Noire Portland: The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter.

I was walking home from Spanish 203 today whilst cramming el pluscuamperfecto de subjuntivo into some dark recess of my mind (where it will hopefully never bother me again) when I suddenly felt the urge to solve a crime!

With all this sunshine it's hard to recall Portland's rainier days—dark months when you can wring the rain out of a skyscraper and watch the city-dwellers recede into the shadows like wary hermit crabs. 

But today, even with that great ball of fun lighting our way, the city still looked like a mystery. So don a fedora and buy yourself a pack of Chesterfields. It's time to weed out the crooked.

Dead man crossing.

Yes, we're the beautiful City of Roses—fine fine fine—but roses also have thorns. I tramped through the South Park Blocks trying to beat the heat, but it was gettin' to my head. People lounged around without a care, like they couldn't sense the other side of things, the city below the city, the brick behind the fancy new siding, the real face behind the mask.

North I headed and as I neared the end of the South Park Blocks, I paused for a moment to take in a grand view of The Roosevelt Hotel. It reminded me of some locale in Paul Auster's The New York Trilogy. Perhaps someone was watching me from one of the hotel's dark windows, or perhaps I was watching them.

Yes, Portland has it all—the makings of a fine noir city. But without a steady rain beatin' me in the back or the scrunching of wet tires echoing through the streets, my mouth was beginning to get dry. Luckily I passed by the Hotel deLuxe, where the walls are lined in gold, glamour and glitter. A man needed a diamond jacket to pass off here, but no worries—he could always duck into a dim-lit boothseat in the Driftwood Room and order a bubbly Portland '85.

Finally, I tottered home past the old Pennoyer Mausoleum and Ella St. Social Club, where the night's antics had yet to embark. I kept my eyes on the windows, but as always I couldn't make out who was playing records in the upper office. 

With feet like cinderblocks, I finally reached my destination under big ol' Blue Volvo, watcher of Burnside, keeper of secrets. 

By this point I was delirious, nearly dead from the heat. My little itch to solve a crime was stretched thin and warbling with each passing semi. My noir mood quickly gave way to thoughts of a popsicle—cool lemon lime. Ah, forget it! Perhaps cases are best solved in the rain.