The Futon

Juliet was tired of sleeping on a futon with only a tatami mat separating her from the cold floor.  I can’t say I blame her.  After all, the house she lived in with my son was damp.  Moldy, P.G. damp, and though I never went to the house, its smell wafted toward me every time Ian came over to visit.  The musty, moist smell of an un-insulated house typically graces our Peninsula.  We are lucky to have some of the cleanest air in California with our forest, but there is a trade off.

When Ian and Juliet, after a year after dating, announced they were moving to Portland I nodded my head with a half smile.  My son Ian has always been grandiose about his plans.  His big ideas have ranged from walking the Pacific Crest trail solo, blowing glass art to becoming a dental hygienist   When he was in high school, he told me he was torn about his career: he couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to become a DJ or a Shaman. 

This time, though, he was serious.  He needed to finish his bachelor’s degree and wanted to do it at Portland State University.  He’d been there once, to visit Juliet during the previous summer when she was spending time visiting her aunt.  And so he gave three month’s notice, leaving a technical managerial position in one of our local hotels.  I’d miss him walking through my front door, unannounced, heading straight to the fridge, but I also knew that this was a positive and necessary development.  I believe that young adults should all have an opportunity to live in a city.  Cities can be good teachers and Portland seemed like a reasonable choice. 

The other mitigating factor was housing.  The sponge that Ian lived in came with a roommate and  though Ian and Juliet didn’t mind living with him; they wanted their own place.  Privacy.  Finding a place to rent here with a tiny budget is like finding a shard of sunlight in an underwater sea cave in Antarctica. 

So, being the nurturing co-dependants that we are, my husband and I agreed to drive a moving van full of furniture to Portland.  We were motivated to undertake this task because we like to help, and we wanted to see where they would be living.  We had heard it was a Neighborhood of Transition.  We have lived in more than a few “transitional neighborhoods” which made me nervous.  Plus, I would sleep better knowing I could track Ian on my Iphone along the 13 hour, 740 mile journey.

Ian, Gerard and I left Carmel at 3:00am; Ian, in his little white Miata, and Gerard and I in a large dodge rental van.  Before reaching to Hollister we were separated and with a flurry of tense texts exchanged, Ian was alone, conversing with a homeless man in front of Casa de Fruita while Gerard and I first began suffering through the stench of the furniture.  The musty smell permeated not just the futon, but everything and I told Gerard that we would have to wipe down things before they were brought into the new apartment.

Juliet was already in Portland waiting for us.  She and Ian had wanted to sell the futon, but did not have time and could not leave it at the rental house.  Juliet had been working  eight days a week at a local restaurant and Ian had just survived our Peninsula's Car Week so the futon was loaded up much to everyone’s olfactory distress.

Gerard rigged a nice buffer between and the futon and our nostrils by using bungee cords and some moving blankets.  Gerard is a genius on many levels, and this simple fix was helpful in quelling the distracting smell.

As the sun began to rise we became more alert.  We always have a great time driving together, even when we are bickering and driving together, but all in all, it was a time of laughter, music and podcasts.  We drove through Sacramento with little fanfare.  The I5 is the armpit of California, but the scenery does improve the further north you go.  The best part of the drive was watching the appearance of Mt. Shasta.  It came upon us unexpectedly.  It was majestic and mysterious and I was plummeted into memories of a houseboat trip that our family went on when I was a young child. 

We stopped in Ashland for a late lunch, eating, large deli sandwiches while standing alongside a counter, listening to 80’s music.  Back in the car we watched as the scenery changed.  A curvaceous road emerged with green mountains and low valleys smiling in the afternoon sun.  Everywhere we looked; trees flourished, rivers hugged the van and the air was charged with warmth of an Oregon summer. 

Finally, after dealing with Portland traffic, and a faulty navigation system, which took us in four different directions, we arrived in the Neighborhood of Transition to a bubbly Juliet who jumped up and down in delight.  I forgot to mention that Juliet is a beautiful girl and one of her best features is her laugh that sounds like a small set of chiming bells.  Their reunion was fun to watch, the nectar of a moment, a memory that Gerard captured on his phone.    

The apartment in the Neighborhood of Transition has several requirements for entry: an intercom, a key for the front lobby, a key for each floor in the building, and of course a key to the apartment.  Built in the 1930’s, the place has character.  The kitchen has an old fashioned sink with the faucet attached to the wall, and black and white countertops accented with sea foam green tiles.   In the dining room, cute wooden built in cabinets with Greek key molding.

Speaking of mold, Juliet was not happy to see the futon.  She said,

"Oh let’s not bring that thing upstairs".

Gerard and I exchanged a look and wondered if the valet parkers of our booked hotel would survive.

But, Juliet’s father, (who is employed as baggage handler for a major airline) has razor sharp unloading skills and with the help of him, Gerard, the Aunt, myself and the two small cousins who acted as doormen, the van was unloaded in less than 40 minutes.  Including the large hard bamboo tatami mats for the futon.  Unlucky us, we were stuck with the futon.

Portland is hot in August and it was 86 degrees that evening.  Gerard and I had done our due diligence and left to check in to the downtown Marriott off the Morrison Bridge.

The adorable young blond valet attendants were gracious about the van, which was covered in nutshells, water bottles and brown bags filled with empty wrappers.   We walked into the refreshing air-conditioned lobby and dragging our suitcases upstairs, proceeding to get cleaned up for dinner.  We had been awake for hours and our bodies still hummed with the vibration of a 14 hour car journey.  Deciding to eat downstairs we headed to the hotel restaurant where we ordered burgers from a sweet 20 something covered in tattoos and body piercings. 

We were shocked at how delicious our dinners were.  The burgers, covered in melted Tillamok cheddar, were cooked to perfection.  The side salad was so fresh, its phytochemicals created a symphony of tongue and plant.  Everything about this meal screamed Organic, Farm Raised, Grass Fed and GMO free. 

The next morning, after a refreshing sleep we headed back to the apartment where we encountered a neighbor, Poppy, a wisp of a mom outside of the building smoking a cigarette, or maybe a joint.  She had in tow, two small children.  One was an infant, the other about 3.  The disheveled children danced around her as we conversed and we told her about the futon and the tatami mats.  She told us she had met Ian and Juliet and that they “seemed cool”.

Juliet and Ian were glad to see us, but Juliet did not want the tatami mats in the apartment.  So, we hauled them back downstairs to the van, Poppy, observing us. 

She thought the mats “seemed cool”

"Oh, you don’t want them", I told her.  "They are really green underneath". 

"That’s okay.  I can clean them.  They would be fun for the kids to play on.  I can take the futon off your hands too".

"Poppy, I don’t think that’s a good idea.  It might be hazardous to your children" I said, genuinely concerned.

"How much do you think they want for the mats?" she asked.

"Nothing!" said Gerard.

"That seems cool.  I’ll take them, but I’ll need your help getting them into my place".  Poppy drove a hard bargain.  So, after loading the tatami mats into the van, we unloaded them and brought them into Poppy’s apartment where they would live out their usefulness.

It was then that Ian and Juliet told us that they wanted to go to Ikea to pick up some things.  As I walked into Ikea it started to dawn on me that the demographic of Portland was markedly different than Carmel.  Everyone here, including the employees, looked 12 years old.  People our age were the exception. (And many of them ignorant of hair dye, poor souls.)

After an hour of listening to ruminations of bed frames, mirrors and hand towels, Gerard and I sat down at the Ikea café for some caffeinated and chocolate driven reinforcements.  The children were at the registers paying which was in itself, a grand phenomenon to behold.

Sweaty, disheveled, and physically sore, I turned to my husband and said,

"I haven’t seen anyone over the age of 30 in the last 24 hours.  Who is in charge of this place?"

He laughed and said the average age of a Portland citizen is 30.

"I’m serious, Gerard.  How do they manage to get things done?  It’s like being dropped into a college campus.   And there are so many homeless people here, under the bridges.  They all seem to be Ian’s age.  Where are their parents?  What happened to them?" 

He reminded me that eventually we would have a millennial as our president. Before that thought began to percolate in my brain, the kids were back, pushing a giant flat bed cart.  They were ready to go home and build a bed, so could we please back up the van into the loading zone?

That night, Gerard and I had a long think about the futon.  We knew our nostrils could not stand another 13 hours with that thing.  But, we didn’t know what to do with it.  Gerard wanted to drop it under the Morrison Bridge for a homeless person to use.  His brazen plan was to stop abruptly, mid traffic, and have me push the thing out at the first person I saw.  Absolutely not an option, I told him.  The homeless in Portland are aggressive.  It could be dangerous.

In the early morning, our plan was to meet the kids at Voodoo doughnuts and head back to California.  Climbing back into our spore-laden purgatory and glancing at the heavy white futon in the back, I knew that we had to do something.  As we drove through the streets of downtown Portland on a Sunday morning, all seemed calm.  The homeless were not visible, but their things were and as we parked the van I noticed a small collection of belongings near a corner: a blanket, a crate and a canvas bag.  That’s when I had my idea.  Gerard left the van and wandered up the street to look for the Pay and Display machine (yes, even on a Sunday), while I climbed into the back of the van.  I looked around and saw no people.  The shops were closed.  I opened the van door, jumped out and with all of my weight training might, pulled that heavy smelly cumbersome futon out on to the sidewalk.  Quickly I closed the door, resuming my position in the passenger seat.  Gerard walked toward the van: disbelieve, then laughter spreading over his face.

"Come on, let’s go try these famous doughnuts and find out what the fuss is about"  I said, nonchalantly.

And we did.  In front of Voodoo doughnuts we watched, amused, as the homeless ran circles around the cops.  They obviously had the control.  The cops, who again, looked 12, enforced them much like a set of Playmobil or Lego Men would.  They stood, hands on their hips, with vacant smiles, nodding and trying to keep a buffer between the homeless and the tourists.

Just as I was finishing my chocolate old fashioned a young homeless man approached me.

"Got have any money?" he asked. 

"I already donated today," I told him, nicely. Because, technically it was true.

"Well you didn’t donate to me" he said, storming off in a huff.

Our time was up. We said our tearful goodbyes to the kids and wondered just how they would cope.  Neither had a job yet, but while they may have lacked income, they were rich in optimism, the value of which is priceless.  Knowing that the world is an imperfect place, but also knowing that we can’t protect them forever, we walked back to the van arm in arm.  To our delight, the futon was nearby, folded neatly with someone’s belongings.  It had been claimed!  What a perfect start to the day.  Besides, if it made someone on the streets of Portland feel a little more comfortable on a hot summer night then that alone was worth it’s 740 mile delivery service.