A Night at the Parking Garage
In Queen’s classic “Under Pressure” featuring David Bowie, the following lyric is sung as the song reaches its crescendo: “And love dares you to care for,/The people on the edge of the night.”
A friend and I happened upon such a person in Portland—a city with its share of people on the edge—as the holiday season reached its crescendo. We had tickets to the Portland Symphony’s “Comfort and Joy: Songs of Good Cheer” singalong concert at the beautiful Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall.
The Rose City’s homeless, often mentally-ill and drug-addicted street people were nowhere in evidence as thousands (capacity: 2776) of comfortably-to-well-dressed Portlanders thronged the entrance to the theater. Inside, under the ornate ceiling and chandeliers adorned with colorful stained glass, the show kicked off with traditional holiday selections that celebrated Christmas, then struck up an evocative medley of Hannukah music.
Parking had been a breeze, with a structure right across the street from the venue, but afterwards, flush with good cheer from the concert, the evening hit its first snag. Returning to the elevators that would take us to our fifth floor parking space, we found a line of around 20 people. It was raining.
Turns out that you had to wait in line at the elevators to swipe your credit card, then wait again to board one of the two elevators. Without the ticket stub issued upon entry, and the payment confirmation issued in the elevator alcove, the egress gate wouldn’t lift to allow you to leave. There was an emergency phone available for unfortunates who may have lost their ticket stub.
While we waited to pay in the alcove, an older gentleman standing behind us opened a conversation. He probably heard me grumbling, and agreed “This is a horrible system.” He could’ve been any Portland boomer with his casual slacks, muted green jacket, and thinning gray hair. It seemed he’d discerned that we might be sympathetic listeners.
Between the time we started conversing until the time I swiped my card—no more than three-four minutes—he’d told us: his wife of many years had recently died from cancer, that he couldn’t touch her during the dying process, that they’d often come to the “Schnitz” for concerts, and that he especially felt her presence in the theater.
We expressed our elevator alcove condolences. Having shared his grief with two strangers, he walked away, boarding the elevator opposite ours. There are many who are worse off than this fellow. He looked healthy enough; probably lives alone in the home he shared in marriage. But he made an impression on us. Distanced from the illuminative glow around the concert hall exist dark places where grief, desperation, sickness, terror, and hunger plague countless unfortunates.
It was a night to consider blessings, to celebrate the warmth that comes with Christmas. It was also a night to remember—and offer a prayer if so inclined, or perhaps more—to people on the edge of the night. We count the widower missing his wife among them.