Oregon Tavern Age: Crabs

A new NCL (National Concussion League) season was underway on multiple screen in my local OTA joint. I had about a two-percent interest in it.

Four OTAs sat at the bar but weren’t paying attention to the games. Three other OTAs played slot machines. Dead classic rock drifted around the room.

I sat at a table drinking an ale and contemplating my future in Coos Bay. Will I find new purpose here?

An OTA man entered. The OTAs at the bar hailed him over.

The newcomer was jacked up. Earlier that day, he had limited out on Dungeness crab from a charter boat that employed him. And that was after the tourists took in their haul! He held up his phone to show the crustacean gold and his friends broke into applause and profane compliments.

A male OTA said something to the effect of, “You sure got a lot crabs.”

Naturally, they all began sharing stories of contracting venereal crabs in their wayward youth. Even the woman chimed in with her tawdry tale.

For a moment, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but then I stopped. This was OTA country! They’ll tell you about shitting themselves in a bathtub after drinking a fifth of Jägermeister or fucking the wrong brother under the Christmas tree without a sliver of shame or irony.

I listened to their crab stories. One easily topped them all. It went something like this:

Decades ago one of the men was driving a tiny pickup with two buddies crammed into the cab. There was barely enough for him to use the manual transmission.

They were on their way deer hunting deep into the woods via bumpy logging roads. They were all hungover to the roof.

The buddy to the driver’s immediate right started twitching. The he started madly scratching his balls. The driver couldn’t shift. They were going to crash so he pulled over. The driver asked his buddy what the fuck was going on! The buddy said he must have got crabs from some chick he fucked last night at a party.

He zipped his pants down and checked. Hell yes he had crabs. Jesus, there was an army down there! He kept on scratching, but with more vigor. Hellfire!

The driver told scratching man if one of those fuckers found its way into his pants, he was going to beat the shit out of him.

Scratching man got out of the truck. He jumped into the bed of the pickup and held on for dear life. They weren’t returning to town. There was deer to hunt even if you had crabs. Suck it up! This was Oregon goddammit!

He got the holy living shit beat out of him over those logging roads, possibly even a concussion.

They didn’t see a single deer.

When they got back home, scratching man took a lighter to his pubic hair and laid waste to it not unlike a clearcut.