7-Eleven

Let’s take a trip to the dark side.
Imagine a nexus between worlds… a dark intersection of currents. A prime location — where the steady flowing crack-​stream of 82^nd avenue hedonism bisects the frenetic, meth-​laced drift of Powell Blvd. A strange and surreal island where two distinct, yet unnervingly similar walks of life wash up on these rocky shoals, settling into a desperate tangled pile of cracked-​out, drunken, cash-​strapped, disoriented filth.
Stride into a florescent and neon world of non-​stop action. The shiny veneer of corporate identity is covered in a sticky layer of grime. Everything is tacky to the touch. Tubes of processed food with various cheesy and meaty substances roll endlessly on an infinite heat-​lamp fueled cycle. The check-​cashing machine slowly turns a line of hopeful would-​be check cashers back into a nefarious yet dejected straggle of frustrated hopelessness. Meth-​addled 40-​year old skeletons of former prostitutes ramble on in gravelly voices as they count and re-​count the change in their hands, praying that they have enough for the double-​pack of BV 100’s. The Big Gulp station has seen better days.
Gangsters and thugs of various age and pimp-​caste front game on the stoop — threatening passers by and generally exerting the power they claim within their sphere. Mullets and helmets from points east ramble up in their rusted out late ’80’s mini-​trucks. A smattering of semi-​literate itinerants form an ever restless rabble on the 82^nd Avenue curb-​line, eagerly awaiting their tri-​met chariot to whisk them northward. Random, frightened looking Asians periodically dart inside for a pack of smokes or a soda. The floor is sticky.
Unsuspecting enters the outsider into this twilight zone. The world between worlds — not reality, not surreality, merely a way-​station between his sheltered residential life a mere five blocks North by North-​West, and the underworld of the beyond. The simplest path is the one unnoticed. Become zen with the surroundings. Don’t touch anything. If Portland ever gets the bubonic plague, this is where it’s going to come from. Focus. All you need is the ATM. Mind your business. Look mean. Use your peripherals to discretely observe the surrounding panoply. Avoid the desperate conversation of those nearby who seek to commisserate. I am not here to validate your existence, I simply need some hard currency to fund my Korean food adventure next door. They don’t take cards yet.
Nonchalance is key. Exude a frenetic, yet calm vibe. Fit in, but don’t be mistaken for a local. Seek to understand, but do not seek too hard, or risk joining their mental plane. Simplicity is key, but brevity is even more-​so. Remember, they are just as afraid of you as you are of them.
Cash in hand should be cash in pocket. Keep your cards close. Exit as fast as you enter. Avoid contact, eye or otherwise. Keep clearance from the rocky shoals, lest you be swept into the undertow. Do not look back, just go.
On continues the ebb and flow. The currents slowly disperse the tangled morass of humanity back into the turbulent whirlpool of the 82^nd and Powell nexus. Slowly the elements drift back into their respective currents. To all points of the compass go the crack-​heads in their never-​ending, never-​sleeping quest to keep Portland crusty. Most of them end up at the tik-​tok.
Moments later the scene re– creates itself. The Moebius continues. No rest for the crack-​y.