Having finally had enough of the abhorrent behavior from the sidewalk campers in the neighborhood, I set out to find us a better home.
We toured several apartment buildings before choosing a cute little studio in the Pearl District. It was high up enough that the problems on the street couldn’t reach us. The zone we would be moving to was a crucial business and tourism district that would not tolerate the antics from our previous neighborhood. Try as they might, pitching their tent and smoking crack on the sidewalk around breweries, bookstores and salons had an expiration date that was rapidly approaching.
David’s brother and my friend, Kieran helped us move. We rented a U-haul and packed up our stuff right in front of the druggies, who of course got in their last minute heckling. It took every ounce of discipline I had ever mustered to keep my composure. I remember losing my temper with the landlord in South Florida when he sold the apartment and gave us a month’s notice to vacate. It wasn’t a pretty scene and I was not going to take bait again.
“Ignore them,” David instructed. Kieran and I did just that as we loaded furniture into the U-haul.
I met Kieran at the grocery store, where we both worked menial jobs. He had flunked out of college and was washing dishes. Skinny with long brown hair that flowed down past his shoulders, Kieran reminded me a lot of myself at that age.
He was smart, but undecided on what kind of career to pursue. He still is.
We talked about going hiking a lot until one day, he said, “Do you want my number?” Looking back, it has been the most aggressive move he’s ever made.
We would go on a lot of hikes together and to the movies, concerts and out to eat. David gave his seal of approval and graciously understood that it was a friends night out. For the longest time, Kieran was the only person in Portland who I felt truly understood me. He has a sensitive soul and compassionate heart.
So Kieran and Russ helped us move into our new place. God bless Russ. David’s younger brother had helped us move in and knew the routine. We loaded up a dolly full of heavy boxes into an ancient elevator, the kind where you close one door and pull a metal gate in front of you before you can go anywhere.
Then we dollied the boxes down sets of narrow marble stairs, igniting loud bangs with each drop, before finally rolling out onto the street. We had been so happy to move in here four years ago and now couldn’t get out fast enough.
Portland had changed drastically in those four years and it wasn’t a good change either.
A fresh start was needed. We were moving from a building over 100 years old to one barely a year old. Quite a difference. Awaiting us was a beautiful view of the west hills, a kitchen complete with a dishwasher, onsite gym, rooftop clubhouse and many more amenities.
“John, you finally got your box in the sky, David quipped.
Now I had to get the job to pay for it and the clock was ticking…
Slice of Good Ol Boy Life 
See What Readers Have to Say