Oregon Tavern Age: Elk

I walked through a herd of elk and into the South Jetty. They were grazing in a grassy median at the edge of the bar’s parking lot. I said “hello.” They looked up, blinked in the afternoon sun, sniffed and went back to grazing.

It was the first time in my life I’d walked through elk before entering a bar. I liked the feeling, although I had no idea what that feeling was. A man just feels better in the presence of elk. Everything is better with elk.

Inside the Jetty, an old woman sipped soup, an old man drank a beer, and a middle-aged man played video slots. A local radio station played hits from the 80s and the Go Go’s never sounded better. If only I could see Belinda Carlisle walk among elk.

I ordered a beer and whipped out a notebook and pen to write about a dead man’s unpublished writing.

Nothing came. Concentration vanished—too much (Belinda) elk on the mind. I got up and walked outside to the parking lot. I stood there and watched elk eat grass. I only wish I could have brought along my beer.

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