At the precise moment I fished a choice cut of beaverwood from the pussy willows along Johnson Creek, a salmon bearing watercourse meandering through southeast Portland that empties into the Willamette River, I looked up and saw a stripper joint called the Acropolis Club, (don’t go there, it’s closed for Covid), and was awestruck that such a creek full of beavers existed in the middle of a city and it flowed parallel a mere ten feet past the club on its way to the ocean! Surely this was the only strip joint in the history of strip joints where beavers were lurking and salmon spawning practically right outside the back door! And surely I was the only person alive on the planet adding to a collection of beaverwood from a stream that ran adjacent to a strip club!
It was all almost all too much for my Oregon sensibility and I felt I might faint on the spot from some kind of inexplicable creative vertigo. I say “almost” but I did not faint. In a matter of seconds, I regained my senses and plunged into an idea for a story right then and there. Not long after that, I was riding my new bicycle around and writing the story up in my head and laughing aloud at its utter absurdity. There is nothing like making yourself laugh with a stupid story you dream up. I heartily suggest people try it. It’s a great way to improve mental health and entirely free and also free from the empty jargon of therapy.
I will call this story Beaver Town. I’m thinking it has the potential to make a great environmentally-conscious, sex worker-friendly, black comedy for an edgy streaming service. I will happily sell the rights and serve as consultant on all matters salmon, beavers and watershed restoration.