Andrew O. Leskinen                                                               

BURNSIDE ALLEYWAY

If ever you find yourself being thrust aside by the frantic souls rushing to nowhere on West Burnside Street in the Northwest District of Portland Oregon, and you become aware of quiet shadows drifting from a narrow, hidden alleyway that brush softly across your skin, step away, step out of the drone of the scurrying masses, and fade silently into the drifting and pulsating fog of that quiet, empty, blind alleyway.

And as the whispering mist of the alley’s fog embraces you, comforts you, and draws you in, look into the depths of the alleyway and you will see a dim, dusty, cob web covered light bulb hovering in the distant stillness. As you draw ever closer, it will appear to glow brighter, casting flickering, dancing shadows that shift and slide and surround you as you approach. The dusty bulb floats low over a paint peeled, graying wooden door that appears, upon a casual, careless glance, not to have been touched or opened in an eternity.

Should you dare to venture into the soft shadows that are cast by that lone dim light, drawn inexplicably for reasons beyond your understanding, and step down onto the chipped, cracked concrete step hidden in the dark, and you reach out and turn the smooth, worn brass door knob to the left, you will discover that the door swings in easily on tarnished, well-oiled and timeless brass hinges.

Should you, however, grip the polished knob and turn it to the right, ignoring or failing to notice the obvious and concise instructions lettered onto the faded, rain stained sheet of yellowed paper taped above the cracked pane of glass hovering next to the door, you will hear a faint click as the steel lock buried in the depths of the door engages. Then, no amount of firm knocking, sharp rapping, incessant pounding, or repeated “Hello’s”, will draw the proprietor to the door to admit you into his establishment. If you should next attempt to turn the door knob to the left as you were instructed, that will only prove to be a futile and foolish effort as that door will forever be locked against your attempted entrance.

If, however, you do turn the smooth and worn brass door knob according to the posted directions, you will descend from that misty alleyway into an amazing array of books, and an eccentric collection of fantastic treasures, that you have never, and will never, see in one location, at one time, again, and some that you will never see anywhere else but here, in this location, at this very moment in time.

There will be no sound that you can ascertain as you enter. And as you step deeper into this eclectic shop on the smooth worn floors you will feel the door glide closed behind you, as silently as it had opened, save for the faint click of its well-oiled steel lock. But, if you have any of your senses or instincts about you, you will know that your presence has not gone undetected or unexpected. You will feel it in your very being, in your very soul, that your presence has been anticipated.

Pause long, and breath in deeply all of the moments and pieces of memories and dreams to come that swirl, surround, and envelope you, for they are yours alone.

Browse. Look about. But don’t rush, savor the very moment you are in, for moments such as these that are not savored, are forever lost.

Touch, carefully and respectfully. There is no need to hurry, as that would be an unforgivable insult, and as there are no closing hours, or opening hours, in this establishment. Haste is not necessary and it would be foolish. For this unique, unimaginable array and collection of treasures is a living and breathing labor of eternal love.

You will wander around treasures, down narrow passageways, unaware of time as it rushes past, or as it stays as still and silent as the moment you are in.

And then you will see it. And you will wonder how it is possible that someone has not yet stolen it away, stolen it away from you, its predestined and rightful owner.  How could it have been overlooked for so long, how could you have overlooked it for so long, when it had always been there, waiting patiently in the shadows, waiting to be known, to be brought out of the shadows and into the light, to be treasured.

 It will draw you in and pull you to it and you will know that this is the very reason, and the only reason, that you were drawn to this shelf, to this shop, to this establishment, to this dead end alley, off Burnside Street, in the heart of Northwest Portland, at this very moment in time.

And he will know the time has arrived. When you turn, he will be standing at your elbow, not looking at you, not looking away from you, but looking into that distant place that only he sees. Perhaps remembering, and returning once again to where he discovered this special treasure that he knew you would one day find and claim as yours. With a knowing smile that brushes briefly across his wrinkled and ageless face, he will say, “It suits you well.”

You will turn to him, you will show him your find, and then you will see that he stares, seeing not in the present but into a distant and secret place that is unbound and unconstrained by time, space, or location. You will stumble over your very thoughts and words. You will find yourself questioning how much the cost will be to obtain your, until now, unknown to you, but known to him, piece of your life and future, unsure if you can sacrifice the cost that is required to obtain what is your destiny.

He will smile, having anticipated your question from the moment he first acquired your treasure for you. He will tell you the cost that he knows you can, and will pay, knowing that you would be willing to pay any price he requested. Knowing that to you, your treasure is priceless and no amount of money will ever make you part with it now that you have embraced it.

He will take it gently from your hands as you hesitantly relinquish it and he will glide through and around the mired of amazing aisles and glass cases and cluttered shelves that live with him in his shop and he will slip behind the time worn, hand polished oak counter that you never saw until this moment. He will carefully wrap your treasure and then place it in your hands as he would place his first and only newborn child. You will gaze at your treasure, making certain that you have it safely and firmly in your grasp. When you look up to say, you’re not quite sure what, not knowing what words could ever express what you are feeling deep in your soul, he will be gone and you will, once again, be alone.

You will make your way out of the shop, opening the silent door, stepping up onto the broken concrete step, and then wander down the alleyway back onto Burnside Street into the ever present drizzle of rain that is, and could only be, Portland.

Your friends, the select few that are allowed to share in your discovery, will marvel at your treasure’s unimagined beauty and life and they will insist on knowing where and how you discovered your treasure. You will try to explain the journey you traveled, the route you followed, but only a few will understand, and even fewer will ever seek, and fewer still, will ever find, their own destiny, their own unique treasure.

As time passes and you move on, you will begin to wonder and to doubt yourself as to where you were, and how you arrived there and soon you will just smile when asked and you will say you don’t remember where but you will tell them the story of the man, the hidden shop, the broken concrete step, the weathered door, the sign, the dim and dusty light bulb, and even the alleyway, but you will never again tell them the city or the street, for they must find their own city, their own street, their own alleyway, their own shop and then they too will obtain their own soul fulfilling treasure.

And as even more time passes, perhaps you will feel the need to search once again for the hidden shop, to acquire a new treasure as you begin to question if your old treasure has become tarnished and worn, worrying that it has dimmed with age. You will search a multitude of alleyways and side streets off Burnside, until even you begin to doubt yourself. Then, you will search other alleyways, off other streets, in other cities, in other states, in other countries, but it will be in vain, for you have already found your treasure, the missing piece of your soul.

In time, maybe you, as I have, will finally come to the realization that there is no longer a need to search further, for you now have the part of you that had been missing for so long and you are now, and will always be, as I am, complete.