“For fifteen years, I’ve lived out here. On the streets of Portland, Oregon, you can find any kind of substance or alcohol if you are willing to pay the price. I’d rather keep my mind free of all that garbage. They gave me meds once upon a time for schizophrenia, but the voices told me it was poison. Besides, the voices weren’t harming me. People were. I was doing just fine on my own. Then, that lady decided to take it upon herself to try and save me.” He scratched his oily gray hair, and pieces of oak leaves drifted in front of him. He brushed them away, swatting at them like you flies at a picnic. “But you know the one thing I couldn’t quite let go of?” He fished out a cigarette from his ratty red flannel shirt.

“This.” He held the smoke up between his thumb and index finger. “Never quite figured out how to give ‘em up. Tried a few dozen times.” Licking the butt, he stuck the smoke between his lips, sucking hard after he lit a match from a beat-up-looking matchbook. Exhaling a blue plume of smoke, he continued, “And these things probably kept me from killing more than one person!” His laugh was between a squeaky dog toy and a dolphin cry, setting off a dry coughing fit. “Want one?” He smiled, offering me a smashed-up, unfiltered Lucky Strike.    

“Thanks, Frankie, but I quit years ago. Those things will eventually kill you.” I pointed at his wrinkled cigarette. The old man nodded. I met Frankie four years ago, building one of the deepest friendships I’ve ever enjoyed. Frankie taught me more about life, being kind, and not making snap decisions about people before you get to know them.

Frankie took another drag, doing his best to blow the smoke away from me. If there was one thing I could count on with Frankie, it was his consideration of other people, especially those who didn’t smoke. “Fifteen years I’ve lived here in Portland, and other than the weather, things have gotten weirder – if that’s even a remote possibility!”

“Portland? Weirder?” I said the words, recognizing that even that sounded strange to me. Portland is known for all kinds of things, like the Simpsons, Voodoo Donuts, Starbucks (even though that was technically started in Seattle, Portland capitalized on it), and Powell Books. Portland had it all, but over the last six, maybe eight years? Yeah. Rights became a battle cry, starting with abortion and gay rights, eventually migrating to animals. Today, your pets have more rights than you do as a private citizen in Portland. Yeah. That’s weird. I’d be willing to bet that insects, like mosquitoes, have special privileges here in Oregon.

“Oh, yeah, Miguel.” He never called me my birth name, even though I shared it with Frankie more than once. “It’s weirder than ever!” He continued smoking, coughing fits rattling his lungs every so often. He pointed at me with the smoke. “But that lady in the purple dress, you know her, right? I seen her down at Safeway a few times. Not sure what her deal is. But, man! Is she weird or what?”

Street People, as they referred to themselves, had names for all the people living in or around Portland’s downtown park blocks. Madame Mags. She was a wrinkled woman who always wore a purple broom skirt, the kind that you would see at a Phish or Grateful Dead show. Bracelets adorned both her arms, jangling when she moved, letting you know she was coming down the block. It was like having a stray cat with a bell around its neck; you always knew when she was coming. Between those bangles and the fairy bells strung around her skirt, it was painfully obvious when she walked down the street. You could hear her from a few blocks away. This is a helpful feature for the Street People, preventing those who stopped taking their medication from attacking you because they heard you coming.

“What makes her weirder than you?” I asked Frankie.

“Dude! You’re pulling my chain now, aren’t you? Give me a break!” Frankie didn’t get agitated often, but when he did? The curses and shouts began, starting with the usual motherf*@#er and working his way through your entire family. Didn’t matter if you didn’t have brothers or sisters, uncles, cousins, aunts, or grandfather or grandmother. Frankie was known for his harsh mouth, but only when frustrated with the conversation. And I learned, over many years, that once it started, I needed to walk away and come back after he cooled off. I could get him to calm down if I caught it in time. If not? Then, it might be weeks before I’d see him again. “Her jingling bells. And those freakin’ bracelets of hers? Mylanta! You can hear her from four blocks away. Sounds like a gypsy caravan.”

“That must be frustrating,” I said.

“Dude! When you’re trying to sleep, and you hear that? It’s impossible to relax. Even my friends,” he pointed behind himself, indicating his imaginary voices, “seem to think so.” I learned over many conversations that he was talking about the voices, not real people. Thankfully, he wasn’t agitated this time, so we were good – for the moment.