I was sitting on a bench in Jamison Square this afternoon, reading Being and Nothingness,* enjoying the empty (and kid-free) stretch of sand behind the water fountain, when dirty smoke drifted into my face. Two hand-rolled cigarettes had been tossed near a tree, and now they were smoldering on the dry dirt, their paper peeling back as it blackened. I bent over and watched as a circle of gray ashes slowly expanded and collapsed - my own personal volcanic landscape, bubbling with tar pits and magma.
I remembered the two wisdom teeth I carry in my bag, and I wanted to toss them into the ashes, stir them around with a stick.
But the usual paranoia kicked in. I will get blamed when this tree bursts into flame. Someone will remember my red t-shirt and glasses, my bob haircut and baggy jeans. Are surveillance cameras recording the smile on my face? Do I look like someone who would burn down a park? I stood up and stomped on the ashes, but the paper still burned. A toddler squealed in the nearby fountain. I grabbed my messenger bag and walked to the Hoyt Street Properties office to alert the authorities.
And at the exact moment I made my decision, every person in the park came into sharp, high-resolution focus. The stripes and checkers on their swimsuits glowed brighter. Hair highlights flickered like prisms in the sunshine. As I walked past, I felt that I could wave to total strangers. Funny, these people seemed like actors or props when I first arrived, so perfect the city of Portland must have chosen them. Now, they seemed almost familiar.
I thought about Sartre peeping through the keyhole, how he flushed with shame at the sound of approaching footsteps, and I shuddered. What if nobody was watching me at all? No surveillance cameras. No park management. No police.
And what if I had sacrificed the two teeth?
*and yes, I do understand the irony, comedy, ridiculousness - whatever you want to call it - of reading this particular book on a park bench in the Pearl.