Operation Oregon Beach Deflowering

The sun materialized on the North Oregon coast and the temperature pushed 75 degrees. Preposterous! I loathe everything connected to the sun except relishing its inevitable super nova and subsequent black hole. There are no black holes with rain—only light, clarity.

I placed my items on the counter of a convenience store in Warrenton. The Indian clerk smiled and asked how it was going. He loved my last name and always punned on it. Love Man! His command of the English language astounded me; it was easily more refined than half the English teaching colleagues I worked with in my career.

I told him I had just visited the beach and walked and played for an hour. His face went blank. I knew the look. Most of my coastal principals had it etched on their countenance.

“When was the last time you went to the beach?” I said.

He hesitated. “I haven’t been yet. I work a lot.”

That I already knew. He probably worked 60 hours a week and slept on a cot in the utility closet. He was always there when I patronized the store. He had Indian music cranked and smiled non-stop.

“How long have you lived here?” I said.

“Six months.”

“You mean you’ve lived here for six months, ten minutes from the beach, and you’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean?”

“I haven’t.”

I walked to the front window and found the open/closed sign. I closed the store.

“Were going to beach—right now,” I said.

“I can’t. I have to work. My family.”

“You want me to call ICE?”

It would have been the only humane threat of deploying ICE in recent memory but the situation called for it. This was Oregon dammit! I had a Tom McCall duty to help this newcomer.

I told the customers the store was closed; there was an Oregon existential emergency in progress. I was the Doctor of Love in charge. Scram! They scrammed.

I wrote Oregon existential emergency; store closed. on a napkin, dabbed it nacho cheese goo and stuck it on the front door.

“You used the semicolon accurately,” the clerk said.

“Thank you,” I said.

The clerk came out from around the counter. He was ready to go.

“You ever built a driftwood fort?” I said.

“What’s that?”

We were about to leave when I turned around, sprinted to the cooler, and hauled out a 12-pack of Rainier.

“You ever drank a Rainier?” I said.

“No.”

He looked at me. I sensed fear and distrust.

“Am I with the right person?” he said.

“You’re with the right Oregonian. Let’s go.”

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