Patrons bitch about the power of Portland over the Oregon hinterlands, where this coffee shop survives in a decrepit building in one of the more remote and dysfunctional locales in the hinterlands.
The patrons seem oblivious to the massive transfer of wealth from Portland to the hinterlands that subsidizes everything—everything!–and keeps the hinterlands on life support. In essence, welfare.
Jokes about about Portland socialism. Jokes written by Russian bots on social media. Statements from local elected officials that the best way to fight forest fires is to kill cougars.
The coffee is damn good. Not that damn Portland hippie coffee! Real Grants Pass java. Definitely not child-slave-free grown. Mmmm, good to the last leg manacled drop.
Rain is falling for the seventh straight day and rising the rivers to flood stage. I bet that’s Portland’s fault, too.
The conservatives leave and don’t bus their trashed table or tip the tattooed barista.
I sit at a window writing for my life. It is perhaps, a desperate notion.
A young mom on her phone struggles with two brats. They are hurling toys, running around, bawling. One of them bashes a tiny shopping cart into a potted plant.
A vintage wooden spear gun hangs on the wall. Hmmmm, that gives me an idea. The W.C. Fields in me does.
You can feel this locale dying in its disgust with Portland. It can’t look within. It can’t reinvent.
I won’t be back to this coffee shop, although the old fashioned doughnut baked right here was pretty good and only 75 cents. Would have cost $3.75 in Portland and doubtless been called artisan.