One afternoon I was having a smoke on the sidewalk in front of the paper when a man across the street suddenly jumped to the roof of a car and started screaming.
“Lies!” he hollered, using his hands as a makeshift bullhorn and stomping on the roof of some poor schmo’s Celica. “Why are we not being told the truth? What are they afraid of?”
I finished my smoke before crossing the street to find out what the fellow was going on about. Why hurry? Back then, scenes like this were commonplace on Park Street. Even a lazy reporter could go out to put a quarter in the parking meter and come back with three fresh stories to write.
Park Street, and that stretch between Ash and Pine in particular, was like a magnet for the colorful people that Lewiston had to offer. It was our local Bermuda Triangle, even if it happened to be more of an oblong.
I was out there with a new reporter once when a young lady wandered over, giggled something about snack food, and promptly pulled off her shirt.
That reporter left us years ago, but the last time I saw him, he was still bug-eyed.
I was having a smoke on one of the benches once when a man in a lion suit sauntered over and announced that he had important things to say. At least I THINK there was a man in there.
Whenever I sat out on those benches in front of the newspaper offices, having a smoke and ruminating, there was at least a 75 percent chance that something interesting would happen.
The deaf man with the flag was down there all the time, and he was always a delight to interact with, even without words.
The lady who twirled every time she encountered a crack in the sidewalk spun her way along Park Street at least thrice each afternoon.
Jesse would come by, in his bushy beard, elegant gown and combat boots, and he’d always lay some piece of garbled wisdom on me that would leave me mulling deep into the night.
The Magic Man stomped through there two or three times a day, carrying his bags of cans and bottles and wearing his bandanna and pirate snarl.
Whenever police chased a suspect down the alleys, both cop and criminal seemed to emerge right there on Park Street, in front of the library and across from the newspaper. There would be a big, dusty scrum on the sidewalk, at which point I’d sigh, stomp my cigarette under a boot heel and dig the notebook from my back pocket.
There was a kind of wonderful symmetry about that beautiful, occasionally skanky stretch of Park Street.
Across the street: a law office where crooks in hangdog shame would go seeking counsel.
To the left: a police station. To the right: a beer store. One street over: a detox center.
And right in the middle of it, a newspaper building, standing like a mirror to reflect back the fascinating buzz of the downtown so that others could see it, too. For the life of me, I’ve never understood why my editors insist that my desk be inside the building instead of out there on the sidewalk. I saw more, heard more, learned more when I was out there smoking, even if it looked like I wasn’t doing much of anything.
“Taking a break?” they would ask.
“Nope.”
But alas, I no longer interact with that magical stretch of the downtown, and I’m not sure if it’s because Park Street changed or I did.
The detox closed its doors and the law offices across the street have moved away. Around the corner, Lisbon Street is no longer a boozy row of social clubs.
I quit smoking a couple years ago, but every once in a while, I go outside and stand on Park Street in front of the paper. I’m like an aging former athlete who steps onto an empty ball field and expects the old magic to still be there.
Hint: It isn’t. Nobody jumping on cars, nobody taking her shirt off, no lions strutting their stuff. It’s just me and the disappointingly sober people going about their prosaic business.
Either incrementally or all at once, Park Street has lost its shabby charm.
Or, I suppose, I have.
Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. Shabby charmers can share their garbled wisdom at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.
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