Usually, when I drive from Portland to Seattle, or vice versa, I like to leave late at night. I like the pitch blackness stretching to infinity in front of me, with only my brights and the occasional tail lights of other cars piercing the darkness. I'll usually listen to some acoustic music, or the Braveheart soundtrack. Sometimes just the humming of my tires and the purring of my German engine. This is a selfish time for me. I crave the privacy and peace of the solo drive. Just me and my thoughts, Jesus riding shotgun.
Solitude, blessed solitude.
I switched up the routine slightly last Friday. I have been spending a lot of time at a coffeeshop in Portland called Coffeetime, kind of an urban rootsy place. It's in the Nob Hill (Northwest) neighboorhood, on 21st, just between Johnson and Irving. To the non-Portlander, this locale doesn't mean much, so I'll explain:
Portland is filled with the artsy, granola eating children of the union of Seattleites with San Franciscans, the leftover illegitimate children of the hippie movement of the 1960's and 70's. I don't say this derogatorily, because these are some of the most well-read, best-educated, and conversationally inclined people in the Northwest. I genuinely enjoy the conversations I have at this coffee shop.
The weather has been great the past couple of weeks, and I've been sitting at the sidewalk tables until the battery in my laptop goes dead. There's a guy named Ziggy who's been there almost every time I have, and we've had a few great conversations - politics (something Portlanders love to discuss), social justice, a little bit of faith and religion, and camp stoves. Ziggy's a big fan of camp stoves, which makes sense, because he's homeless.
I was there late on Monday last week, my day off, and about 10 o'clock, Ziggy sat down at the table next to me and we exchanged greetings. I had my nose buried in a book, so we didn't talk much. After a while, I noticed he was coloring in a cardboard sign with a fatty Sharpie. The sign said, "Seattle or the next rest stop." and "God Bless."
I asked him what he was going to do in Seattle. His plan was to sell the homeless paper on the Ave. Street News in Seattle, he explained, lets the seller keep 65 cents on the dollar, and it's easier to sell up there than in Portland. He also mentioned that a friend was going to drive to San Francisco in July from Seattle for a camp stove convention, and he was going to hitch a ride.
Without much of a second thought, I told Ziggy that if he didn't have a ride by Friday, I'd take him. Why not? I was going anyway. I thought it would be a great way to be Jesus to someone... (Enter selfish motive).
So, Friday came and Ziggy left me a voicemail. He hadn't found a ride, would I mind? I showed up at Coffee Time, and bought him a smoothie. I told him I wanted to be on the road by 4:30, and no smoking in my car.
At 5 o'clock, he finally managed to say goodbye to his girlfriend, and we loaded up. Then he unhitched his dog!
This dog is about 2 feet long and a foot.5 tall. Dirty, gross, smelly, loud, drooly, hyper and shedding. I said no way, and he said the dog goes where he goes. I said the dog had to stay on his lap the whole time.
So we got in, and I promptly rolled the windows down. We ran straight into the stop/go of North I-5 and crawled through Vancouver. Just after the traffic loosened up, Ziggy wanted to stop at the next rest stop for coffee and a cigarette. I explained that I had to be in Seattle by 9pm, to meet up with friends, and we'd stop in Kelso for a quick burger.
Two stops later, my car wreaking of homeless dog and burnt tobacco, we pulled up to Ravenna Park in the U-District. Ziggy was planning on sleeping here while he was in Seattle. We pulled up right in the middle of a bunch of Bellevue high school rich kids parking their daddy's luxury cars and classic Mustangs at the entrance and exchanging cash for weed. Two kids were lugging a keg of beer, and they were headed into the park to party. There were about 50 or 60 kids in the street, and we could hear more in the park.
Ziggy was freaked out, and it took an hour of waiting out the kids and reasoning with Ziggy to get him out of my car and into the park. So at 11 o'clock, 2 hours late for my plans with my friends, I showed up smelling like cigarettes and homeless dogs, to the Sea Sound Lounge (think ultra-yuppie, Dolce & Gabbana, trendy). Definitely out of place.
The rest of the weekend was great. I celebrated my 24th birthday with my family, and went to Crossroads' new college fellowship. I met the rest of the New Orleans Missionary Team, and hit Mars Hill's 5 o'clock with Ryan Flynn. Mark tore it up!
I got to hang out with a couple other friends, Febreezed the crud out of my car, vaccuumed and washed it, and still had a solo drive home. Not a bad weekend.
The thing of it is, I really was proud of myself, all the way up until Saturday morning, for "being Jesus" to Ziggy. How many of the people I know have given rides to homeless people, bought their food and coffee on the way, and been so accomodating. Really, I feel like the world's most prideful jerk. Sure, I helped someone in need, but I grumbled the whole time, and when I look at it, my motive was to be able to pat myself on the back. I got no crown in heaven for what I did, but I learned. The nails of it is, I want to spend my life helping the down-and-outs, and I couldn't even spend 4 hours with one without resenting it. I've got some work ahead of me!
