The Rock Zone
I blew through the doors of Hoover’s as the clock neared eight
and detected the sodden presence of Shifty and Shaky,
two dubious locals, possibly loggers and lovers, who drove a 1975 maroon Vega.
The joint was packed with its usual cluster of OTA fiends.
It was karaoke night but the machine was on the fritz. An OTA man was fixing it.
On my way to the bar, I passed a 400-pound man, obviously intoxicated, verging on collapse,
and a reedy dude with a wispy red beard and sideburns decorating his sallow face.
He carried a pool cue in a case, dressed in red and white except for a black baseball cap turned sideways.
He wore a thick gold chain dangling to his waist.
He brought to mind how a young Kris Kringle might have turned out had he sampled crystal meth and hip hop.
I ordered my beer and it was delivered within seconds.
I took a drink, turned to my right, and came face to face with an older woman who informed me:
- She was a grandmother with eleven grandchildren
- She had been drinking in Hoover’s since 2:00 P.M.
- She loved Newport
- She loved to rock
- She really loved to fucking rock!
The woman drifted away, drifted back.
She looked straight at me, put her hands on my corduroy coat and said, “I’m looking at a real man, aren’t I?”
Before I could answer, she followed up with,
“Are you a rocker? Are you in the rock zone?”
“The rock zone? Where ‘s that?” I said.
“You know, the rock zone.”
It was the most penetrating existential question I’d ever been asked.
“Sure, I’m there,” I said.
“Well, you look like you belong.”
It was the most penetrating existential compliment I’d ever received.
“Thank you,” I said.
The karaoke machine finally booted up,
music blasted,
someone began butchering “Cherry Pie,”
the grandmother started dancing, drinking,
and a portal to the rock zone instantly opened.
Many entered.
I was already there.