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THREE-2

“I need a Proof-of-Service,” he said.

“Service upon a Registered Agent, or a person?”

“An excitable person,” said Oliver.

Lucille smirked. “I know the type, Mr. Paige.” She gave him a mischievous wink. “Follow me.” Lucille led him to the proper row where Lucille’s vigilant staff had prominently placed a variety of documents. “You’ll see here on the left, we have…” Her words trailed off in an instant as a worry gripped her.

The bell above the door sounded, and a group of young people wearing masks and dressed in black sauntered into the store. The staff at work behind the registers slowly backed out of the cash register stands.

Lucille read Oliver’s uneasiness. “Mr. Paige,” began Lucille calmly. “I will handle these Paafies. You stay here.”

The youths immediately picked up on the anxiety in the store. They began to shout and to make a commotion.

“How may I help you today?” asked Lucille, as she made her way up the aisle toward the front welcoming area where the youths created a cacophony. She approached them confidently, but Oliver recognized the tell-tale signs of submerging her fear deep within her core.

“We need some trust documents,” said one of the youths.

Lucille broke immediately into a welcoming tone. “Why, we have several kinds of trust documents,” she said. “Are you looking for a revocable trust, or an irrevocable trust?”

“We want an asset protection trust,” said one of the youths. He took off his mask. “My name is Josiah. I work with the Portland Association Against Fascism.”

“Sounds like a fine organization,” quipped Lucille. “Who could be in favor of fascism?”

“You would be surprised,” parried a female voice from beneath a mask.

“In these times, I suppose I would be surprised.”

The youths took off their masks. Their faces expressed a congenial smile toward the elderly woman.

“Trust documents are very complicated,” said Lucille.

Oliver marveled that her smooth voice exuded an instructional tone. He observed the youths studiously regarding the proprietress of the stationary store.

Lucille quickly turned. She pointed toward a corner of the store. “If you follow me, we have irrevocable trust documents and a variety of other types of trust documents in a specialty section I am delighted to show you.” Before departing the area, she nodded toward Oliver. “As for you, Mr. Paige, one of my assistants will assist you at the cash register.” She passed a Proof-of-Service form from a shelf directly into his hand without missing a step of leading the youths to the proper corner of the store.

Oliver completed the transaction, and raced across the street to a bank of public access computers in the courthouse. He quickly returned to his car. He completed the Proof-of-Service in blue ink. He ripped off a page of yellow paper from a legal pad lying in the front seat. He scribbled an Invoice in the most legible penmanship he could muster. Finished, he said rather proudly to no one in particular. He fired up the old Ford, and pulled away from the curb. A traffic diversion directed him westward. Construction cones and barricades obstructed his views of the city. He reached a traffic light, and the barricades gave way to Pioneer Square. Instantly, Oliver felt a rush of uneasiness as his eyes drifted through the square. Tears cascaded from his eyes. His hands trembled on the steering wheel, and he quickly struggled to breathe. Horns blared behind, but Oliver could not propel the vehicle. Suddenly, a group of youths dressed in black with their faces covered in bandanas and eye gear approached. They chanted slogans and raised their fists angrily. Oliver felt his mechanical response to the anxiety release his hands. The youths gathered in the space where the car ahead of Oliver had crossed over the intersection. Oliver clenched his fingers tightly on the steering wheel. He abandoned restraint in favor of committing to a singular purpose. The car behind him laid on the horn. The noise caught the attention of the youths. They stared at the operator of the Ford. While Oliver struggled with his willful opportunity, the crowd of youths quickly dispersed from the intersection. Oliver pushed the accelerator, and thundered out of the area. His mind raced. His body began to crave another injection to numb the pain that had emerged. He wiped tears away from his face as he crossed Burnside.

Oliver searched the streets for a familiar face who would be willing to take his promise for payment. He saw a scruffy young man standing underneath the Chinatown Gateway, an outdoor paifang with decorative sculptures on 2nd and Burnside. Oliver turned against the light, narrowly averting a collision with a delivery truck. Horns blared and fingers pointed as Oliver pulled to the curb. He motioned the young man over.

“Whatever in the world would Process Man want from little old me?” teased the man with a thick Jamaican accent. He was young, with scrawny legs and long dirty-blond dreadlocks originating beneath the colorful stocking cap he wore on his head.

“I gotta have a hit,” managed Oliver.

“Don’t we all,” said the man wryly. He put his right hand into the pocket of his jacket. “Twenty dollars gets you a small rock.”

“It will do,” said Oliver.

The young Jamaican waited for the financial transaction with indifference that quickly evaporated into agitation. “s**t-ass broke again?”

Oliver nodded. “But I’m getting some money, Zippy. A lot. Just front me a little, and I’ll pay you double.”

“Triple, and you got yourself a deal, boss.”

Oliver nodded. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Entrepreneurship is all about risk and reward.” Zippy tossed a small baggie into the car.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” said Oliver. He felt his heart racing at the sight of the small baggie that came to rest on the seat beside him.

“You better!” said the man. “’Cuz I know where your old lady dances, and she ain’t gonna appreciate it if I go get my pay from her.”

“I’ll be back in an hour at most.” Oliver focused his eyes on the baggie on the front seat.

“The meter’s running now, Process Man.”

Oliver raced down the street to find a secluded spot to inject the substance. He pulled the car to a riverfront area in the Pearl District. He gasped audibly when he came upon an identifiable edifice. The building, constructed from red bricks, resembled an old castle. It had formerly housed the armory for the city. It had fallen into disrepair over the years, but a shrewd new owner had discovered a way to promote a public and private partnership to reclaim the glory of the building. The building was called The Citadel. It housed the offices of the Portland Association Against Fascism.

Oliver felt his unease mount as the examined the building. He sped over the bridge to the east side of the Willamette. His disquietude waned as he arrived in an industrial area. He scouted the neighborhood before pulling out a cigar box with the accoutrements for his activity. He prepared the substance in a silver spoon, then transferred the liquid into a syringe. He pushed it into a vein that throbbed. After the euphoria subsided, he placed the syringe, lighter, spoon, and elastic strip into the cigar box, and returned the box to its place underneath the seat. He watched a grain freighter ply the Willamette as he rode the last waves of euphoria. His mind began to drift in synchronous repetition with the undulations of the water sweeping past the bow of the ship. As the rush began to fade, Oliver glanced at the clock in the car. He started the engine of the car, and drove to the destination point at the airport.

A line of guests plied their automobiles underneath the canopy to escape the rain that had just began to fall. Oliver found a space in the lot. He examined the Proof-of-Service and invoice. Damn it! he muttered when he saw that he had not signed his name to the hastily scribbled invoice. He quickly accomplished the deed. He tossed the blue pen into the center console before rolling the document into narrow cone. He reached for his trench coat, and pushed the document deeply within the pocket he had sewn inside. He opened the door, and quickly put on the trench coat. He raced through the raindrops until he reached the door.

“I thought you would never get here,” said Richard Robinson, who stood at the front desk wearing an engaging smile. He pulled Oliver close to embrace him. Oliver watched Richard surreptitiously wipe away teardrops forming in the corner of his eyes. “Shall we?”

“What?” interrupted Oliver.

Richard quickly corrected himself. “The client wants to meet you.”

“That is not necessary.”

“Oh, but it is, Oliver.”

Oliver regarded Richard with suspicion. He reached into the tattered pocket of his trench coat to pull out the cone he had placed. He began to roll out the invoice and the legal document. “You can just pay me now, and I’ll be on my way.” He handed the documents to Richard.

“But client really wants to meet you.”

“I’d rather not. I’ll wait here while you bring my check.”

“Just come on up for a minute, Oliver. She is an elderly lady who wants to give a good man a bonus for outstanding work. You were always good at extending honor and respect.”

Oliver shrugged his shoulders. “Alright, Richard. Just for a minute.”

Richard wordlessly embraced Oliver before leading him to the elevator. No words exchanged on the ride to the sixth floor. When the doors opened, Richard quickly emerged. “This way,” he said.

Oliver followed Richard to Room 616. Richard turned to Oliver before inserting the key card. “We’re all really happy to see you, Oliver.” He pushed the card into the reader, and opened the door.

Oliver followed close behind. He suddenly stopped to measure the faces in the room. Sgt. Jakes closed the door behind Oliver and Richard. He embraced Oliver at the doorway. Oliver pulled out of the embrace. “What’s going on here?”

A woman rose from a chair next to a sofa on which several people sat. “I am Pamela. These are your friends who love you and they just want to say a few words to you before offering you a gift.”

Oliver stared at the smiling faces of several people he formerly knew. He recognized they had all been instrumental in his life and his career that seemed so far in the distance. He focused upon each of them in the room until he reached the firm visage of William Pennoyer.

“Oliver, I have wanted this for you for a long time.”

Instead of gratitude, Oliver burned with rage. “What is this?” he demanded to Pamela.

“This is an intervention,” she said.

Oliver glared at Richard. “Is she my admiring client?”

Richard stuttered. Camille suddenly appeared from behind Oliver. She took his hand. “She is the top interventionist in Portland.”

The words had no effect upon Oliver. He raced toward Richard. “Give me my money!”

Richard placed his arm on Oliver’s shoulder. A tear projected from his eye. “Oliver, we love you, and we want to offer you our help.”

“No!” shouted Oliver. He shoved Richard to the wall. “I want my money now, Richard! I don’t want an intervention!”

Sgt. Jakes pulled Oliver away. Oliver struggled with the officer. He clenched his fingers tightly into a ball, and drew his fist against the police officer. Oliver pulled away when he observed compassion, not intimidation, from eyes drenched in tears. Oliver turned to the assembly. He caught his breath. “Thank-you for making this available to me. I am humbled, but I am not going to treatment. I am an addict and an alcoholic. I recognize this. I use methamphetamine and any other substance that I can put into a syringe to stuff away memories that I cannot escape. My memories are too painful without artificial means to quell them.” He turned to Richard. He pulled him close for an embrace. “All I want today is my check, Richard. Maybe someday I will be ready for a change, but that day is not today.” He pulled away from the throng of people in the room. “The fear of facing my memories without a way to turn them off is too strong. I’m just not ready.” As he hugged Richard, the other participants in the room stood with tears in their eyes for an embrace. When Oliver arrived at William Pennoyer, he recoiled.