The feast was dished up and dished out at around 5:00. Max carved the turkey with a Bowie knife. Darkness descend. The revelers heaped their food onto paper plates and gathered around a bonfire. They sat down on rounds and logs. The dogs joined them. One of the women gathered rosemary and threw it into the flames. It immediately crackled and sparked. She quietly chanted a spell as the sweet smoke curled around the gathering.

Dave thought Max might ask him to give a blessing. Thankfully he did not. The ocean was doing the blessing anyway.

Aerosmith gave way to Metallica. Everyone began to eat, drink and smoke.

They also talked. Dave listened to stories of outrageous debauchery, hunting and fishing exploits, and the greatest concerts attended (e.g. Garth Brooks and Red Hot Chili Peppers). All the men seemed to have once held decent jobs in a trade and had intact families. At Dave’s prompting, several of the men mentioned that times got really tough a couple years after the Great Recession of 2008-09. No one talked about ending their current life.

There was a brief fight but Max smoothed it over. One man fell into edges of the fire but somehow escaped injury. Another man approached the gathering and wanted to join but was denied for some prior offense. He backed away without saying a word.

Night reigned. Cloud cover rolled in. The music died. The crowd was drunk and stoned but mellowing out as the digested turkey made its way into their systems. A few nodded off with the dogs.

Dave knew he’d have a hangover in the morning. So what? It was damn well worth it. He figured Kari was with her new boyfriend drinking a $200 bottle of Chianti in a Palermo villa at the same moment he was drinking jug wine with homeless people around an Oregon Coast beach fire. He chuckled at the absurdity of the comparison.

What would Dave do the day after Thanksgiving? He considered staying in Gold Beach, in the motel, negotiating a cheaper month-long rate, and getting a job. HELP WANTED signs were plastered all over town. None of the jobs required any experience.

Maybe some construction outfit would take him on even though he’d never worked construction in his life. A memory care facility was paying $20 an hour. A sawmill in Brookings was paying $30 an hour! Every motel in town was hiring. Several were even offering a free room. The animal shelter needed an overnight attendant. An RV park was looking for an assistant manager, whatever that entailed. They offered free rent in an onsite trailer. The county bus wanted a driver and the view along the Highway 101 route was probably the most spectacular in North America. That gig even had health insurance!

Something might turn up if Dave put himself out there. You never know who you’ll meet if you go to work and then work hard. People still notice that ethic in action and want to help you.

Dave lost track of time. Fog continued to roll in and started thickening. They could no longer see the ocean and its sound dissipated to a whisper.

At one point, one of the women said to Dave, “Are you really a reverend, a preacher?”

“I was.”

“How about telling us a story from the Bible?”

“Here? On Thanksgiving?”

A round of FUCK YEAHS! exploded around the fire.

Dave hesitated for a second, then said, “Okay, well Max and you guys have been so friendly. Why not?”

A round of cheers went up.

Dave took a swig from the jug. He petted one of the dogs. “Anyone know who Jonah was?” he said.

The woman’s hand shot up. The fire popped.

“It’s a story about trying to run away from your problems and finding out you can’t. It goes like this…”

Dave made a nice morning of it touring Gold Beach. The town had a history museum, tennis courts, two grocery stores, two food carts, a fudge shop, an animal rescue center, the Rogue River, a jetty, beaches galore, an incredible library, and a couple of dive bars, one of which advertised a Thanksgiving potluck.

Just before noon, Dave entered one of the grocery stores. What does one bring to a Thanksgiving dinner at a homeless encampment? How the hell would Dave know? He’d just have to wing it. Thirty minutes later he left the store after spending $35. His items:

Two jugs of Carlo Rossi rotgut red

A tub of potato salad

A jar of pickled sausages

Two boxes of Ding Dongs

A can of creamed corn

Jello parfait salad

Pocahontas and the Pilgrims wept.

Dave returned to the motel and took a nap. He woke up to the smell of barbecuing turkey. Max was right about its olfactory properties. He checked the time and it was now after 3:00. He was starving and hadn’t eaten anything but a maple bar all day.

Time for a new kind of Thanksgiving dinner. Dave carried his groceries out of the motel and down to the forts on the beach. A couple of campfires were already blazing and Dave estimated a gathering of 15 people and three pitbulls. As he came closer, he heard the sound of Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way.” He saw two portable speakers plugged into a phone resting on a log and blasting the rock anthem into the air. It sounded mighty incongruous juxtaposed against the steady antediluvian ocean roar, but Dave dug it. If he’d been eating with Kari and her friends in a fancy restaurant, he’d be listening to some computerized soft jazz while people talked about the latest hot streaming shows.

Max noticed Dave’s approach, called out, and waved him over. Dave headed that direction and soon found himself standing around the barbecuing turkey with other men all roughly Max’s age and several younger women whose faces were scarred by meth. Malt liquor was the preferred drink of choice but Dave noticed a couple half pints of Fireball. A few of the assembled vaped weed and smoked cigarettes as they drank. One man just vaped. The dogs were utterly stoic.

Max introduced Dave as the Reverend and said, “He just got divorced and ended up in Gold Beach. Just like us.”

There were profane hosannas all around.

Dave asked Max where he should set the boxes down. Max wanted them over by the music. That’s where they would stage the feast.

Dave extricated each item from the box and held them up for inspection. The crowd reaction went like this:

Two jugs of Carlo Rossi rotgut red (HELL YES! CRACK ONE OPEN!)

A tub of potato salad (Right on! Right on! Right on!)

A jar of pickled sausages (I saw a man choke to death on one of those in a bar one night.)

Two boxes of Ding Dongs (Toss me one Dave!)

A can of creamed corn (BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Throw that shit in the fire!)

Jello parfait salad (Just like grandma used to make it!)

Dave put the items back in the box (except for the wine) and carried the box to the log. He returned to the barbecue pit and someone handed him a glass of the rotgut red. More Aerosmith played.

“Nice morning,” said a voice behind the Reverend. He reeled around and beheld a man in his 50s wearing mismatched clothes and tennis shoes. He was holding a paper cup presumably full of coffee because its contents were steaming.

“Yes it is,” said the Reverend. “Looks like it was quite the celebration here last night. I could hear some of it on the beach.”

“Yeah we had a good time. You staying there?”

“Yeah, for a few days anyway. I don’t know for sure. I’m on my own.”

“Happy Thanksgiving!”

“You too.”

The man introduced himself as Max and said he lived in a tent on a sliver of forested property owned by the Port of Gold Beach. He pointed toward it. A couple other guys lived there, too. Max had lived there for a year, the other guys longer. The cops generally left them alone if they didn’t leave garbage around, which they didn’t.

Max took a sip of coffee and stared at the ocean. The Reverend was curious how these men had become homeless and ended up camping near the ocean in Gold Beach, but he held back his curiosity, which in these encounters one should not because that is the only way we can learn the stories of homelessness and survival.

“You down to the Coast for Thanksgiving?” said Max

“Not really. I just got a divorce and really have nothing left,” said the Reverend.

“You got the Pacific right in front of you! Could be worse.”

“Yes, it could.”

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Probably a TV dinner in the room and football.”

“Fuck that and fuck football! Come join us down here at the forts if it doesn’t rain or back at the tents if it does. We got a few canopies set up.”

The Reverend didn’t answer right away. He was considering the invitation. Such a unique offer might not come along in two lifetimes.

“I’m going to make my garbage-can barbecue turkey right here on the beach,” said Max.

“Your what?” said the Reverend.

“I dig a hole, start a fire at the bottom, let it burn into coals. I get a huge turkey, toothpick about 50 small strips of bacon to it, stuff potatoes and vegetables inside, then place the turkey inside a small metal garbage can, put the lid on, and then it goes down into the hole. I shovel coals on the lid, then walk away and come back in a few hours. It doesn’t last that long when it’s ready, I can tell you that. People smell it cooking for miles around. I share it with the camp. I’ve made it for years since I’ve lived outdoors.”

There was no way the Reverend was missing that. Fuck football indeed!

“What should I bring?” he said.

“Whatever you want. We’ll probably have ten or so people.”

“What time?”

“I’ll probably start the coals around noon. Takes a couple of hours.”

“Okay, I’ll be there. My name’s Dave, by the way, Reverend Dave.”

“Nice to meet you Dave. You really a reverend?”

“Not anymore.”

What a relief it was to announce that.

The Reverend arrived in Gold Beach at four in the afternoon. He crossed the stately bridge spanning the Rogue River adorned with exquisite obelisks. He powered down the windows and listened to the ocean. He could smell it.

He drove into town and saw an elderly man with long gray hair playing a ukulele in a tiny park alongside Highway 101. Behind the musician, a young man and a woman lived in separate makeshift tents pitched in the park. The Reverend thought about pulling over and listening to the performance, but it was getting dark and he wanted get to the beach before everything turned to black.

A sign pointed the way and he turned west and drove down a hill toward the beach. He saw a faded sign that read: Oregon Trail Motel. Then the motel came into view. It was a two-storey beachfront dump with peeling siding and frayed shingles. A vacancy sign was lit up red. Perfect. The Reverend pulled in, parked, went to the office and said he wanted to check in, but was going to see the beach first. The clerk said that was fine. How long did he want to say? The Reverend didn’t know. He’d give them an idea in the morning.

The Reverend donned a sweater and took a short trail through some dunes and shore pines. He emerged onto the beach and was staggered to see all the driftwood strewn about. Some of the logs were as big as school buses. He also noticed a dozen forts constructed from driftwood, each one unique. A few of the forts had campfires near their entrances. One of the forts had a tattered American flag attached to a twisting spar. The Reverend could hear voices, laughter, dogs barking and music coming from the forts. He smelled salt and something barbecuing.

Various shades of gray ruled the horizon as the last light died. The Reverend wasn’t all that disappointed at the lack of a sunset. Sunsets were bromides anyway. The sight of lazy breakers and the old sound of the ocean were more than enough.

The Reverend meandered south down the beach as dusk fell. He was getting hungry again and remembered a Chinese joint he’d seen on his way into town. He would check into the motel, order Chinese, and eat it on the balcony while watching waves give up their ghosts at the shore, ending journeys of thousands of miles.

Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. The Reverend had never spent a holiday alone.

The Reverend woke at dawn and was surprised at how restfully he had slept. Despite the chilly air, he’d kept the sliding glass door to the balcony open so he could hear the ocean.

What was the Reverend going to do on Thanksgiving? Was he sticking around for another night? Probably. He had nowhere to go and Gold Beach still had a mellifluous ring to it. He could microwave a turkey TV dinner and watch football all day. He could explore the beaches. He could hit a dive bar (were they open on Thanksgiving?) and hit the sauce. He could pick out a Lee Child novel from the lending library in the motel lobby and read it to witness the good guys win. He now had so many options opposed to his previous Thanksgivings, when there was only one and it was always the same and always joyless. That was no way to live, thought the Reverend.

He cleaned up and walked to the ocean before driving around Gold Beach to better assess the town. The air was cold and dry. The forecast called for more of the same.

He first investigated the forts and smoldering remains of the campfires. There must have been good partying around them last night. He ducked inside a few of the structures and it felt like being a kid again, although he realized adults had built them. Why had certain adults done so? It was beyond the Reverend’s grasp of reality or metaphor to answer, but he considered building a fort later. Why not?

He checked his phone. No messages. He had no one to text.

The Reverend saw a sign that read: Reedsport Lanes. He looked right and surveyed a cinder block building with two large white bowling pins painted on a wall. He hadn’t bowled since he was a kid. He hadn’t seen a bowling alley in two decades. The Reverend decided it was time to go bowling again because there was nothing better to do and he had all the time in the world, or at least all the time ten grand would finance. After that? Maybe a great notion would come to him when he wore the weird bowling shoes and scored a strike that made that special smacking sound.

An hour later he emerged from Reedsport Lanes into a light rain after bowling a 112 game with no strikes, but no gutter balls, either. He’d consumed a single beer in the tiny lounge and admired all the faded photographs of bowling teams from a half century ago. He’d talked to himself aloud while bowling, but only about bowling, not about Kari. It was good conversation.

The Reverend drove the Navigator out of the parking lot to Highway 101. He turned right, continuing south. He would keep driving in that direction until it got dark and then find a cheap motel. That gave him four hours of light, so he picked up the pace. He wanted to at least walk on the beach before the sun went down.

Passing through Lakeside, the Reverend saw a sign that read: Gold Beach, 93 miles. Gold Beach! It sounded heavenly or at least a reprieve from the hell of a disastrous breakup. He floored it and was fully prepared to lay on the horn in the event some pilled-up granny cruised her Buick Skylark 30 miles under the speed limit.

Heading to Gold Beach, the Reverend drove into Coos Bay and saw two young men passed out in sleeping bags, surrounded by their possessions scattered at the base of a 40-foot high triptych mural of Steve Prefontaine, the legendary long distance runner. On the mural was a quote from Prefontaine: “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.”

In Port Orford, the Reverend saw a young homeless couple pushing grocery carts full of gear on the shoulder of Highway 101. They were followed by their two dogs and a goose.

Near Ophir, the Reverend saw an elderly man sitting on a guardrail. A toy wagon laden with possessions was next to him. He just sat there, staring at the ocean. The Reverend stared at the ocean, too. It was summoning him.

The Reverend saw about a dozen battered RVs in gravel turnouts and waysides. He observed how their occupants had set up living quarters around the rigs.

At one point, he said aloud: what is happening to people in Oregon? He’d never said such a thing before. No sermons on that subject. Were other preachers and priests talking about such matters from the pulpit?

A long-haired man emerged from one of the RVs and caught the Reverend’s attention. He carried a folding lawn chair and a can of malt liquor. Binoculars were strung around his neck. The man wore dingy dungarees and a black hoodie. He was pushing 60 years old. A black mutt followed him.

Sunshine peeked through the clouds and lit up the field. The man unfolded his chair and sat down facing the herd. He cracked open the can, took a swig, and set the can on the concrete. He raised the binoculars to his eyes and glassed the field. The dog collapsed to the ground and snoozed out.

The Reverend exited the Navigator and walked toward the man. He wanted to talk to him and he didn’t know why.

“Hey, how’s it going?” said the Reverend. It occurred to him that he hadn’t asked that question to a stranger in years. He’d never asked it to any members of his flock.

The man lowered his binoculars and turned to the Reverend and said, “It’s a fine day for the elk drive-in theater.”

The Reverend laughed and said, “Yes it is.”

“You wanna take a look with my binoculars?”

“Sure, I’d love to.”

The man removed the binoculars and handed them to the Reverend.

“Be sure to look for Jesus and the Apostles,” said the man.

“What?”

“There’s one big bull with a huge rack and he always has a group of 12 following him around so I named them Jesus and the Apostles. They usually hang out near that grove of cedars by the slough.”

He pointed toward the grove.

The Reverend looked through the binoculars in that direction. Jesus and the Apostles were there. They were all eating grass.

“I see them,” said the Reverend with an enthusiasm that surprised him. He was excited and it felt good. Watching elk felt good.

The Reverend and the man struck up a conversation, first about elk, then about the man’s life. In due course, the Reverend learned:

The man’s name was Tony. Tony and his dog Joker had been living out of a 47-year-old RV, The Chateau, for five years. He’d bought it for $500 at a storage unit. It ran great and he’d patched all the leaks. Tony used to live in Coos Bay in an apartment but the asshole landlord kept raising the rent and he was done paying rent. He survived by collecting cans, food stamps and a $1,244-a-month Social Security benefit. The man and his dog roamed in and around Reedsport and sometimes stayed in RV parks that allowed older rigs. Other times they parked on side streets down by the river in the deserted downtown area or on logging roads. The elk drive-in was their favorite place.

After his conversation with Tony, the Reverend drove into Reedsport and turned south on Highway 101. He still had no clue where he was going. He just knew he was going somewhere.