Matters of Doubt (3 page)

Chapter Five

I had a lot more questions for Picasso, but he was anxious to get back to work, and I had another errand to run. We decided to get back together at the end of the day. I swung back to the clinic around five, and we threw his bike in my trunk since he lived several miles north, on the east side of the Willamette. Before we left he went into the clinic and brought out an old Dell laptop that must have been three inches thick. “Almost forgot this,” he said as he slid into the seat next to me. “I charge it up here so I can use it at night. There's no electricity where I live.”

As we pulled away, I said, “I thought you lived around here.”

“Used to, but I kept getting my stuff ripped off so I decided to move. Old Town's still where I hang out, though, where my friends are.”

“Where did you live after your mom was killed?” I asked, curious if he'd tell the truth about being homeless.

“Around,” was all he gave me. Then he pointed up ahead. “Turn left at the light. I want to show you something.” After we passed an acupuncture and medicinal herb shop called the Mystic Circle in the middle of the next block, he said, “Pull over and look back.”

A huge mural covered most of the side wall of the building. I sat there taking it in for a few moments, then got out of the car for a better look. A man and woman stood next to an open grave. The man's head was turned toward the woman, a hand resting on her shoulder. Holding the photograph of a beautiful young girl, the woman looked straight ahead. As I approached, her eyes seemed to lock on mine, stopping me in mid-stride. Her eyes were clear and bright but filled with pathos, anger, and something else…accusation? Yes, that was it. Accusation. She was so deftly rendered that I half expected to see her chest heave and nostrils flare as she took a breath. To her left, Death stood in his hooded black robe, smiling with garish teeth, his familiar sickle replaced with an assault rifle sporting a large banana clip. In the background, tombstones dotted a grassy knoll with names etched on them—Columbine, Springfield, Aurora, Virginia Tech…and scattered between the tombstones were other groups of mourners. Like the woman, they stared out at me with the same haunting, accusatory look.

I stood there in stunned silence. Aside from the pictures of the murals in Northern Ireland, I'd never seen anything like it. Picasso had come up behind me. I dropped my voice to a whisper, “Beautiful work. Powerful.” I shook my head. “Makes me ashamed to be an adult in this country.”

Picasso nodded. “Thanks. I, uh, guess I'll have to add another tombstone now.” Sandy Hook. He didn't have to say it. We fell silent for several moments before he continued. “Some of the best art in the world's going up on the sides of buildings, man. I started out with a spray can, but once I saw Malik's work, I knew what I wanted to do with my life.”

“You used to do graffiti?”

“Yeah. I mean, a lot of guys started out that way. It's not all bad, you know. A lot of truth gets told with a spray can. Some good art, too.”

“When did you go from spray cans to paint brushes?”

“When I was fifteen. I checked out this book in the main library about the murals in Philly. There was a picture of one of Ras Malik's murals in it, a bunch of children's hands overlapping, all different skin tones, the fingers kind of chubby so you knew they were kids. Covered the whole side of a two story building. I almost lost my breath when I saw it.”

“So, you put the spray can down and picked up a brush?”

“Something like that.” He chuckled and looked wistful. “I had to teach myself how to paint, first.”

I looked at the mural again, then back at him. “I'd say you made the right call.”

He allowed himself a smile. “Well, the folks at the Mystic Circle liked it. They bought the paint supplies and threw in a year's worth of free acupuncture treatments.”

We continued to talk about the street art scene in Portland as we headed over to Picasso's new digs, which were in the Sunderland neighborhood, a sparsely populated outpost at the extreme northeast corner of the city. We pulled up in front of what looked like a campground of sorts, although a lot funkier. I said, “What's this?”

“Dignity Village. It's where I live now.”

I thought of the ball cap I'd seen him wearing. “Oh, right. I've heard about this place.” Actually, I wasn't very well informed. All I knew was that a small village had sprung up over night when a band of homeless people migrated en mass from the center of Portland. They'd been raising hell for several years and the offer of a vacant lot near the river represented some sort of compromise with the city fathers. It looked to me like the city got the better end of the deal. The village was squeezed between a correctional facility and a large warehouse complex. To the north across a vast, empty field, you could see planes taking off and landing at Portland International. Out of sight, out of mind.

Picasso had me sign in at a little blue shack at the entrance to the village. It was staffed by a thin, nervous woman with a cigarette cough and an enormous man with long silver hair and a black walrus mustache. As I followed him out, Picasso said over his shoulder, “This place is like a campground with shopping carts. I don't really dig it. I mean, I've been on the streets since I was fourteen. That's freedom, man. But I was sick of getting ripped off. There's hardly any crime here. If you screw up, they toss you out on your ass in a hurry.”

The village spread itself over a sizeable chunk of city land, a crazy quilt of small structures, mostly wood, but I noted some stucco and straw-bale homes as well. Some were painted brightly, others stained by the weather. Bikes stood out front of some places and others had well-tended container gardens. Faint strains of music drifted on the air along with the smell of food cooking. The vibe was cordial, but I did get a couple of who-the-hell-are-you looks.

“I don't see any kids,” I remarked as I followed Picasso down a narrow path through the camp.

“Not allowed. You can have a rap sheet and still live here. The powers that be decided kids would be a bad idea.”

“Who are the powers that be?”

“Some kind of board. They're elected by the people living here. I don't pay much attention to the political stuff. They decide who gets in this place.” He chuckled. “I think they let me in because they want me to paint them something.”

“Are you going to?”

“Sure, but they haven't asked me yet.”

Picasso led me to a small, wood-sided structure near the back of the lot. Built on a sturdy wooden platform, it reminded me of a tool shed from the outside. Across the path, a burly man sat in a director's chair in front of a hut with a tarpaulin roof. He had a full, black beard, muscular forearms covered with wiry hair, and intense, narrow set eyes. Picasso nodded to him. “How's it goin', Joey?”

“Every day's a holiday.”

“Take your meds?” Picasso asked.

“Uh, yep. Sure did.”

“Good.”

“Who's that with you?”

“This is Cal, Joey. He's a friend of mine. I'm showing him around.”

“Oh. Okay. Nice to meet you, Cal.”

“Same here, Joey.”

Picasso opened a combination lock, swung the door open, and invited me in. Light filtered in through two small windows screened with netting. The air smelled musty with notes of something pungent like a solvent. When my eyes adjusted, I saw a row of brushes soaking in jars at the back of the single room, next to a line of paint jars and a can of mineral spirits. In a lowered voice, Picasso said, “Joey's an Iraq vet. He saw a lot of action over there. The dude has PTSD now. Can't hold a job. His old lady left him, took the kids and the house.”

I grimaced and shook my head. “Is he getting any help from the VA?”

Picasso laughed at my apparent naiveté. “He's tried, but the VA's fucked up, man. I've been trying to help him, but we can't even get his service records.” He waved a hand dismissively and added, “But don't get me started on that.”

The light was dim in the tent. Picasso lit a single propane lamp that hung in the middle of the room. A propane stove sat on a small, unfinished table beside a chipped porcelain pitcher standing inside a wash basin. Two folding chairs, a tiny cooler, and two wooden crates filled with books, clothes, and other items completed the furnishings. Propped on one of the crates was the framed picture of a woman I assumed to be Picasso's mother. The plastic briefcase I'd seen in my office sat next to the crates along with a backpack, sleeping bag, and small pillow.

Picasso watched as I took the scene in, then made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “See what happens? I get a roof over my head and right away I start accumulating shit.” He seemed genuinely embarrassed by his new found acquisitiveness.

I shook my head. “Don't feel bad. You should see my attic.”

“You want some tea?” he asked. I hesitated. “It's green tea—chock full of antioxidants—and a lot better for you than the stuff you drink.” I nodded and he fired up the stove and put on a pan he'd filled with water from the pitcher. Then he picked up the briefcase. “So, you want me to take you through this stuff?”

I was tempted to dive in, but thought better of it. I didn't want his spin on anything. “I'd rather look at it myself first. I'll get back to you with questions. You have a cell phone?”

“Nope. Those suckers will give you brain cancer, man. Besides the security, the best thing about this place is the WiFi. I bought my laptop from a tweeker—previously owned, you might say—and now I can go on line totally free.” He gave me a gmail address.

As our tea steeped, I picked up the picture of his mother. She wore only the hint of a smile, as if to show a firm resolve. She had a thin, delicate nose, handsome cheek bones, and the same dark eyes, although they were more doe-like in her oval face and betrayed a degree of vulnerability absent in her son. “She was beautiful.”

Picasso allowed himself a smile. “She'd bristle at that. She was first and foremost an investigative reporter.”

“An endangered species these days,” I responded. “Tell me about her.”

He handed me a mug of tea and we sat down facing each other. “She was born and raised in upstate New York. Studied journalism at Columbia. She had a fling with some guy there, and I arrived nine months later.” He chuckled and smiled. “She always said she got two great things from Columbia—a journalism degree and me. She was a single, working mom, never talked about my dad. Always made time for me, too. That's what's so hard, I guess. You know what self-absorbed shits twelve-year-olds can be. I never got a chance to tell her what a great mom she was, how much I loved her.”

I winced inwardly. I knew firsthand the consequences of self-absorption. My wife had committed suicide, and I'd been too busy to see the signs of her depression. I kept those black thoughts to myself. “Moms have a way of knowing what their kids think.”

He shot me a warning don't-bull-shit-me look. I was learning fast that Picasso had a low tolerance for anything remotely sappy.

“What happened after she disappeared?”

“My aunt Amy —my mom's sister—came and stayed at our place for a while. Finally, she had to go back to Florida. I think she made it clear she wasn't up for an instant family, and I was telling everyone who'd listen that I didn't want to leave Portland. So, DHS plunked me into a foster home with the Dougans. They lived over in the Hollywood district, which meant I had to change schools. I
hated
that, but old man Dougan had a coronary three months later, and I was put with another family. They had this posh place over by Reed College. I couldn't get along with their older son, so they gave me back to the system. By then, I was heavy into weed and art. School sucked, but I could get lost in painting, man.”

“You still doing drugs?”

He gave me a sharp look. “Would that make a difference?”

I looked him in the eye. “I like to know what I'm dealing with.”

He paused for a moment, as if he were considering his answer with some care. “I used to think drugs expanded my mind, but then I figured out art did that all by itself. But people like you shouldn't judge. Most people I know using drugs do it because they're in
pain
, not because they're bad people. Every kid on the street has a story, man, and none of the stories are good.”

I nodded. “Just wanted to know. No judgment.”

“I'm not saying I don't take a puff of weed now and then. You know, there's social pressure sometimes, like it's rude to turn down a toke.” He took a sip of his tea and laughed. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, I wound up with a single foster parent next. Addie Jacobs was her name. What a trip. She was a big woman with a heart of gold and a gonzo cook. But she tried to force me to go to school. Finally I said, fuck it and ran away. I think I really hurt her, but I had to get out of there. I'd just turned fifteen.”

“You've been on the street ever since?”

“More or less. I'd couch surf with friends sometimes, you know, mix it up. Never one place very long. When I turned eighteen, I got control of the money from my mom's estate. I don't want anyone to know about that. I'm saving up so I can go to art school.” He looked around with a self-satisfied smile. “This place, the wood for the foundation—all donated, man.”

“You'll need a high school diploma to get into art school.”

“Not a problem. Got my GED. I studied online. The tests were a snap.”

We talked some more about his life on the street, and then I changed directions. “You told me your mother and Mitchell Conyers fought a lot. Tell me about their relationship.”

His face tightened. He got up and started to pace. “Conyers started showing up about a year before mom disappeared. She was a great mom, but she had lousy taste in men. He drank a lot and wasn't a happy drunk, man. He'd get wasted and then start accusing her of all kinds of things.” He stopped pacing, smiled bitterly and shook his head. “He was a jealous little shit.”