Oregon Tavern Age: Hamburger Helper

A female OTA bartender sat at the bar on a Sunday at noon. She ate from a bowl of something.

I sat at a back table with a beer and a notebook wondering why I still patronized this dump. I found myself in a foul mood despite the fact that ten minutes earlier I scored a Django Reinhardt greatest hits CD at Goodwill.

A preseason NFL game aired silently on television. Generic 90s alterna shit rock played loudly on the jukebox.

An OTA woman sitting next to the bartender asked what she was eating.

“Hamburger Helper,” she said.

“I grew up on that.”

The bartender had whipped herself up a little off-the-books lunch because Hamburger Helper wasn’t on the menu in here or anywhere in a dive bar across the USA.

A man played pool by himself and took it seriously.

An OTA man complained to another OTA woman that he hadn’t seen his kids all summer because was working too much. Sure buddy.

An OTA man with a cratered meth face stumbled in from the patio and screamed he’d lost his phone. The bartender had finished her bowl of Hamburger Helper and moved back behind the bar. She informed the man his card didn’t go through. He swore he had $400 in the account. Sure, buddy.

A revelation blasted into my mind: what the fuck am I doing in here?

The destitute OTA man asked an OTA woman to cover his tab. They were acquaintances. No dice. He bent his head and appeared to start crying. Then he began swearing to himself.

I considered paying his tab to put myself out of his misery. Not today buddy.

A woman came up to him and offered to drive him home. She had to get to work (after hitting the sauce all morning) and could drop him off. He declined.

It was time to go and take Elmer on his fourth walk of the day.