A Night on the Town (Part II)

This is the 2nd part in a series. Click here for the 1st.

The parking lot was packed, which is pretty unusual for Tiny’s. They must have a band. As we approached the door, the noise making its way through the door, walls, and windows told us this was true. Was there somewhere else we could go? We wanted to talk and drink beer. We didn’t want to watch a loud, obnoxious band; shout; and keep asking, “What? What did you say?” But 1AM on a Monday night doesn’t leave you many choices. So we rolled the dice with Tiny’s and entered.

The place was rockin. Everyone was dressed in black with studded collars, studded belts, Mohawks, and combat boots. Tattoos, piercings and drunk people were everywhere. The three of us looked on in awe.

The band was Irish-punk, the crowd was punk, everything was punk, and it was contagious. We were feeling alive, excited to be alive, to be part of the night, not knowing where it was going, and not knowing how we got there, but loving every minute of it. People were walking around with pitchers of beer in hand, spilling it on the floor, spilling it on the booths, spilling it on each other. Skinny, shirtless punks were up in front of the band flaying about, pushing each other – it was a mosh-pit - and oh, there were girls up there too. Girls and mosh pits – two of my favorite things. People were climbing over booths, falling against the walls, knocking down beer signs. It was madness. A big girl jumped onto her boyfriend, wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and smacked her lips against his lips. He was reeling, staggering under the weight, back and forth, struggling to keep on his feet. “This is what I love about this neighborhood,” I said to Rich and Tegan and they agreed. Whitaker rules.

I went up to the bar, “Can I get two pints of Oly?” The bartender put a red, plastic cup over the tap, “We just ran out.”
“How about PBR?”
“We finished that off too.”
“Damn, what a bunch of drunkards. How about Bud?”
They hadn’t managed to kill that one off… yet. So, that’s what we got.

Tiny’s usually has its own distinct odor, but today even that seemed to be at an all time high. And it was different. I couldn’t make-up my mind what it was. Then all at the same time Tegan says, “B.O.” Rich says, “Piss,” and I say, “beer.” We laughed and speculated it was a mixture of all three. Still we were in agreement – “Tiny’s is awesome.”

We drank, we messed around with my camera, we watched the craziness. And I started thinking how great life is. The mystery of it all. The randomness. The unpredictability. Just that afternoon I had no plans. Now I was out with Rich and Tegan – two new friends that came into my life out of nowhere – and we were all enjoying this trip called the night.

Then I looked up at the mosh pit and I knew this trip was approaching the end. This was my last chance. So, I jumped to my feet and said, “I gotta get up there.” Rich and Tegan didn’t question it. The fire in my eyes said it all. I walked up, squeezed past the outer wall of people, and jumped in the middle of it. There was pushing, shoving, bodies flying everywhere. No violence. Just good-hearted fun. Everyone had a smile on their face. Then, just like that, the song was over and I was left thinking, “Damn. I should’ve got up here earlier.”

I reluctantly returned to the table. The band members were talking to people, packing up their things. The energy slowly emptied out, into the darkness, onto the streets, and I was sad to see it go. Tegan, Rich, and I all made a pact to return. “Next time I’ll ride my bike,” Tegan said, so she could drink.

A Night on the Town (Part I)

After a month of being in Michigan and surfing the local couch scene in Eugene, I returned to the Whitaker Hostel. Rich was still there, and by the second day, he suggested we go have a few beers. Sounds good to me. “I can’t stay out all night,” he emphasized, “I can only go out for a few.” He was referring to the last time we partied. We started around eight in the evening and didn’t stop till five the next morning. He was trying to head off another nasty hangover before it had a chance to start. I agreed whole heartedly. Still, somewhere in the back of my head, a voice said, “I’ve heard that before.”

We started off by getting a couple of big micro-brews from the Beer Stein. It’s not my favorite place in the world – a little too bright, a little too sterile. I like a little darkness and seediness to go along with my beer. But they have a huge selection and if you get it to go, they knock off 20%. We brought the beers over to an apartment of some guy Rich knew, but we knew he wasn’t there. He went to Virginia and ended-up with a job. “Go to my apartment and take whatever you want,” he said to Rich, “I’m not coming back.” So we were heading there to snag a bike and scope-out the rest. And to drink beer.

Once at the apartment, we sat at the table and proceeded to drink our beers. And we talked. Not about anything in particular – just whatever came into our heads at the time. I don’t know Rich that well, but in some ways he's like an old friend. A good mix of seventies rock was coming from the cheap little, speaker in the clock radio – Steely Dan, ELO, The Knack. Then the beer was gone and it was time to go.

I lost Rich on the way back, but we were heading to the same place, so I wasn’t too worried. He still wasn’t there when I got back, which gave me time to wonder what I was going to do with the rest of the evening. I had much too much energy to succumb to sleep and I had just enough beer in me where I didn’t feel like doing anything productive. So, what was I going to do? Rich came in and must’ve been going through the same process. “Want to go to Sam Bond’s and have a couple more beers,” he asked, “I’ll buy.” It was a dangerous move considering our history, but since when has that stopped me.

Sam Bond’s was alive with activity – a human hive – and sitting at a table near the bar was Tegan. I met Tegan months ago on the campaign trail. We were both being paid to canvas for a local politician. I remember thinking I’d like to hang out with her, but not in any carnal kind of way. How does a guy ask a girl out without it sounding like a date? I couldn’t come-up with an acceptable answer, so I didn’t bother. That was months ago and now here she was. So, I went over and talked with her for a while. Nothing major, but then I noticed Rich was lingering up at the bar looking kind of lost, so I said, “I’m going to get a drink,” and left her.

Rich ordered us a couple of PBR’s - a buck each. Bonus. “Do you think I should give her my e-mail,” I asked Rich. I explained my dilemma. After some time he kind of shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sure,” but he didn’t seem too convinced himself. It was obvious I’d have to make-up my own mind on this one. “She’s kind of quirky,” he said. She was quirky. That’s what I liked about her. Then I noticed her and her friends were getting ready to leave. She came up to say good-bye, so I grabbed a pen and pad of paper from behind the bar and said, “Wait. Here’s my e-mail. Let’s hang out some time.” She smiled, took it, and then wrote her address down.

She didn’t seem to be in a big hurry to leave, even after her friends took off, so we talked on. “She’s a French translator,” I said to Rich. Say something French,” I asked her.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, something funny.”
So she said something in French. It didn’t sound all that funny to me. It just sounded French, but I laughed anyway. “OK, now say something mean.” She said something mean, and it sounded mean, but I still laughed. We went on like that for a while. Cheap entertainment.

I noticed Rich was already half way done with his second beer. Damn. I wasn’t even done with my first. Time to focus. “Last call,” the bartender announced. “Let’s get another round,” Rich said. Sure. Why not? We had four bottles on the bar now. I wondered what it looked like to Tegan. She probably thought we were a couple of drunks. “Well, maybe we are,” I thought and took a drink. I didn’t care I was having fun.

With our beers emptied, Rich and I decided to cross the street over to Tiny’s. “You want to come?” I asked Tegan and she did. Our entourage was gaining steam...

Talia

“Uncle Wes, Uncle Wes,” she’s always saying in her sweet three year old voice, “Play Uncle Wes….play.” She’s always sitting next to me on the couch, taking my cheeks in her hands and molding my face like play-dough. She stretches my cheeks, pushes them together. She pushes my nose this way and that. Then she puts her fingers in my mouth and stretches it out until I say, “Ouch Talia, that hurts.” She puts her little hands on my face, brings hers right up to mine – nose to nose, and starts moving my head back and forth. Not side to side. Back and forth. Like an Italian mother scolding her child, except she's got a cute, little smile on her face.

Talia wasn’t like this when I first arrived. She was all shy, holding onto her mother’s legs. “Aren’t you going to hug your Uncle Wes?” I asked. She just looked up at me with suspicious eyes, holding onto mom, finger in mouth. “Go on. Hug your Uncle Wes,” my brother pushed her on. I felt bad that she had to be ordered to hug me. Not that I take it personal. I understand where she’s coming from. She only sees me two times a year and she’s only three years old. How much of a connection do we really have? That was part of the reason I was there. I wanted to spend time with my niece. I knew she’d warm up to me eventually.

I made a point of playing with her that first night. We went into her bedroom and played with her doll house, Winnie-the-Pooh, and Dora the Explorer. After that I was her best friend. “Play Uncle Wes, play.”

By the second day she’s giving me an occasional smooch and out of the blue saying, “I love you Uncle Wes.” When I see her baby teeth smile and bright, blue eyes, she melts my cynical heart. The world is new and everything is possible.

She’s not all sugar though. She’s always testing boundaries. “Talia don’t hit Tigger with the tray,” I tell her. She hits the cat again. “Talia I’m going to take it away if you do it again.” Of course, she goes out of her way to do it again. So I get up and take the tray away. “I want it! I want it,” she starts screaming, coming toward me, reaching for it. I lift it up out of her reach. She climbs up on the couch reaching upward. I switch the tray to the other hand and she climbs around my back to get at it. She’s relentless. I put it under the couch. She gets on the floor and lays on her stomach getting ready to go after it again. I block her with my legs. Her arms are around my ankles, head in between. It’s a test of wills and I’m not giving in. She starts wailing and kicking on the floor, throwing a tantrum. Then she gets up, looks at me with those tear flushed cheeks and pouty lips like she’s just had her dreams ripped away, and I want to give her the world. But I don’t. I know better. “I’ll give it to you later,” I say, “when you calm down.” “I want it now,” she demands.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It’s not gonna happen.”
She erupts. Linda has to take her to her room, lock her in. She’s sobbing, screaming, and beating on the door like there’s someone with a hockey mask and butcher’s knife in there with her. It’s heart wrenching.

After some time, she starts to tire and quiet. Linda gets her, puts her on her lap, brushes the hair from her face, holds her and soothes her like only a mother can do. Later Talia comes up to me all soft and gentle, “Uncle Wes, I’m not crying.” At first, I don’t know what she means. Then I remember what I told her – that I’d give her the tray after she calmed down. I’m amazed that she heard it through all the chaos, and I’m even more amazed that she remembers it. The mind of a child. So, I pull it out, hand it to her, and say, “Here you go, but if you hit Tigger with it, I’ll take it away.” Now she’s good as ever like she’s been cleansed or exorcised or something. Within minutes she’s climbing up on the couch with a book, nestling in next to me, nice and snug. She wants me to read to her. It’s like nothing ever happened.

By the third day, when she wakes up, she’s running up to me, “Uncle Wes, Uncle Wes,” with her hands up in the air opening and closing like gimme, gimme, gimme and her big, blond curls flopping. The sun is shining and I know it’s going to be a beautiful day.

We all go to the park. As soon as the playground is in site, she starts giggling and running toward it with clumsy steps. “Kids get excited at the smallest things,” I say to Linda, “I wish we could do that.” We play on the swing set. I’m getting it higher and higher, and then I jump off. I stand on it. I flip it upside down and hang from it. Talia says, “you’re silly Uncle Wes.”

Don and Linda drop me off at the train station. They were warning Talia all along, “Talia, Uncle Wes has to leave tomorrow,” or “Talia, Uncle Wes is leaving today.” I thought it was kind of mean and unnecessary, but as soon as I open the door and take a step outside, she lifts her hands up in the air for her mom, scrunches her face together, opens her mouth wide, and starts bawling. Wow, I never realized my leaving could have such in impact on someone. It kind of makes me feel good.

Linda takes her out of the car and brings her around to me. Talia won’t say good-bye, I love you, or anything. She won’t even look at me. “Oooh, she sure is mad at you,” Linda says. I give them both a big hug and a kiss. I turn around, shake my brother’s hand, give him a manly hug, and start to walk away. But there on the black, rail fence is a bunch of train station grand opening balloons – all red, yellow, and blue. I grab them, walk back around the car, reach inside, and hand them to Talia. A big smiles lights-up on her face and she starts batting them around. She doesn’t even notice me walking away. “Uncle Wes who?” I say laughingly to Don and Linda.

I think of Talia on the long train ride. Her cute face. Her sweet, innocent voice. The way she makes me feel when she snuggles next to me on the couch. Memories keep me warm the whole way home.

The Roadhouse

Jack, my Uncle Lenny and I are in Lenny’s garage. We’re having all kinds of fun – drinking beer, smoking grass, rough housing. “If you were going to take me out with one move, how would you do it?” Jack asks. He’s always asking these kinds of questions. And he knows Karate. So I say, “I don’t know what my move would be Jack. It would have to be something unpredictable, because if it wasn’t, you’d win.” Then later, when he’s not expecting it, and I’m not expecting it, my fist flies up to his neck and stops immediately just grazing the skin. I don’t plan it. It just happens. I don’t hurt him, but it lets him know I can. You have to do these kinds of things with Jack.

That’s how the evening starts off, but the real action begins around midnight after my cousin Jenny drops us off at the Roadhouse. The Roadhouse is your typical Midwestern bar – classic rock, long neck bottles, blue jeans, baseball caps, and the smell of deep fried food, cigarettes, and stale beer in the air. It’s a Friday night and the place is pretty happening.

A couple rounds of beers later, I’m on my way to the bathroom. Out with the old, in with the new. On my way back I notice a cute, blonde girl up at the bar. She smiles at me and the seat on her right is empty. “Do you mind if I sit here?” I ask. “No,” she says with another smile that makes me feel like the luckiest guy in the world. So, I sit.

We talk for awhile. I really like her and I’m pretty sure she’s liking me. Every time I look at her, she smiles, and it draws me in even more. But one of the guys playing pool keeps coming up to her, putting his hand around her shoulder, and whispering things in her ear. “Is that your boyfriend,” I finally ask. “No,” she says with a look of disgust on her face like the mere suggestion of such a thing makes her physically ill. All the better for me I figure. I get the impression she’s been set-up on a date with him and she’s not too happy about it.

After the game of pool is done the guy comes over and says, “that’s my seat.” I look around at all the empty seats surrounding us. I say, “there’s plenty of open seats. Why don’t you sit somewhere else?” He doesn’t like that too much, and before you know it, we’re in each other’s faces ready to come to blows. That’s when Jack comes over and pulls me away. I’m just a visitor in a foreign land and, when it comes down to it, I really don’t want to get in a fight, so I back off. But the fire continues to burn in my blood.

Jack and I go back to the table, back to our beers. Everybody’s watching. Waiting for something. There’s three guys up at the bar. Tough guys and they’re looking like they want a piece of me. So I get up, wrap my hands around one of those long neck bottles and smack it on the edge of the table real hard. It doesn’t break, but it’s loud enough to get everybody’s attention. Then I laugh. That’s right. I laugh. I laugh, because I know I’m the craziest son of a bitch in that whole damn bar. And now they know it too. Nobody’s going to mess with me.

Nobody except the barmaid that is. “You better take him home,” she says to Jack. I’m not ready to take on the whole bar and that’s what it would take. So, I leave willingly.

But the fire’s still burning. The girl really didn’t like that guy and she liked me. So why is it he’s in there with her and I’m out here. Just because it’s his turf? Because he’s got the numbers? That whole damn bar is a travesty, an injustice.

“Damn Jack, that girl really liked me,” I say. “Aaaaaah, she was just messing with you,” he replies. And that really sets me off. There are moments in this world when special things happen. Like chemistry between a man and a woman. It’s not in words, but in everything in between. It’s in those moments that seem small and insignificant, but in truth they’re everything. It’s in the moments that we feel in our hearts, not in our heads. But magic has no place in a culture where materialism and economy reign king. So we ignore what we feel, what we know to be true. We push it down and follow the herd, because there’s safety in numbers.

I’m trying to explain all this to Jack, getting more and more revved-up, “you don’t understand,” I shout, “nobody understands!” This wasn’t just a question of me and a girl. It was a question of everything that’s good and true versus everything that’s wrong. “It’s just like Kelly Singleton,” I say. Every move you make, every move you don’t make, it all makes a difference. Everything is important, everything counts, and I can feel the weight of the world on me. Like I’m the only one that knows this, like I’m the only one that gives a shit. I’m feeling the intensity of everything around me, the significance of every moment, of every glance, of every event, and how nobody seems to understand the importance of it all and I’m trying to explain all this to Jack in a wild fit of rage and passion, and I’m pounding my fist wildly on the steering wheel and then finally into the windshield. Smack!

“Holly shit,” Jack says, “you broke the window.” This snaps me out of my fit for a moment. I stare up at the spider web in front of my face. Shit. I did break it. Wow, I can’t believe I did that. And my hand doesn’t hurt. I didn’t plan it. Pure instinct. And then I start right back up again, and Jack has to sit there and listen to it, because he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Some things just have to run their course.

A couple days later, after I return to Oregon, Jack sends me an e-mail. “I didn’t tell anyone what happened that night. I figure it’s your business spazoid,” he says, “You’re a wildman!!”

“You can tell anybody you want about that night,” I reply, “It's not behavior I want to have everyday, but you need to let off some steam and get a little crazy now and then. I'm proud of it.”

Later, I tell Beth the story over sushi at lunch. “Did you want to get in a fight?” she asks. “I know you’ve been in fights before, but all the years we were together, you were always the one trying to break them up.” That’s the thing that’s so confusing. At heart I’m a peaceful guy. I’m one of the most gentle, laid-back people you’ll ever know. But there’s this other side of me – a wild side. It craves adventure, feeds on excitement, and lives off rebellion. It smashes bottles on the street, screams at the top of it’s lungs at passing trains, and howls at the moon. It’s sick of playing it safe. I’ve been doing that my whole life and I just don’t want to do it anymore. That’s what’s wrong with the world. Everybody’s playing it safe, following the herd. And it drives me crazy. I don’t want to hurt anyone and I don’t want them hurting me. I just want to shake things up a little. That’s all.

All That Remains