Just how many wheelchairs are on the sidewalks of Portland at a given moment? I decided that this question could be answered with a sample by driving from SW 4th and Washington up to SW 10th and Clay and then looping back to the point of origin. No sooner had I started my drive-by survey when I stopped for a light and an elderly may, all in black (No, it was not Gerry Glanville, the new football coach at Portland State), started to cross the street. The passersby that were going in the same direction made slight lateral moves but did not ask if he would like a spare hand. Never mind, he managed to cross a number of streets before this one and he knew not to ask for or expect help, no matter how slow he was.

But his pace was almost too slow to avoid a car next to me that decided to jump as soon as the light turned green. Whew! He made it. And he `continued going south and out of view.

Why did he cross the street? He didn’t look like a chicken.

The next sighting of wheelchair-bound citizens was banded together on the sidewalk alongside SW 10th and SW Salmon. One, a young man, had neither a right leg nor a left leg. (Iraq?) One of the others appeared to have two good legs, but no feet. Otherwise he would have been walking or just leaning against the building. The two remaining members of this rendition of the four Houseless Men had wheelchairs, legs and feet. Which of those parts were broken? A quartet for sure, but maybe not a quarter between them.

What were they talking about? The weather, or whether thou go’est.

Turning down Salmon I spotted a gentleman waiting in his wheelchair (who steels a wheelchair; it isn’t like taking a shopping cart from Fred Meyer, Inc.?) at the front steps of Portland’s bastion of successful businessmen and more recently women, the Arlington Club. I should have mentioned that today was a warm August day. This squire may have been waiting here for quite awhile. He certainly displayed no need to adhere to the Club’s strict dress code, which made it obvious as to why he had not been invited inside. His spare tire was getting a full frontal sun tan.

Was he thinking about the Club? It didn’t look wheelchair accessible, shirt on or off.

My journey and sampling continued. On the corner across from The Hilton a man who is often there on his wheelchair, without feet I may mention, had an audience of one. And it was one of the types that belong to the Arlington Club. This gentleman, in a suit, had stopped for an afternoon chat. He looked to be of the same age as the chair-bound conversationalist, and he was making a financial contribution. But the best part was they shared a mutually crafted smile.

I gained no question for this duo. This was not their first sidewalk encounter; you could tell.

Based on this certainly non-scientific sampling I drew the following conclusions: (a) most wheelchairs, which are those without a power assist, are inhabited by some of the most unfortunate of our citizens, (b) some days I can’t find any of the electric powered wheelchairs with occupants who catch your eye, like the lady with the very tiny body and little feet, but always wears a great hair-do, or the man who’s spine is so twisted that all he can do is look askance, yet he makes his way into Key Bank’s branch where he uses the teller behind the counter like a drive-up window, and (c) the rest of us show little or no concern for those without walking skills, because no one I saw who could have offered a spare hand, let alone a spare tire, did so.

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