I know things are getting bad when the bartender at Silverado cuts me off. Time to go, I think, push through the crowds of drunk men to the black door, step out onto the wet sidewalk. Before me looms the building that was once my office–it and I became slick with rain as I look up at it, thinking of the strange past when I wouldn’t be wandering the streets after midnight on a Tuesday night.

I am almost two months into unemployment, and the ennui of purposelessness that I had heard hushed rumors about is kicking in. The rain reminds me that I do indeed still live in a wet city. The water runs over my lips and the taste reminds me of the dark and gloomy Portland winters. Not now, I think to myself, not this year. I’m not ready for the rain this year. Not yet.

In my pocket, my phone vibrates–oh, thank God, it’s Chase. “Where are you?” he asks. “Come over. Bring Pita Pit.”

Now I am on Park Avenue, ringing Chase’s doorbell, ascending in his elevator, two paper-wrapped parcels of lamb gyro in hand. The door opens, and Chase hugs me warmly. As he steps back I see the dark, wet imprint I leave upon his shirt. The new Soft Tags EP plays softly on the speakers and I drip rain onto his carpet, tell him about my night, the maudlin wandering that his call interrupted.

“It doesn’t sound like things are going well. What are your sad signs?” he asks. I look blankly at him, wipe Tzatziki sauce from my lip. He clarifies. “What is it that you do that makes you realize that you’re descending into a bad place emotionally?” The rain smacks the window, streams down the glass. I realize I have no idea–am I even in some sort of descent? I shrug.

“I’ll start it out,” Chase says, smiling kindly. “When you’ve been logged in to Manhunt for so long that your profile appears on the last page.”

“Well, getting cut off at fucking Silverado is one. Is there even such a thing as being too drunk for Silverado!?”

“Apparently so, Nick. Let’s think of more. You know you’re in a downward spiral when...”

“When you don’t leave your apartment!”

“When you’ve eaten exclusively Thai takeout and 7-11 Taquitos for a week!”

“When you wake up in the morning with your boots still on, your pants down around your knees, and the word ‘bitch’ scrawled on your arm with Sharpie pen!”

“Jesus Christ, Nick, did that seriously happen?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

“All right, Drinky Crow. Just stay aware of the signs–and eat dinner before you go to the bars, OK?”

It is half past three, Wednesday morning. The Hawthorne Bridge is alive with flashing lights and bells, and before me a boat glides soundlessly past. I am soaked in rain, full of pita, drunk, and realizing that Chase was right: I am in a bad place, the sadness settling onto everything like a fine layer of dust. Here on this bridge I am observing my life, staring expectantly into the confusing patterns, and am amazed that the reality of my situation is popping forth like a Magic Eye stereogram.

“I can see it,” I say softly to myself, to the orange lights and the huge silent ship. I can see this descent, am aware of the subtle indicators of sadness–and the strongest inner part of me knows that this recognition means I can rectify this, I can make my life a happy one now and throughout the bleak winter.

“I don’t have to be resigned to sadness!” I declare aloud like a spell. The moment this leaves my wet lips, in ridiculously cinematic fashion, the lights stop flashing and the barricades raise up. I stand with my mouth open, the bridge toward the rest of my life before me. I am soaked and full and drunk, perhaps still sad but now full of courage, brimming with hope. I smile and walk while, down the river, the ship sounds its horn once into the darkness, then glides onward, intently, in silence.

Nick Mattos loves Portland, but hates this summertime rain bullshit. He is the Portland correspondent for NYC men’s fashion blog www.HommeBoy.net and (with Kathryn Foster) co-editor of the literary zine When to Change.