Atticus   

“Cute dog.” The slender woman, who looked to be in her late 20s or early 30s, made the pronouncement only seconds after the doors closed.

She was talking about Bo, my friend Steve’s boxer, standing patiently among the three of us in the elevator. “What kind of dog is he?”

The kind that will knock you to the ground and chew off your face, bitch. I didn’t say it, but I hoped my body language made it clear: Pulling a blade or a Glock on two grown men and a large dog for a quick score of cash for crystal wouldn’t be as easy as she thought.

Why else would this woman be talking to us? She was younger, obviously single, hot and heterosexual. At best we fit two of those criteria. We were not in her social demographic.

And then Steve answered her.

“A boxer,” he said. “He’s still a little unsure about the elevator. He’s never been in one before.” He even smiled.

Thank God, I thought. Steve knows this woman. I hoped my sigh of relief was barely noticeable.

The elevator doors opened, all four passengers departed to the first floor and we went our separate ways in downtown Portland.

Later in the evening after returning to Steve’s building from dinner, he and I were in the elevator again when it stopped before reaching his floor. The doors opened, and a couple who appeared to be in their late 40s stepped in. The man carried a bottle of wine in one hand.

“Nice evening, eh?” he said to us.

Here we go. My worst nightmare, an Amway sales team. Awfully bold of the two of them, I thought, to include an alcoholic beverage when, for all they know, one of us, their prospective pyramid partners, could be in a 12-step program or a Mormon.

How were we going to get out of this? When they inevitably followed us off the elevator and invited themselves over, I’d depend on Steve. He’s been selling cars for a living, so he should know how to navigate through even their most treacherous sales tactics.

“Looks like you’re on your way to a good time,” Steve replied to the man.

Ah, again, Steve knows the speaker. I suddenly realized it was no coincidence he chose this building. I was aware that his friends Perry and Amy lived nearby, but I had no idea he already had such a large social circle in the city, let alone at the same address. In one day I’d already met three people he knows.

At least, that’s what I thought. But it turned out I had reason to be unnerved. Steve told me he had never previously spoken to or met anyone with whom we had shared an elevator.

Yes, let that sink in. These people were striking up conversations with complete strangers.

For the next 36 hours, it continued to happen. Male, female, young, old, gay, straight, single, married — every person we encountered in Steve’s building talked to us. Every.

By now, I’m sure you’re making the same assumption I had. Steve had moved into an asylum. The only question remaining was, was it by accident or by choice?

It had to be the former. I had known Steve for roughly four years, and he is not crazy. Sure, some of his dating choices and his semi-allegiance to LSU athletics would lead many people to conclude otherwise. But I know stable, and Steve is a rock.

Toward the end of my visit, as we were walking Bo in a park three blocks from Steve’s place, where more crazy people greeted us and waved to us, I began to think I should break the news to him of his unfortunate choice of housing.

“Can you believe how friendly that people here are?” Steve asked me. “It’s going to take some getting used to. This is not what we’re accustomed to, that’s for sure.”

Huh. He was right. It just hadn’t dawned on me. This is how friendly, not crazy, people behave. This is Portland. Strangers here greeted us just like they do in Birmingham, Ala., and Chattanooga, Tenn., and like they did earlier in our trip in Bozeman, Mont., and Couer d’Alene, Idaho.

This is a city other than the one I live in. This is not Atlanta. Nevermind.