Protests bring out the loonies. From the right side, “patriots” in custom-made riot gear shouted “USA, USA, USA!” From the left (some in sunflower disguise – typical PDX) came chants of “Compost Fascism! Compost Fascism!” Fierce debaters stood face to face and shouted the same thing, “That’s been debunked! That’s been debunked!”

Off to the side, the Unpresidented Brass Band served up a raucous backbeat to the cacophony. Turning a protest into a party. Where people come armed for a fight.

It was a beautiful day in Portland. Started sunny and ended sunny. Cops kept the powder-keg environment under control with the aid of a few flash-bang grenades. Protesters who were carrying kept their gun concealed. Human damage was minimal. Four arrests. No serious injuries. And no change in the forecast.

As homeless folks slept in the shade nearby, the Salmon Springs fountain provided a small rainbow. Nobody noticed.

Bucket Joke

I learned something the other day about homeless people. They’re not afraid to laugh.

I was hurrying back to work after lunch. While crossing a Portland street I met a downtrodden man with a blooming, cauliflowery beard who stopped in the middle of the intersection and stammered out a few words in my direction.

“Excu, excuse me, can you,” I knew he wanted money and I stopped him dead in his tracks. “Sorry,” I said, and kept going. I didn’t want to stand in the middle of the street and listen – so I cut him off before he could say more. His weary sigh said it all – damn, I can’t even get out a question before this guy blows me off.

As I walked on down the sidewalk, I looked back and saw him across the street standing still. He was carrying a rolled up tarp and a big pack on his back. In one hand he held a large plastic bucket with a lid on it. He just stood there.

Feeling guilty, I jay-walked across the street and went up to him. “I didn’t hear your question before,” I said. “What did you want?” He lifted his eyes to mine and asked if I knew where the Portland Outdoor store was. Somewhat surprised, I said sure, it was on the corner one block over. “I’m going that way, I’ll show you.”

We started walking and I asked, “What’s in the bucket?” He replied, “Now that’s a funny story.” He started laughing and said, “A cop asked me that same question once. I told him the bucket carried sailboat fuel.” He guffawed and went on, “Sailboat fuel! The cop got mad and said he wanted a look. When he took off the lid there was only air inside!” Through his snowy whiskers came an avalanche of laughter. I grinned but didn’t laugh. It was obvious I didn’t get the joke. He explained, “Sailboats move on wind, not fuel! There’s no such thing as sailboat fuel!” He about fell over laughing.

I lied and assured him I thought it was funny as hell. But in truth, I wasn’t sure I could muster a laugh if I were in his situation. We continued walking. “So what’s the bucket really for then?” I asked. He sighed and said, “Waste management system.”

I realized that despite being homeless and carrying his own personal outhouse, he was a free man of independent means. A man who knew about sailing, laughed a lot, and had more control of his life than I gave him credit for. I doubt he would say the same for me.