After the usual standards at the pizzeria, I wandered down a cobblestone path, towards the sunset. I stepped into a mystical establishment, one that requires the windows to be spray painted black from the inside - a place where people exploit each other's proclivities.
A basket of French fries begins to coalesce into a sanctity of flesh and desire - except that the niceties are mere intrepid banalities for the sake of etiquette and my check is almost gone.
The over-abundance of black lights making my beer glow with a greenish hue and the overstated amount of red lights making everyone look ten years older made me begin to feel a bit dizzy all too soon...
As I open my eyes, I am a bit dazed. The sunlight is blinding me and I am unaware of my surroundings. I roll off a floral printed couch and walk across an old stained rug towards the smell of fresh coffee.
As I enter the kitchen, I recognize the wise, old face of the bartender from last night - Pam. She smiles and asks me how I’m feeling. “A bit hungover,” I reply. She offers me some coffee and I offer her half of the donut in my backpack. Over breakfast, she tells me how I fell off the bar stool the night before and how the door guy brought me upstairs to her couch.
Pat was an exceptional woman, probably in her 60’s or 70’s. She’s been serving me liquor for fifteen years and has always been a great listener. I tell her that I am going to go find some work today in the dock yards of northwest Portland and thank her for her hospitality as I walk out the door and head towards the glaring light of the sun.
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