Oregon Tavern Age: Sunday Football

I wrote fiction at a table in my OTA joint and listened to the fictions of the four people behind me who were slumming and discussing all their trophy homes and vacations and destination restaurants and…everything about them was consumerism. The more conspicuous the better.

An older Black man played pool and drank a draft beer. He moved like silk might in a billowing wind. He wore sunglasses, a tan three-piece suit with a wide striped tie and a fedora. There was a doo rag under the fedora. The suit was two sizes too big for him. He wore the biggest gold watch I have ever seen. It looked like a sundial!

He was right off the set of a knockoff Shaft movie from 70s. (RIP Richard Roundtree.)

Every five minutes or so, a Black OTA woman wearing a scowl and a green knit stocking cap would enter the joint, twitch, gesture, and call the female bartender a bitch, then leave. It made no sense. It was reality show drama and I can’t stand that bullshit.

Another Black man played slots with aggression. He was losing and pounding the shit out of the machine. Nobody cared. The state owned them and they could repair them.

Football played on television. Men’s brains were being concussed for entertainment.

The weather outside was ideal for raking leaves and my yard needed raking.

The squirrels weren’t going to do it!

Oh those damn squirrels. They are my great friends!