Waitin’ for the dude

Everyone’s got some sort of a notion of right and wrong.

I was in front of the church, watering the plants.  I sprayed the flower box, making sure that the nozzle was on “mist” so as to not damage our tender, newly planted flowers.  I also inspected the bed for the usual, inner-urban street paraphernalia—trash, candy-wrappers, cups and bottles, pet waste, and such.  Of course, the artifacts of darker trades are often found in the bushes and beds of the church, too: needles, broken pipes with the pot residue painstakingly scraped off, spent lighters, and those tiny little zip-locks with just a couple of grains of street sugar left in them.  I noticed him sitting on the steps of the church, not looking at me, but up and down the street.

“Hey,” I said.  “How’s it going?”

“Fine, man.”  He didn’t look at me, so I knew that he’d already checked me out.

My hose was just a couple of feet away, and that alone usually causes people to get up and move on.  People don’t want to get in the way of the watering, and they certainly don’t want to get wet.  So, when someone stays, it’s for a reason.  Sometimes they want to talk.  Sometimes it’s for something else. 

“So, what’s the deal with all that water you’re sending down the sewer, man?”

I turned.  “Who, me?”

“Yeah, man. We’re trying to conserve water, not waste it on cleaning sidewalks, and you’re squirtin’ it all over the place.  If you’d plant earth-friendly species in the boxes you wouldn’t have to come out here and waste our water on keeping them alive like you do.  Makes me sick, man.”

“Sorry, man.  I’ll watch my aim.  Just want to keep the plants alive, you know.”

He looked down the street. Again.  “Whatever, man.”

“My name’s Ken.”

“Deter.”  Silence.

“I haven’t seen you around here before.  You live around here?”

“Yeah, just up the street a block or two.”

“Cool. Welcome.”

I continued to water, careful not to deliberately squirt any water onto the street or sidewalk (I mean, geez, I grew up here, too—I love salmon more than dams, and always try to “leave it as I found it,” etc…. I’m feeling misunderstood, almost as if he thought I was a Californian or something.), but also feeling a bit weird about the don’t-waste-the-water rap he’d given me.  I mean, it is Portland, after all, and although trees and rose bushes almost have voting status, we do have a lot of water and greenery.  In apocalyptic-type board games, where the United Statesis divided up into sectors, this section of the country usually ends up with a name like “Oceanica” or “Ecotopia.”

So, don’t ask me how I know it, but I know something isn’t right with Deter.  He’s looking around, a bit nervously, especially each time the light on the corner changes, and a new herd of cars drives by the church.  I take the plunge.

“So, who ya’ waitin’ for, man?”

“The dude.”

“What dude.”

“Just a dude.”

“Okay.”

Here’s the problem, at this point.  Deter is waiting for the dude, is annoyed with me for being here, but can’t leave.  And I’m definitely not going to leave, even if the ground was so wet that the plants were going to drown—I want to see how this will play out.  Obviously, Deter can’t contact the dude to tell him that a water-wasting, nosey other dude is watering in front of the church, and doesn’t look like he’s going to leave.  And for some reason, Deter must wait for the dude. 

“So why isn’t the dude just picking you up in front of your own place?  Why meet down here?”

Deter now feels caught, although he doesn’t seem to be angry at me, just a bit annoyed.  “Look, the dude is bringing me some pot, and I really, really need it for this screwed up back I have, okay, man?”  He looks up the street.

I stop the watering. 

“Sorry.  Hey, Deter.  You’re welcome anytime.  You’re a neighbor, and seem like a pretty good guy.  But the dude, and the pot—if you won’t have it in front of your own apartment, why bring it here?  Don’t do that again, okay?”

“Screw you, man.  Just stop dumpin’ our drinking water down the drain.”

Deter walked away.  The hardened paramedic in me noted that he didn’t have any trouble ambulating, and seemed free of all pain or discomfort.  I don’t think his back was the real problem.

I’ve seen him a couple of times since, said hello, but he hasn’t been interested in stopping.  I think of him every time I water, and every time I find a rig or a bent spoon in the bushes of the church. Everyone’s got some sort of a notion of right and wrong.  Did Deter cross his line between the two that day, or mine?