Oregon Tavern Age: Roosters

Turkey, the owner of Turkey’s was in the joint and the joint was packed—12 people. Christmas was coming and one of Turkey’s turkeys that roamed the compound surrounding Turkey’s was getting fat.

I pointed out Turkey to my Russian associate wearing her strawberry beret. Turkey’s face glowed with magisterial OTA power. I considered him a holy man and keeper of the eternal languid spirit of OTA life because he told me he would never serve hard liquor in Turkey’s as long as he lived. “I don’t need the money or the hassle,” he said. Upon hearing that, I almost went to kiss his hand in tribute.

It was only a matter of time, however, before Turkey’s became The Last Tavern in Oregon. I would be there at the bitter end, most likely with a documentary film crew in hand.

“You gotta watch out for the cosmic realm,” said Kip, as we all sat at the bar. “It sneaks up on you.” He tippled his Busch Lite for emphasis. It was his signature gesture to punctuate his blasts of OTA inspired philosophy. My associate and I nodded in agreement and tippled ourselves, a local stout. We knew something about sneaking together into the cosmic realm. We were practically spies!

The associate and I had met Kip a few days earlier in her inaugural visit to Turkey’s. In short order, we learned Kip had washed ashore in Gold Beach from New York City 30 years ago after giving his 1937 Plymouth Roadster away to a stranger on the street. He was an artist without formal training and had spent the last ten years touching up dinosaurs at a nearby dinosaur-themed roadside attraction that easily qualified as one of the more bizarre attractions along the Oregon Coast. Kip made toy airplanes from Styrofoam that were a marvel of miniature aviation; he would paint anyone’s portrait in oil (from a photograph) for $500 (and beer); he had custom detailed a friend’s pickup truck with a fern motif design and thus created perhaps the only fern art in the history of American automotive detailing.

At out initial meeting, I bought Kip a beer for his unique artistic accomplishments and my shared love of all things ferns. Upon receipt of Busch Lite, he said, “I like living in the unknown.”

I believed him, despite the Busch Lite. Ferns established his credibility. I trust fern men.

A hummingbird appeared outside the window and sucked from a feeder. Kip saw me admiring the sight. I could watch hummingbirds for hours, particularly when drinking beer at a bar seated next to a philosopher and fern lover.

Kip said, “You ever seen a hummingbird fuck itself to death?”

“What?” I said.

He then launched into a wild story of two hummingbirds stuck in mid flight coitus—right outside this very window!—and their near demise from ecstasy until they finally managed to separate themselves.

I turned to my associate and winked. We both knew that’s the way we wanted to die together.

Turkey’s land line rang. The bartender, Marnita, answered and then walked over and handed me the receiver. “It’s for you, Matt,” she said.

What? I had never received a call like this in OTA country. How did the bartender know my name? Who in the hell was calling me here?

It was Linda from the Sea Star apologizing for her and Gary not showing up at Turkey’s as we had previously arranged yesterday. Something about their friend getting too drunk at a barbecue and offending someone and…I wasn’t figuring it out. I told Linda I’d see her and Gary soon for more Sea Star storytelling and thanked her for the call. I appreciated the gesture.

The gesture was pure class and Linda oozes class more than anyone I’ve ever met in OTA country.

Kip (only one p, he had the second p legally dropped), began a story about a rooster named Papa Jack, a legend at Turkey’s. Marnita moseyed over and took over the telling. I had heard tidbits of this tale a couple of years ago after asking about a faded photograph of a rooster in the restroom with the caption: This Bud is for you. RIP. 3/21/12

The rooster over the toilet was Papa Jack.

The story went like this: Some time ago, Turkey ripped out out the old phone booth in front of the joint and rigged up the space to serve as a perch for one of his roosters, Papa Jack. There Papa Jack would hang out with the regulars who ventured outside to smoke and harangue. This went on for years until one day tragedy struck: a beer delivery truck’s loading gate dropped unexpectedly and squashed Papa Jack into the asphalt.

“Did you fry him up for supper?” I said.

“No, he was too flat!” said Marnita.

Naturally they held a wake for the beloved Papa Jack and someone put up the shrine in the restroom. How many of us humans can say another human will do the same for us in a tavern restroom when we die? I can’t.

But I’m not dead yet, and will strive to earn that recognition in OTA country before I plunge into Hart’s Cove.

We raised our drinks to honor Papa Jack and then Marnita and Kip launched into another story of a dead rooster at Turkey’s. There were two?

His name was Cooper and he replaced Papa Jack until a fox snatched him off the perch in broad drinking daylight while the regulars looked on in horror! The fox had leaped off an embankment across the road, dodged a vehicle, bit into Cooper’s neck, and carried the prey away. The regulars could do nothing to save poor Cooper so they just drank a toast to him instead.

I asked if another rooster had taken Cooper’s place in the perch: no, a bobcat was lurking around the compound and some chickens had gone missing.

It was time to go. I couldn’t hear any more OTA stories or I was going to pass out.

The associate and I left the tavern and walked around the building where my car was parked. I was about to unlock the car when I saw a phalanx of 12 or 13 turkeys headed straight toward us, 20 yards away, traversing a strip of grass abutting the building. I alerted the associate. We just stood there, silently, unsure what to do, and the phalanx kept advancing, now ten yards from us. I had never seen a live turkey up close. They are formidable creatures when headed straight at you. Their swinging gizzards are particularly unnerving. I thought of Hitchcock; this was going to be my OTA Hitchcock moment.

To my left, a blue car drove past me. It was a sedan from the 90s and Turkey was driving it to his compound roughly 50 yards away. The turkeys broke formation and began following Turkey’s sedan. They clearly recognized his the car and caught up to it. He parted the phalanx like a hot knife through a cold draft of Hamm’s. The turkeys regrouped and followed. A few of them lifted off the ground and landed on the roof and front hood of the sedan as it turned into the compound.

I had never seen turkeys fly before.

“That was Turkey driving,” I said.

“I know,” she said.

We looked at each other.

“What is this place?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

But I do know. The greatest tavern in Oregon.

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