one less weight to carry, but the load was still plenty large. I had no belief in souls, or gods, or ghosts, and I didn't find any there. There was no point in staying, and I had killed enough time. For the third time, I walked down the hill to my car.
The theater was a part of a busy little neighborhood in Northwest, a mix of shops, and restaurants, and homes. I had to park some distance away. This was a much more active part of town than Laurelhurst. There were still lines to get into some of the more choice locations for lunch. There were people-watchers in the coffee shops and the usual suspects of shoppers and gawkers. I used to love coming here. It made me feel like I was a part of all the different scenes that converged here, without the need to belong to any of them. Not much had changed.
It was still a bit early when I bought my ticket and entered the theater. I bought a small bag of popcorn out of tradition. The theater had a small upper balcony; in another age it would have been the perfect spot for young couples hungering for a private spot. I'm sure some of that still happened. It would be more private up there, and it would provide a good view of the audience below, but the only exit was back down the stairs. It would be difficult to get out of the undersized seat and down in a pinch. I chose orchestra seating.
I picked a spot towards the back of the theater. It gave me the opportunity to watch as people came in, and a short path if I needed to cut and run. I did see a couple of Becks' more casual acquaintances. I made note of where they sat, so I could talk to them after the movie. When the lights went down I was freed from that task, and turned my attention to my popcorn and the movie.
I don't think I had ever been quite so aware of how prevalent the theme of lesbianism was in the vampire genre. I suppose it shouldn't have been that much of a surprise. The vampire mystique is by its nature sexual. So it should be no shock that all aspects of sexuality should be expressed in the genre. More interesting was how old the theme was, nearly as long as their have been films about vampires -- long before when it was acceptable to talk about such things in public. It was like the coded language of the blues. It was a way of discussing something that those in the know would understand, yet would be generally acceptable to the popular culture. The film was perhaps a little too self-serious, but the audience did get a giggle to the reference to "Girl on girl vampire action." I enjoyed the montage set to The Motels' Total Control.
A hair over an hour and a half later, the film was over and I felt sated like after a good meal. I always enjoy feasting on the ephemera of knowledge. I watched the audience get up and leave, the two people I noted got up at roughly the same time, but they were sitting in different parts of theater and were heading to different exits. I could only intercept one of them, so I choose the one on my right. Her name was Amy. I recalled her as being a little closer to Becks than the fellow on the left.
Amy was dressed very much as you might have seen a woman at the movies in the 40s. Hair in a tight bun on her head, she was wearing a long gray dress with buttons down the front. In her hand she carried a small leopard-print purse. Perhaps the only thing that broke the effect was the cell phone in her hand, and the tattoo of cheetah spots that went down her left arm.
I fought the urge to throw up. I had that feeling in my gut that happens before I talk to someone I don't know well. I screwed up my courage, and walked towards her, meeting her halfway. I tried to look surprised and friendly.
"Hey!" I said. "It's Amy, right? It's been a long time!"
"Yeah? Do I..." Then there was the moment of recognition.
"You fucking bastard!" She said.
It wasn't the reaction I hoped for. The best thing was to keep pressing forward.
"Yes," I agreed, "yes I am."
That caught her by surprise -- honesty can be like that -- but not enough, as she started walking again. I followed her on the side.
"I just got back into town, have you seen Becks?" I asked.
She gave me a sour look.
"No," she said. She sounded angry. "I don't know where she might be."
"Would you tell me if you knew?" I asked.
"No! You just stay gone." I let her walk past me.
I stopped to lean against the wall. I locked my jaw till the feeling went away. Amy's reaction was a small taste of what I feared was ahead of me. The worst part was that I didn't think she was wrong about me.
"Yo!" the man behind the concessions stand called out to me.
He was also the one who sold me my ticket. He was wearing a faded Misfits shirt. It had originally been black, but either age or ignorance of the finer points of the laundry process had faded it to a dark grey. A studded leather belt was cinched impossibly tight around his equally faded black jeans.
"Who are you looking for?" He asked.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the notebook. There was a pocket in the back; from it I pulled out a picture.
"Her." I said. "Goes by the name 'Becks.' Have you seen her?"
"You ain't a stalker or anything?" He asked.
I smiled and shook my head.
"I mean," he said, "I don't like Amy none, so I'd help just to piss her off, but if you're a psycho or something, I don't think I should."
"Well. I can't fault that sentiment," I said. "I'm not a psycho."
"Good," he said.
His safeguards left something to be desired. He took another look at the picture.
"She's around a lot," he said. "Haven't seen her in a couple of weeks. You know, I think I seen her at The Anchor too."
"Thanks." I said.
"Yeah," he said.
"If I were Amy, I would be so pissed that you told me." I said,
"Thanks!" He said again, this time with a big smile.
I walked out into the light. I paused to let my eyes adjust and get my bearings. I needed to decide on my next step. I would need to pay a visit to The Anchor, based on what he had said. Reno's as well, if it were still around. It would be hours before that would be practical. It was just after 4 o'clock and I would want to let them fill up a bit more. I wandered back to the high street and started wandering.
I reached into my pocket and searched vainly for my radio -- my last one had not made the trip back with me. I would need to fix that. In the old days, it would have been an automatic part of my wardrobe. I would go about my day listening to a constant stream of NPR and local news. I'm a patient man, and can easily lose myself in thought for hours. Still, the feed of information would be nice.
I found a shop that sold a radio little bigger than the AAA battery that powered it. There were smaller ones, but they ran on watch batteries. They wouldn't last as long, and would be harder to replace. This one was still a good size, easily hidden in my hand or tucked in a pocket. I liked small gadgets and over the last few years it mattered even more. When you are never in one location for long, size and weight matter. I would happily sacrifice performance if it could be quickly and easily packed and carried -- and be willing to pay a premium for it.
I turned on the radio and hung one of the ear buds in my left ear. The other I tucked into my shirt pocket. Misunderstanding, by Genesis, was playing on what I assumed was an oldies station. I walked several blocks to stretch out my legs, then I looked for a place to install myself for the next few hours. I picked a coffee shop that had been converted from an old house.
I went into what would have been the living room. A half door was open with a man on the other side taking orders, tall with a little padding. His t-shirt had the name of the place, Java Vivace, and bottom half of a tattoo stuck out from below one of the sleeves. An olive branch was on one side, a baseball bat on the other -- the Ramones.
It's easy to dismiss the Ramones as just another punk group, or even a novelty act, but that was selling them short. They were there at the beginning, before punk had a name. They were smarter than their song titles let on -- Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue or I Wanna Be Sedated. I saw them perform live once. They played fast and hard. They'd be into the next song before I knew what the last one was.
"What can I get you?" He asked.
"Just a Latte," I said.
"What size?" He asked.
"Whatever you call medium," I told him.
"Foam?" He asked.
"Surprise me," I said.
"Right-o," he said. "It will be up in a minute."
I paid, and when my coffee was ready, I climbed the stair to the second floor. The upper rooms now contained chairs and couches, but it was easy to see their original purpose. Joni Mitchell was singing Free Man in Paris. There are cities like that, crackling with some kind of intangible energy. You can step off the plane and feel something as soon as your feet hit the ground. These are the iconic cities of the world. Portland isn't one of them. It seduces you slowly with its landscape, and people.
I found a seat in what used to be the master bedroom in a large comfortable chair beside the window. There would be little chance I would be seen, this time. People going about their business rarely look up above their eye-level, and rarely into others windows. Urban living requires us to choose not to see everything that goes on around us. It's the way we maintain some sense of privacy in a world where everyone is nearby.
I took out the phone and notebook once again. I began by verifying the location and hours of The Anchor and of Reno's. Then I began the task of tracking down Wilson and Ray. Ray didn't leave many crumbs, but more than Becks. I found his email address and two possibilities for his home number. Wilson on the other hand, lived his life in public eye, probably more than he realized. I dug up his home phone, home address, studio address, gallery of his current show, his public email address, the private email address he probably thought only his friends knew, some of the websites he frequented (through his posts to them), and his cell phone number.
There would be too much risk in contacting Wilson first. If Amy was still mad at me, then I couldn't see Wilson being any better disposed to me. It would be best if I found some sort of in, rather than contacting him directly. Ray, on the other hand, never particularly liked me; in his odd way he considered me a rival. He'd rarely been rude to my face, but it was always there below the surface. I'd need to contact him face to face. I would be too easy for him to blow me off.
A young couple was sitting together on the couch against the far wall. They were lost in a private world that only included the two of them. No matter what they did they always maintained at least one point of contact between them. Both were wearing an interpretation of a Japanese school uniform; their hair was an impossible shade of blue. Both were reading manga.
I remembered an article I had once read by a Japanese CEO. It argued that as the world becomes more interconnected, then perspective and culture would become exportable commodities. When the borders fade and information is readily available, people will hunger for things that provide context and an experience. It's not hard to see it everywhere from the growth of theme restaurants, to the popularity of niche websites, to the thriving of different musical scenes -- punk, rockabilly, lounge, etc.
Unfortunately for me, it wasn't true of what seemed to be coming through my radio. Most of the time I listened to the news. Occasionally I would switch to music so I could digest what I had heard. It was clear that the great media consolidation that had been in progress when I left had not stopped. Music was one of the few things that kept me connected me to the world, and I had taken a large and eclectic collection with me.
While I had thousands of songs and hundreds of albums to pick from, I didn't have that random discovery that radio can provide. I'll never forget the first time I heard Richard Thompson's Why Must I Plead. I was working late, just getting ready to head for home, and it came in over the radio. It glued me to my chair. I couldn't get up until I heard the whole thing, and learned what song it was. It felt like he was singing about the bitter end of my life. It was before I met Judy, but it was universal. I ran off to Everyday Music that night and bought the album. When things got bad with Judy I would listen to it. I'm sure I wasn't the only man who found solace in it.
While my lizard-brain was busy listening to news and music, I cataloged every place and person I could associate with Becks. I listed the name and relationship of each person. Each time I thought the list was complete, I would review it and plumb my memory, and revise the list again. Becks was a private person, but the list had a fair number of names on it. It's very hard to lead a disconnected life -- there are friends, family, coworkers, and the others that you interact with regularly.
Once my list was reasonably complete, I methodically went about determining what information I could glean from public sources. I would write down the phone number, address, email, and anything else I was able to find. Two-thirds of the list had something written next to the name. If I couldn't find Becks directly, then I'd approach Simone, Ray, and then Wilson. If they weren't receptive, then I would go through this list and find an ally. When I'd completed the exercise, the sky was dark, and I was beginning to get peckish. It was still a bit early for dinner. It was, however, late enough to consider going to The Anchor.