Parrot Poker

A tall woman with flowing white hair walked into the Bayhaven.

It was a Saturday afternoon in January on the Oregon Coast.

It was darker outside than inside the joint.

I sat at the bar writing a love letter in longhand with a beer chaser.

Five of us sat on stools.

Everyone but me was eating caramel corn.

I glanced up when the woman entered.

I was the only one.

She was OTA and wearing a see-through linen halter dress that barely contained her ample bosom.

Foxy?

I looked at her again.

A blue parrot rested on her left shoulder.

She sidled over to the video poker machine, slid in some bills, punched up a game—jacks or better— maxed the bet.

The parrot hopped off her shoulder, onto the console.

He started tapping buttons with his beak.

She left the parrot on the machine, came over to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic.

She greeted the bartender like an old friend.

She pounded the drink in one gulp.

I never stopped watching her.

The woman returned to the machine.

She said something to the parrot I couldn’t make out.

The parrot hopped on her shoulder.

She cashed out and walked back to the bar to collect her winnings.

The parrot had won ten bucks.

The woman and parrot exited the Bayhaven.

No one said a word about the parrot after they left.