The Old King of Nob Hill

Were you to take a walk-about through Portland there’s no shortage of things you’d see, referring obliquely to all things good and bad. You’d see an endless variety of boutique shops that nobody but the wealthiest could actually afford to visit, just as you’d find little dive bars and cafes that are as numerous as the crows in the sky. There are bookstores, dogs, trees, lichen and moss covered concrete, and all the people of Portland, those who have homes and those who don’t. There’s no shortage of those struggling out here, and while some are drug addicts who (for example) might throw gasoline on unsuspecting passersby, most are just folks whose life just didn’t quite work out. Whether that’s due to health maladies undiagnosed or those very same maladies that had been diagnosed while the patient in question didn’t have the money for care or medication, it doesn’t take long to understand that everyone has a story.

That’s an easy thing to forget, I think. When you become so accustomed to seeing human beings as something to be avoided, dodged on the side of the road like some odd bit of refuse or a believer peddling books of Christ, you miss the bits of truth that hover in the air all around us: That there are good people here. And it never costs anything to be kind and treat someone as the human being they are and have always been.

One of these people is a man named Franc, a gentleman from Germany who currently lives up and down Burnside, though you might miss him as his preferred cubby is often swept by Portland Police in an act of clearing the streets for the city’s elite. This truth is one that you’d never guess bothered the man, as he’ll only ever seem to ruefully smile and state that he knows he’s not the most well-dressed individual anymore, and he’ll say that he’ll get his spot back eventually.

As of this writing, there are many mysteries that surround Franc. I know that he used to work a corporate job, that he used to be married, that he used to have an apartment and a dog and a family. I know that even though he’s probably only in his early sixties, he needs a walker due to the neuropathy that makes it increasingly hard for him to get around; something you’d never guess based on his tenacity and willingness to walk as far as he needs to get to where he’s going. And I know that the first time I ever met him, he walked slowly into my liquor store and I was told by a misguided colleague to follow him because he looked like he might steal something.

He didn’t. Instead, he and I wound up talking about Negronis and Anthony Bourdain, the perils of mental health and how its cost can sometimes catch us all off guard, and for twenty minutes we stood standing in a liquor aisle, talking about life and the things that keep us going on the bad days. In the weeks and months that followed, he became a constant staple that I’d always notice and always stop to visit with when afforded the opportunity. Sometimes he’ll tell me about his friends, or about the ex-wife who sees so much more joy in him now than she ever did before. Sometimes he’ll ask about my puppy or my job, and he’ll make sure to check in on me and that I’m doing alright. And so many times we’ll simply talk about the weather, and how something as simple as a blue sky can make a day worth living.

Last night, I saw my friend Franc for the second time this week. He came in for his standard purchase, a little $1.50 shot bottle of Legacy Canadian whiskey, but he said he didn’t really need one, he just wanted to come by and say hello and share something with me, if it didn’t make me too uncomfortable. And there, on one of the colder nights we’ve had this winter and at the end of a cold week, he referenced his visit earlier in the week and told a story about how he’d so enjoyed our conversation that when he left the store to return to his cubby, he wasn't bothered that it had been claimed by another man without a home. He said that it troubled him initially, that he would’ve made it back in time if he hadn’t been so chatty, but then he smiled. Bundled up in his hoodie and blue parka, he said that as he walked down Burnside looking for a new place to stay, the one thing he knew for certain was that he’d so enjoyed our conversation that it made it all worth it, that it was a sacrifice he’d make every time, and that I had a beautiful smile and it meant so much to him that I always stopped to say hello.

He said that there are so many people who never acknowledge him, and that so many times they make him feel as if he’s already gone.

Franc is a good man and he told me once how his ex-wife has crowned him The King of Nob Hill, because everyone who’s ever given him a chance has seen the kindness in him, and I can’t really think of a more fitting title. I have no interest in people of power, or wealth, or glory. But show me someone who, despite the hand they’ve been dealt in life, is still beaming and being a positive force in the lives of others? What exactly is the purpose of living if not that? What else could possibly be the point of being alive?

Before he left, we agreed that the next time I’m out and about without a fear of being late to work we’ll find a place to sit down and have a beer and some good food. We’ll talk about life and our path through it, so I can finally get to know my friend a little bit more. He beamed at that and said he couldn’t wait, hoping that I’d bring Alice along if the timing was right. And then he smiled once again, just before he wandered out the doors and into the cold Portland night, and said “I love you, man.”

And then we shook hands and he was gone.

But after the hell that has been the last few weeks, those words and that happiness stuck with me more than anything else has. He’s a good man, The King of Nob Hill. He radiates kindness and resilience. So if you ever see him, an older gentleman with a graying beard and long brown hair as he makes his way through the city with his walker and a heavy blue coat, please say hello. Smile. Give him a little of your time, because I promise he’ll always remember you.

It costs nothing to be kind.

And I look forward to seeing my friend Franc again soon.