Oregon Tavern Age: The Mooning

Dolly Parton’s “Coat of Many Colors” played through the speakers. I want her face, (okay, cleavage, too) on a unit of US currency. Make it a $44 bill.

I sat at my usual corner table in the back of the joint, next to the King Kong pinball machine, drinking a craft malt liquor.

To my right, half a hairy ass mooned me from a chair. It was an OTA man’s ass and this mooning was a first for me in OTA country. How a body sitting in a chair could half moon like that was a marvel of American anatomy.

Moon Man was drinking a shot of Crown Royal with a Tecate back. His OTA buddy at his table was drinking the same. The two men were alternately watching golf and auto racing. A packet of Pall Malls rested on the table.

They sat glued to the screens and held exactly one conversation. Actually it was one question to the Moon Man:

“Did you cut those shorts off yourself?”

“No.”

Well said. I’d rather have a friend who was terse in storytelling rather than a windbag.

I drifted away from them and back to the letter I was writing in longhand. I was trying to write as legible as possible, but was failing. So what? The recipient would be happy to see a real handwritten letter arrive in the mail. It’s like a mystical communication from an undiscovered country that a golden eagle delivered.

The two OTA men stood up from their table. The mooning ceased. They limped together like a couple shot-up deputies toward the video slots. I considered putting them in the letter, but there were more pressing matters to discuss, in this case, questions to a writer about what is worth writing about.