I almost died.
I came within a half-step of walking in front of a Max train on Morrison St., in Southwest Portland.
The circumstances of this near catastrophe are worth relating.
I was walking to the Dollar Store on W. Burnside to shop for a few cheap items when I approached Morrison St. and noticed a group of high-school students, likely from nearby Lincoln High, exiting the bright-red Artist Repertory Theatre building ahead of me.
They were coming out of the building en mass, a large group obviously elated by what they had experienced in the theater. I guessed they'd just watched a special performance of a current production by ART, a wonderful educational opportunity.
A joyous noise, happy voices and excited talk filtered along the street, and I began to think about my own cultural/educational experiences as a schoolboy in the small Oregon town where I grew up.
The subject is on my mind these days, for it is an aspect of the film I'm currently writing. Naturally, I began to ruminate about how different the lives of students are--or were in my youth--in the urban versus rural context of American life.
My first theatrical experience was playing Inspector Trotter in the 1969 Sweet Home High production of Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap, a memory I don't bother cherishing.
I hadn't seen a play before taking that odd leap of faith at the behest of the school's extremely gay drama coach, who also happened to be my English teacher.
I had the "look," the drama coach said.
Really? I thought, without uncovering the subtext of his meaning, which didn't occur to me until years later.
OK, so I was sexy, at least from his, er, feel-good perspective.
I played the part with a grotesquely swollen face, the result of a botched surgery on a tooth that had been knocked out by Albany High's Dave Grieg during a varsity basketball game just prior to the opening.
The asshole swung his elbow on purpose, too. I'm reminded of Metta World Peace taking brisk shots at opponents' heads in the NBA. It was exactly like that.
In a state of agony, I gave an agonizing performance in the student production. It was an entirely forgettable and unfortunate occurrence, so I forgot about theater for a number of years, until I took an acting class at Oregon and indulged in a little Stoppard.
These memories adjoined with the pleasant sight and sound of kids having fun and the bright, sunny day, took me away from reality.
I walked along the Max train's westbound track closer to the edge of the elevated sidewalk than I first realized. I took a half-step to cross the narrow street where the track lies.
For some reason at the last instant, even as my body turned to cross, I sensed something amiss. It was the faintest sensation, like something gnawing in my subgoatish skull, a flash; out of the corner of my eye I saw the hulking machine a mere five feet away.
I'd heard nothing through rock 'n' roll damaged eardrums, except the sounds of laughter and pitch.
Had I taken that second step I'd have been crushed.
Yesterday, I nearly killed myself for Art.
TS
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