Mardi Gras with Regret, Hope, and Anticipation

My friend Frank, who recently visited Portland, sent me a New Orleans care package that arrived Saturday: a McKenzie's King Cake, four buttermilk drops (you have to eat these to know how wonderful they are), a couple of NOLA newspapers, and about thirty strands of Mardi Gras beads. They do make my little rain forest home feel festive.

I spent most of the day out searching for the young man who was my blip on Saturday. That's my highest-rated, most-favorited photo of all time, and while I'm grateful, I've been troubled that all this attention did not yield any benefit for him. So today I got prints of the best three black and white images, and I took them to a local art school.

I spoke to the man who hires the models, and he gasped, "My god, he looks like a Caravaggio!" He added, "You couldn't take a bad picture of this kid. Look at those eyes." So much for my pride in portraiture. Then he went on to tell me he was skeptical that it could work out. In order for them to hire him, he'd have to have a cell phone, he'd have to be absolutely reliable and dependable and able to show up on time, and he'd have to be easy to work with. I said I would go look for him and pass on that information.

I wanted to make a confidence-building speech to him about how he could do this if he wanted to. I went back to the place where I found him, and there I met Albert, who recognized his picture immediately but didn't know his name or where he sleeps. "He's definitely on the street, no question," Albert confirmed, reeking of alcohol. He suggested I go over and look under a certain overpass, and he gave me a hug and said he'd been having a bad day, but this really cheered him up.

I walked about a mile to the overpass, but there was nobody there but Steve, who was reading a Kurt Vonnegut novel, seated on his sleeping bag. Steve said the face looked familiar, but he doesn't know him. He suggested I try the overpass near 19th and Yeon. That was about a mile and a half in a different direction.

I headed for it, passing several sleeping bodies on the way, sleeping bags pulled over their heads. I wasn't able to get to Yeon because of the overpass system, but I found Enrique, who I knew from the Occupy camp. He said he didn't recognize the kid, but added that he would avoid 19th and Yeon, because it's where the heavy meth users stay. So I headed off in a different direction, somehow feeling in my bones that I was going to find my mystery guy, aware that he might have no interest whatever in being an artist's model in our time. Actually, I reflected, he'd said as much. So maybe it was all wasted effort. But I was determined.

Then I met Harold, who was sitting on a plastic packing box, picking tiny slivers of glass out of his foot. I approached him and said Hi, and he quickly said, "I don't want to take your survey." I smiled and said I was looking for someone. Harold listened to the story, looked at the picture, and said, "I wish somebody had ever wanted to do me a favor like that. This could be the moment that changes this kid's life." I doubt it, but I didn't say so. We talked for a while because I was really tired and welcomed the chance to rest. Harold told me he lost his house and his job when they put him in jail for failure to pay child support. His kids are in their twenties now, taking care of themselves, but he's adapted to life on the street. "I don't drink or use drugs, and I'm not mental. That's 95% of the people out here. So I'm able to look after myself. Portland's not so bad if you have street skills and you stay away from certain really dangerous places, like 19th and Yeon."

I laughed, told him I'd been looking for it and got lost. He said it's OK in the daytime, but you wouldn't want to go there at night.

I left my name and address with Albert and Harold, but I had walked altogether about five miles, and my mouth was dry and my feet were sore, so I gave up. I had my camera with me all the way, but each time I met someone, it seemed intrusive and rude to take a picture, so I didn't. That's why I'm blipping the beads. Maybe the kid will show up at my apartment building one day.

One more thing. I talked to my friend Leif about the strange popularity of the blip about the young man. We thought the picture and story have such appeal because the young man is so beautiful to look at, but also because we've all gone for hopeless dreams at one time or another, and so we can identify with that very young, completely impractical dreaminess of his. She added, "It's funny, but even at the age of sixty-eight, I find I still have a mixture of regret, hope, and anticipation." Me too, Leif.

P.S. According to Google Maps, there's no such place as 19th and Yeon.