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| GREG NIGH is a naturopathic physician and licensed acupuncturist practicing in Portland, Oregon. He can be reached at drnigh@naturecuresclinic.com. |
| "november" There are some parts that I remember. Like I know it was the middle of November. I was stumbling along Belmont Avenue, looking for a doorway to get out of the snow. Bones and Tiny Red didn’t notice me as they made their way into the corner market just off Clark, the one the Mexicans own, where they sell beer and meat and all sorts of household chemicals. Every evening around 6pm Jose and Sunny set up that rusty grill out on the corner, then fill it with yesterday’s newspapers and a few bits of turpentine-soaked charcoal squares. They throw on two or three cans of creamed corn, and scoop it out to the homeless crowd that circles the store just like old men circle the grave. Across the street in The Montgomery, Andre serves drinks loaded heavier than a .357. He carries a New Word Bible the size of a piece of toast in his breast pocket. He takes it out and thumbs through it every time he pours himself a bourbon. And Slam and Madge and Wheezer hover around the pool table every single night, arguing over who’s getting laid tonight, and how many tours of duty they’ve done, and how that last shot should count since the table’s so bent out of shape. I know that street like I know the smell of rain and the sound of the subway under the road. In the middle of November the wind can look right through you. Soot-coated buses roll past like locomotives, their brakes screaming fury in the cold. The ancient Indian woman, who tells fortunes in the little house across from the hardware store, was standing under the El stop right next to the back door into Reba’s Laundromat. She was smoking a hand-rolled butt so low that I thought her knuckles were on fire. As I shuffled by, she grabbed my arm and stopped me as I passed. Her stare worked its way into my body, turning off lights as it went in. I was too cold and young and stupid and scared to speak, and I knew she could have killed me with a blink. I don’t know how long it was before she reached into her poncho, took out a crumpled yellow envelope, and pressed it into my hand. Her hollow black eyes never left mine, and if I had looked away I would have crumpled into a pile. Finally, her leather hand reached up and turned my face to the side, and for an instant I thought she didn’t want me to watch her die. Without saying a word she turned and moved away from me, walking faster than her steps could explain. I watched her past the pizza parlor on Sheffield, past the furniture store that old man Jefferson sold when his wife died of cancer, and out of sight as she turned down Racine. I crossed the street and dropped a token into the turnstile. I took the Howard west and I rode that train all night. It was cold as treason outside, and I rode that goddamn train all night. ### |
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