Oregon Tavern Age: Deer

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A large man with the biggest gut I’d ever seen in OTA country entered the South Jetty using a driftwood cane. He sported a white crewcut and wore a black, male equivalent of a mu-mu. I pegged him as post OTA, meaning anywhere from 70 to 200 years old.

He ordered a whiskey soda and wedged his formidable girth against the bar. The structure held.

The bartender remarked about his new haircut. He replied, “I got all my hairs cut, even the short hairs.”

Everyone laughed, including me. Then everyone went back to their business, which for me, was writing a love letter.

The man angled away from the bar, toward the tables, perhaps toward me, cleared his throat by downing his drink, and started telling stories. I stopped writing and listened.

His first story was lewd. The next one was about drunken home improvement. The third, a possible brush with Bigfoot. Then he began narrating the time, when, as a much younger and slimmer man, he stood on the edge of the Columbia River and saw a deer drowning as it swam to Deer Island. He dove into the current, swam to the deer, manhandled its head above water, somehow dragged it onto the island, rubbed its body to get the blood flowing, watched it revive, and then swam back to shore, cracked open a Hamm’s, and rested.

I took a drink of my beer and noticed the glass shaking a tiny bit. I looked around the bar. Nobody had heard him but me. I had just heard perhaps the greatest Oregon river and deer and Hamm’s story of all time and no one was around to confirm it. Who would ever believe me?

The man turned back toward the bartender and ordered another whiskey soda. The show was over. Our eyes had never met. I clapped a silent clap and began writing it up for Oregon posterity, if, in the future, Oregonians care for such stories. I have my doubts.

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Oregon Tavern Age: The Hallmark Couple

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While they waited for their food order, a young couple played pool in the South Jetty on a summer afternoon. I sat ten feet away daydreaming of rainy day women on notebook paper.

Her: white, blonde, long hair, fit, yoga pants, Corona.

Him: whiter, blonder, short hair, fit, surfer shorts, IPA.

They reminded me of a couple you might watch on the Hallmark Channel or see in a Leni Riefenstahl

documentary.

She said, “Apparently the rules don’t apply to you.”

He said nothing and kept shooting.

“You scratched,” she said.

He said nothing and drained a tough shot. He moved around the table for another shot.

“The cue ball can’t move before a shot,” she said. “You moved it.”

She walked over to the wall rack and slammed in her cue.

He said nothing. He was running the table.

“Why am I playing when you cheat?” she said.

She moved a few feet in my direction for a better angle to confront him and I caught the whiff of her angel food cake body lotion. I figured he bought it for her to turn him on. I wondered what she bought for him to turn her on. Then I didn’t want to know.

“You cheated,” she said.

He banked in a solid and didn’t respond, but he did roll his eyes, then his abs.

The bartender announced their food was ready. He set down his cure and they left the table and sat at the bar.

They ate in silence. I waited. I was giddy in the waiting.

A minute later: “You scratched!” she said, setting down her hamburger. She whipped out her phone and fiddled. Seconds later, she displayed it in front of his face for him to watch a YouTube video that confirmed his infraction. He didn’t watch it. He took a bite out of his hamburger.

He swallowed the bite, turned to her, and said something I didn’t catch.

I didn’t want to catch it.

She picked up her hamburger and attacked it.

The Hallmark Couple ate their hamburgers, looking straight ahead, saying nothing. They were being very unHallmark.

Oregon Tavern Age: Singing

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Five of us sat at the bar in OTA country and watched England play Croatia in the World Cup semifinal. There was no sound. It was a great match but we were falling asleep on a weekday afternoon. I sipped a local ale but the others hit it harder with booze.

An OTA woman got up from the bar and headed toward the jukebox. She passed a couple of tweakers tweaking the video slots.

I watched her pump some dough into the music machine.

No! No! No!

Seconds later The Four Seasons’ “December 63′ (Oh What a Night),” blasted through the speakers and nearly knocked me off my stool. I looked over to the woman and she was dancing in front of the jukebox, really getting down, singing, too.

Fifteen seconds later, she was back at the bar and started singing along to the song, loudly, in superb voice that sold the tune for all it was worth, a tune about a one-night stand with a nameless woman.

I felt a rush like a rollin’ ball of thunder
Spinnin’ my head around n’ takin’ my body under

A couple of OTAs joined in and so did the bartender. Everyone knew the words. They all hit the right key, nailed the melody, and were killing it!

I didn’t join in. I just listened and watched Croatia pull ahead.

The song ended. Modern English’s “I Melt With You,” came on and the OTA backup singers took it to another level. Their harmonies soared upward and clashed with the dollar bills, coasters and bras stapled to the ceiling. When there is no longer a bra stapled to a ceiling in OTA country, you will know the country has vanished.

I’d heard “I Melt With You” a million times but never scrutinized the lyrics before. They were now so deafening I had no choice.

Making love to you was never second best

I saw the world crashing all around your face
Never really knowing it was always mesh and lace

Mesh and lace?

Trapped in the state of imaginary grace
I made a pilgrimage to save this humans race
Never comprehending the race has long gone bye

Imaginary grace?

What a track. It convinced me to make that pilgrimage daily—and find the mesh and lace in someone’s face.

“I Melt With You” ended and we clapped. Then silence. She’d only played two songs. She got up and scurried over to the jukebox.

What was coming next? I prayed for KC and the Sunshine Band.

Croatia won.

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Oregon Tavern Age: Moments

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“I don’t have a dog, but I’m thinking about stealing one off a chain,” said the OTA man at the bar, to an elderly, non-OTA couple sipping gin and tonics.

His OTA wife came over and and kissed him. Tongues were deeply exchanged. I’d never seen an OTA couple french kiss in OTA country before. Perhaps it should have unnerved me, but it didn’t. I took great comfort in that swap. There is hope in that swap.

The man was on his third double bloody mary and wobbled a bit, but a democratic (small d) America wobbles a lot more these days. My nation will collapse long, long before an OTA man drunk on bloody marys falls over.

The lights flickered. I looked around. A woman played pool with her tattooed boyfriend who drank a tall lemonade. She always wears the same skimpy outfit in here. Lots of black and red flowers.

So what? I always wear the same corduroy pants and fort sweater. I get it. Every day my outfit unravels a tiny bit more. Luckily, that isn’t a metaphor for my metaphysical self.

I was writing a letter. I was thinking about the last two years of my life. I was wondering about my future and its planless plan. I was thinking about the new people I might meet and the new stories I might encounter.

Serena Williams came on the television. I hope she plays professionally into her 40s. She’s one of my favorite Americans of all time. I would have loved to see her crush McEnroe in a Riggs/King rematch.

One wonders: will anyone play tennis after this nation’s collapse? It might be a moot point considering how many of the public courts have gone to seed or been redeveloped into skate parks or danger-free playgrounds.

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Oregon Tavern Age: Diplomacy

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Just me and the Germans in OTA country while the World Cup semi final between France and Belgium played on television. The Krauts were actually eating sauerkraut on their OTA hot dogs. They had brought in a jar and asked permission to use it as a condiment. The OTA bartender agreed, although it probably violated a health code regulation.

I sat at a table with a view of the highway. Wind gusted outside the joint. My mind gusted with it. I was blowing in the wind and the answers weren’t there.

Flies died around me, smashing into the unlit neon signs and crashing to the particle-wood floor. I like the look of particle wood flooring. Why cover it? Okay, maybe lacquer is acceptable.

Incredibly, the Germans were drinking coffee and not beer while watching soccer. It made no sense. It felt like something was seriously wrong in the world.

A log truck rolled by. Then a retro RV all kitted out. Then a one-armed transient smoking a cigarette while riding a unicycle. He was smiling. The wind was at his back.

It occurred to me that I should welcome the Germans to Oregon and offer my deepest apologies for President Trump. It also occurred to me that I would be conducting diplomatic relations in OTA country for the first time. The future of NATO might depend on them. Perhaps world peace would depend on them.

I sipped my porter in preparation to engage the foreigners with talk.

A better idea materialized after I glanced at an advertisement behind the bar. Why not order a round of jello-shots for our allies. The game was going into extra time and probably penalty kicks. There might even be time for two rounds.

I placed the order with the bartender. She smiled and it was a memorable smile because she had only half her teeth.

A few seconds later she was carrying my gift to the Germans and a signature brand of OTA diplomacy would soon begin.

Perhaps 30 years from now, Germans will elect one of these men President, and this man will remember my unique gesture of friendship. He might decide to help what was left of the United States of America. We’re certainly going to need it one of these years.

Oregon Tavern Age: Wimbledon

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Sun scorched OTA country. Everyone prayed for rain except the Chambers of Commerce. They hate rain because rain doesn’t sell. They can’t market it although it is our most precious commodity.

Wimbledon played silently on television in a far dark corner. No one was watching but me. Love those grass courts and the funky bounces. Love that zero in tennis is love.

I was surprised the joint was showing the tournament. I wondered if anyone in here had ever played tennis. Tennis was dead in America and I don’t see it ever resurrecting as the nation’s one number recreational pastime, like it in the 70s. We’ve changed too much. We can’t shuffle side to side for ten minutes, let alone an hour. We could never keep track of the score in our heads, either.

The hustle and bustle of modern popular Oregon threw up a din outside.

I waited for someone and I suspected that someone wouldn’t show up.

An ad for a new Marvel movie came on. Will the superhero movie juggernaut ever run aground? I finally understand why Westerns dominated the mainstream American cultural landscape in the 50s and and early 60s. We wanted exactly the same thing from entertainment.

An OTA man limped across the room, then stopped and took a hit off an inhaler. I assumed it was for asthma.

Venus Williams’ match began. She lost the first point on a forehand long. A few minutes later, her opponent broke Venus’ serve.

Men talked about living on boats, but not by choice. I think they were crew members on the nearby homeless fleet.

I looked around: everyone seem invalided in some form. There was a surfeit of OTA weirdos, which is a rarity, like seeing a compassionate Republican in Congress.

It occurred to me that OTA country seemed destined for the dustbin of Oregon history. I doubt it will last another decade.

Venus went down 3-0.

I thought about the last match of my high school tennis career, at the state tournament. I choked. The pressure and the stage crushed me. It remains the only time I choked in my life.

The bartender whipped up jello-shots for the breakfast special.

I thought back to 1986 and how I patronized the first brew pubs in Oregon, in Portland. They were the genesis of the craft beer movement in the state and kind of funky and disheveled in their appearance. They had pool tables and jukeboxes and no kids were allowed. Nothing but the Grateful Dead played on mixed tapes. I see now it was the beginning of the end for OTA country. I wonder if I’ll be around to write its final obituary.

That someone never showed up.

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