Tim: A True Story

Tim just walked past my window. His story will make a good post—a memory from our first days in Eugene that refreshes itself periodically.

We had lived in our apartment in the big yellow house for 3 weeks or so. My eyes were grainy with sleep as I opened the door at 8 AM. The knocker was a bald man, early thirties, with two huge satchels and an oil drum. The barrel had been modified with creativity, an oxyacetylene torch and no small amount of patience into a gigantic candle holder, the likes of which you can find, in miniature, at any number of hippie-trinket stores nation wide.

He stood there smiling, but nonplussed. "Is Steve here?" "No," I replied. "There is no Steve here."

"I just got in from Indiana, and my friend used to live here..." He seemed genuine, so I frowned and nodded sympathetically. "Could I leave my bags on your porch? Just for today. I will be back to get them tonight or tomorrow." Our porch was expansive and, at that point in time, fairly free of clutter, leaving plenty of room for his parcels. I looked past him at the driveway.

It might be noted here that a man lived in our driveway, his bunk set up in the back of a toyota pickup. It has little bearing on the story, as he rose early to procure McDonald's breakfast and dine on the riverbank and so had not been roused by the commotion, but it sets the ambiance for our situation.

Next to the Toyota was a Vespa scooter, red and dented with a front Indiana inspection sticker. There was a motor oil box bungeed to the tail. It was only then that I noticed the Indiana license plate affixed to one of the stranger's bags. He noticed my puzzlement. "It does really well on the flat, but going over the mountains... Man, sometimes I couldn't get over 25 or 30 miles per hour." I looked at the two huge duffles and oil drum again.
"OK," I said. "You can leave that box, too, if you want." "Oh no," he laughed. "It takes about a quart of oil every day." He pulled out in a big blue cloud of smoke and ruckus.

Three weeks later we sat pondering those bags. "Fuck it," our neighbor finally caved. "He's not coming back. I like the giant candle holder/lantern barrel, but what is in those bags?" He opened one and and shocked us all.

"Garbage." Nelson (our neighbor) emptied wrappers, cans, crumpled paper and finally a medium-sized oak branch from the duffle. "It's a bunch of fucking garbage."

Literally, as if scripted and on cue, the beaten Vespa pulled into our driveway trailing it's blue streamer. Tim dismounted and came up the steps. "Hey," he said. Nelson had successfully stuffed some of the trash back into the bag and was now holding it with a guilty look on his face. Tim took the duffle and opened it. He removed the oak branch.

"Oh, yeah. That's right, I was invisible..." He was congenial, smiling as he stuffed one garbage sack into the barrel and slung the other on his back. We watched as he roped the smaller sack atop the oil box and wedged the drum (second sack within) between his legs, turned a tiny key and vanished in a stinking blue cloud. Did I mention he had a sparkly red helmet? Well, he did.

So, as I said in the beginning of this story, I still see him regularly. He does not recognize me, thankfully, even though twice I have called him by name and followed with an explanation of how I know it. I have run into him everywhere, from our friend's rock and mineral shop, to catching him chucking trash into the street outside the dog-wash in the middle of the night. A few weeks ago he popped up at the tavern we frequent with an upside-down pentagram tattooed on his forehead and concentric circles above his eyebrows. I know now that they must have been either Henna or ball-point pen, because they are no longer visible.

He is not the craziest person we've met (I'll save "Medley" for another time) but he holds a special place in our memories.