Oregon Tavern Age: Screwdriver Western

An OTA woman limped into the South Jetty. It was a Festus-from-Gunsmoke kind of limp. I reckoned she got it from either a lawnmower accident or a botched attempt shooting squirrel.

Outside, rain limped from the late morning sky. Everything was the color of the barrel of a shotgun.

I was sitting at a table writing an erotic story about a randy fish biologist. Or was it a preacher’s smoldering wife? I no longer recall but I do remember dumbing down my vocabulary.

The woman made her way to the bar, slowly. I ached with her every step.

She ordered a double screwdriver. “I haven’t had a drink since my husband died,” she said to the bartender. The bartender merely nodded.

The woman carried the screwdriver over to the video gaming area. I didn’t think the screwdriver would survive, but it did.

She set the drink on the table. She fished out a sawbuck and fed it to a machine. She bet it all on Flush Fever. She never sat down.

The bet was a loser. She picked up the screwdriver and chugged it. She set the empty glass on the table and limped to the front door. The door was wooden, thick and heavy but she pushed it open and limped into the pistol-whipping rain. Before the door slammed shut, I saw a mutt come up to her.

I quit the erotica right then and started a Western, an Oregon Western. She was my Sheriff and she could drink any man under the table. The meth people feared her. They feared her dog more. I needed a name. It wasn’t coming. It would once I ordered a double screwdriver and channeled her soul.