A Jim Beam Laundromat Christmas Memory (Part 2)

Why not laundry? A 24-hour laundromat was a block away.

I walked to the laundromat in a light snow with my basket. I brought along a novel and pint of Jim Beam. It was my custom to drizzle a little whiskey into the 25-cent coffee purchased from the ancient machine whenever I did my laundry because that’s what writers did and I thought of myself as a writer even though I hadn’t written anything for publication.

Typically no one was ever around in the laundromat, so it was to my great surprise upon entering, when I beheld a bearded older man wearing a dirty coat, sitting slumped in a chair, and looking out the window to the falling snow. He had several bundles of possessions around him and was not doing any laundry.

We sort of nodded to each other when I entered.

In Portland of 1989 on the east side of the Willamette River, seeing such a homeless man never happened. I don’t think they were even called homeless back then: transients, bums, vagrants, winos, drifters, etc.

But the homeless crisis was in motion then and starting to receive national attention. (Thank you President Ronald Reagan for starting it all.) Who would have ever thought it would come to dominate Portland life and political discussion and my writing life three decades later?

I got my laundry going. I purchased a coffee and spiked it. It occurred to me that the old man could use a cup to ward off the chill and the Christmas Eve blues so I asked if he wanted one. He perked up and said yes. He excused himself to go to the restroom. When the coffee cup filled up, I took it out of the machine, dumped three quarters of the contents into a sink, and topped it off with Jim Beam.

The old man emerged from the restroom. He returned to his seat. His cup of coffee rested on a table near him. He acknowledged the gift and sipped it.

I will never forget as long as I live the expression in his eyes when he took that first taste. Marty Feldman comes to mind. Or Betty Davis.

He glanced at me and nodded. We never exchanged another word. I did my laundry, read, drank my coffee and whiskey, and walked home in the snow. I no longer recall what I did the rest of the evening.

I thought it a charming little Christmas story. A few days later I told Angela about it, thinking she would love the sentiment. She burst into anger and harangued me for providing alcohol to such a man. He was probably an alcoholic and you gave him booze? On Christmas!

Her blunt reaction shocked me. I could never predict anything she ever did, which is probably why I liked her so much.

We obviously didn’t make it, although we did try a few times over the next three decades. Every time I hear the Spin Doctor’s “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong on the radio when I’m driving, I think of Angela and smile. It was my song for her. I don’t think I ever told her that.

A couple years ago, we tried again and were astonished to discover that our attraction and sexual chemistry were even greater. Her temper played a part again in the dissolution, but I was to blame as well. It’s never one person’s fault in these matters of the heart, at least in my lifetime.