Oregon Tavern Age: Solitude

The OTA man left the video lottery area of the South Jetty and came over to sit down with two OTA men at a table. They were taking a lunch break from a nearby masonry job to eat club sandwiches and drink root beers. They all knew one another and shook hands.

I sat five feet away writing a letter to a young wild poet, struggling with statements to encourage her to pursue a life of poetry in the wild when the private wilderness of our lives is under siege by digital corporations and governments, separately, and in collusion.

There were just the four of us in the bar, not including the bartender. Pop radio played lightly in the background. No sounds emanated from the televisions.

“You getting lucky, making any money on the machines?” said one of the masonry men to the fisherman.

No he wasn’t. But his response barely registered. He was a quiet man. He wasn’t drinking and had a greasy red ball cap pulled down low, almost in disguise, but he couldn’t hide his face.

I listened in. The letter could wait.

The gambler was a fisherman who had just returned from three months at sea, somewhere up near Alaska. He’d found a couple of “sweet spots” and the crew had scored. I think he was the skipper of the boat.

“I just came here to be alone, the solitude. The games help with that,” he said, almost in a whisper.

I’ll never look at video lottery games the same way again.

The fisherman’s face captured my attention. I previously called all faces playing video lottery games zombies. But he wasn’t a zombie. His face was very much alive and he was trying to re-energize himself by being alone after months in cramped quarters on the high seas, probably surrounded by profane assholes like from the fishermen TV shows.

I know something about seeking solitude. It’s been the story of my creative life. It’s why I visit OTA country. I order solitude on draft there.

The fisherman excused himself and got up to buy some cigarettes at the convenience store across the street.

I went back to writing the poet. It was easier because I’d just witnessed a poem unfold in real, face-to-face time in the private wilderness of a man’s mind.

The fisherman returned a few minutes later and went back to the games.

I watched his face as I walked out. I saw it reflected in the game. There was no indication he was winning, at least with the game.

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