SW Park Ave, Portland, OR 97209

Motionlessly swinging was a man. Lifeless and leashed to the devil with a noose around his soul, right there for everyone of the public eye to see in broad sunset.

They used to say that Portland is a haven for youthful prosperity, where young people go to retire. It was even in the contract, stated clearly that once you move here, you are promised to feel young again. Years ago, I believe that I had been affected by the notions of this spell.

In the present moment, the feet below me share the same concrete sidewalk as my pants. With a great view of a park in front of me, it would hypothetically be a great spot to watch the kids play. I sit under the sunset with an empty bottle of water. Such a shared ground is soaked in yesterday’s piss. Not my piss. But, I sit in it and now smell of it, so it would be difficult now to deny such an allegation that it is in fact my own piss.

The park in front of me is the most interesting sight that I have access to and it manages to direct my attention away from the scents.

Not a soul to seems to be present, and the vacancy nearly drowns out the weekend commotion around me. Like a car crash in rush hour, there is some sort of unfortunate dichotomy to be spoken for about an empty playground in the middle of a city full of promise.

The man’s head is folded downwards as a victim of gravity; the only movement of his body is from a gust of wind every once in a while. His head is down, but the way he holds a piece of blackened foil and lighter makes me believe that he has been a victim of something far more intoxicating than the weight of gravity.

With the accompaniment of an assumable mother, a jubilant little ball of life strolls through the gates. The mother pushes the stroller, but the only thing she pushes are toys while she carries bottle of white milk in her hand. The toddler falls over, laughs, and gets up again; the mother chuckles along. She thinks about putting the little person back in the stroller, but as a mother, I suppose you just have to let them fall over and chalk it up to the growing pains of learning to walk.

The sunset grazes the two of them in a golden batter of light while they orient their walk towards the swing set. Their eyes still not yet privy to the man dancing with the devil, chuckles fly around the stroller with milk in hand.

When they soon approach the swing set, the chuckles of the mother are quickly taken away. The toddler keeps laughing and grabs the milk bottle from the mother. She hands it over like a shady transaction, eyes still towards the swing, deliberating. The chuckles from the toddler are quickly snuffed out by the bottle.

The mother moves for the first time in twelve seconds to grab the toddler, then she redirects their convoy away from the swing set. More quickly than when they came did they leave, then it was just the man and my gaze, alone together again.

Curious, I pick myself up off the concrete and grab my empty water bottle. I walk towards the swing set without falling or drinking any milk. The scent of piss fades away as I leave the sidewalk, but as I approach the adjacent swing to the man, the scent returns and I sit back down in the familiar haze, this time now also with a bag of cans and bottles.

I look at him, much closer than before when I had the privilege from across the street. I study his face. I poke him, wondering if the devil had locked his eyes and thrown away the key. There is no answer, and the lifelessness that I had previously observed seems to still be the case.

I sit there alone with myself on the swing set, this flesh vessel to my left as my only company. I could think about calling 911, but I don’t. I probably should.

I figure to myself the absurdity of the moment. It’s piss and me and this guy and his bag of cans, swinging together like two little kids, front stage of an empty park in the limelight of the last bit of sun. The flow of traffic around me is urban diarrhea and the bustling commotion of the passer byers fail to pay attention to the potential corpse beside me. Are they oblivious? Maybe. Have they grown weary of such a sight? More likely. Maybe they just think we are friends. Dead or not dead, we’re just two kids grown older.

I figure that I have had enough of the lethality of the moment and its piss and I call 911. I begin to swing to pass the time until an operator reaches me.

I’m flying high like I’d done as a little child twenty three years ago, and then my call is connected, “….Overdose in the park….. Yeah that one…. Oh wow, just today?…. Mmmm, yeah it’s empty, makes sense…. Okay, alright.”

And then I hang up the phone, stop swinging, and then I dismount. It used to always be fun to jump off into the sand, but there was no sand here.

I look at him, his head still bowed to something that I hope he has found by now. I wonder to myself — and I bet that the mother had a similar thought — for why he chose to use right there in the middle of a children’s park. Doesn’t he have the thought that kids want to play here? Shouldn’t he know that the piss sidewalk is a better spot for that? Or just maybe he just wants to try and feel young again. Opioids; a cruel disillusionment as an effort to restore the sanctity of a broken soul.

I look away from him and then throw my water bottle into his bag of cans, much like you would with a penny and a wish into some fountain of youth, then I leave.