Oregon Tavern Age: Afternoon Images
Rain falls on a weekday winter afternoon. I sit in OTA country drinking a well gin and tonic and collecting my thoughts.
A rerun of a a Portland Trail Blazers’ loss plays silently on television. This NBA franchise is totally irrelevant to the cultural life of Portland, and all of Oregon for that matter. I can’t believe anyone pays money to attend their games. And to think I wrote a book about the Trail Blazers. That seems like a millennium ago.
A U2 song from the 80s plays. It just doesn’t pull me in like it used to. I’ve lived long enough to see rock become totally irrelevant as a social force—rap and hip hop, too.
Three OTA men sit at the bar. The talk is low. An OTA man enters with a pit bull puppy who greets the other men with gusto and practically takes a seat on a stool! Get that beast a beer and make it dark one!
Man and his dog. An old story. Maybe the oldest one of all, older than creation or the flood. It has always baffled me that the Bible doesn’t contain a single story about a dog. Surely Jesus had one following him around.
A homeless man walks in the joint. He sets his worldly possessions near the entrance. He barely moves across the carpet and takes a seat at the bar. He slumps over. He looks spent or dead. The bartender puts a can of beer on the counter for him.
The dog owner brings the puppy over to meet the homeless man, whom he apparently knows. The puppy rousts the homeless man and he resurrects and engages with the dog. He talks to him. He pets him and scratches his back.
Dog heals ailing man. An old story I know something about.
My 60th birthday has arrived. I feel better physically now than when I turned 50. As for my creative mind, it feels stronger, too. Perhaps nearly dying eight years ago had something to with that. I got stronger on the comeback.
Earlier today. I searched for my homeless friend Mark to share the good news that I’d arranged for an outreach worker to meet him on the streets and possibly move him into housing. After almost three years of trying, this is the closest we’ve come. I want this for my friend. He’s going to die soon if he doesn’t get into housing and he is ready to get off the streets.
Mark’s a year younger than me.
The federal government may or may not shut down. I believe I’ll live long enough to see a major political party go the way of the Whigs. The Whigs went away incredibly fast and I sense that will happen to the Republican Party as well.
The homeless man slumps over again. The bartender leaves him alone.
My thoughts are collected. I finish half the drink and leave.