Cheap Fuckin Pint
Portland, Oregon ~2015
Downtown Portland was half full but the streets were empty. A zombie apocalypse Friday night on the burner with bubbles starting to form at the bottom of the pot, and these bubbles are several craft beers and freshly legal Oregon-grown slurped out of a bubbler that Julius would search for until he found and purchased an exact replica in Colorado. “Cobblestone” streets that were more aesthetic than cultural didn’t matter in the slightest as Julius, Mac & Pete jaunted down the street with plenty of air in their sails. As they marched down the sidewalk of what Pete swore was the main drag for college students attending Portland State University, a small congregation of “regulars” outside the bar/destination were the only other people outside and were watching the three of them approach from the South.
One particularly gnarly guy was tall with stringy blonde hair that used to be brighter, and he was preparing to interact by repositioning his body towards the trio and his face into an expression made for new friends.
“Hehehe blehbleddy blehbleddy blehhh hehehe” said the vagabond to the trio.
“Hahaha yeah harharhar” responded Julius, who noticed the man was wearing a Boston Celtics hat — a reminder of home.
Thus the vagabond, beneath a basic black coat despite the summer warmth that remains past sundown in August in those Pacific Northwest places, latched onto the trio and everyone assumed everyone else knew what was going on. Mac was smiling at the man as Pete turned to him with a ? for a face, answered by Mac’s ! of ignorance.
The bar was red and deeply wooden. Light radiated from everything so that the tacky orb-shaped fixtures on the walls seemed to merely be hubs instead of the supply. To the left of the door there was a seven foot tall divider that changed from wood to glass at eye level. After about 12 paces, the wall — to separate the bar from the main area with the highest traffic — opens to an area without tables or chairs, where the trio now stood with their stowaway.
Two people, a classic male-female couple, occupied the same seat on the end of the bar closest to the exit. The red hair bartender was barely able to see over the wood of the divider and she was undoubtedly in full control of her establishment. The couple was obliviously self-obsessed while the bartender was somehow in the middle of something despite the lack of patrons; there is always something to do in the service industry.
Above them all dangled a chandelier that was neither at home nor conspicuous. Nobody noticed it because the vagabond, who was quite tall, was adding “just busting your balls” to the end of every joke he was cracking.
“So who’s gonna buy me a beer?” spat the vagabond with severity. It was now that the trio took stock of their surroundings. The situation had just changed.
“Who is this guy?!” whispered Pete to no one in particular, looking to Julius and Mac and the bartender, who was suddenly concerned.
“Come on. Just a cheap fuckin pint. Who’s gonna buy me a beer?”
Julius with widened eye and slightly bared teeth: “I’m probably not going to buy you a beer unless you agree to get the next round.”
Pete’s ? turned to an interrobang as he said more loudly than anything he had said previously, “Dude, who are you?”
“I’m a falconheaded sparrow without wings and I’ve been flap flap flapping my way down the street to feel good again because I never felt as good as the last time I had wings to flap,” which wasn’t what he said but no one was listening to his words because the meaning was all in the tone of his voice.
I need a DRINK.
“Let’s just go sit down and maybe he’ll leave us alone.” On his way to the bar — equipped with lowbacked, fourlegged stools - Mac and Julius checked the vagabond’s eyes.
“Boys, Boys, Boys, I know one of you has enough money in there to buy me a drink. Just a vodka soda or some piss water. I just need something ok?”
And the boys were seated in this order: Mac, Pete, Julius. The bartender was there. The couple at the end of the bar had disengaged briefly. The vagabond was standing over the trio from behind, hands in pockets, birdlike in his fidgets, his scraggly beard hairs obscuring more of his face now that he was backlit by the chandelier. With the divider behind him, he was towering over them instead of merely crowding their space. Mac and Julius sat with their bodies open towards him; arms and legs positioned with leverage and wordlessly communicating that at the first sign of trouble they would fly forward and pin the vagabond against the divider to neutralize any weapons he may have in that coat.
“Are you guys ok?” asked the bartender.
“I hope so.”
Whatever was hiding in his coat pocket, the vagabond was twirling it in his fingers, tightening and loosening his grip on it as he licked his lips. He took off his Celtics hat.
“Wow. I wouldn’t expect this from a bunch of Boston boys.”
“Nobody said we were from Boston” snapped Pete.
“Is this how Boston does Portland? Cause that’s not how Portland does Boston…” and as he said it the vagabond placed the Celtics hat down on the bar between Pete and Mac, Irish green with the thick, embroidered insignia somehow in shadow despite the ambience. He was closer to the trio now.
Mac noticed for the first time a Gatorade bottle with the labeling torn off and filled with a liquid that was too dark and mysterious to have an identifiable color, like the contents were so various and poorly mixed that they retained their identities while occupying the same volume. He picked up the hat and shoved it into the vagabond’s chest, making solid impact to show that he was stronger than the vagabond assumed, and letting go so that he would have to grab it quickly before it fell to the floor.
“We’re not going to buy you a drink. Nobody is going to buy you a drink. How about you give us a little space.”
Julius and Pete looked from Mac to the vagabond. He looked at Mac, then at the bartender, saying nothing. Hands twirling in his pockets. Shifting back and forth, seeking leverage himself. He was taller now than he ever had been before.
“I said ‘How about you give us a little space.’”
Silence.
. Bartender.
Chandelier.
Couple.
. Gatorade.
Shifting.
. Julius.
. Pete.
Mac.
Flapping.
. Flapping.
“HELLO?! TIME TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” roared the bartender.
“Come on man. It’s time to go.”
The vagabond wandered past the edge of the bar where the couple sat looking at him and at Mac, who had done the talking this time. He stood there making noises.
“What the fuck was that guy’s problem?” asked the bartender.
“I have no idea, but we’re gonna need something to drink” said Julius.
“How about a cheap fuckin pint?” proposed Pete.
“Make that three” echoed Mac.
And the couple at the end of the bar laughed, the bartender joined in, and a new couple entered the Virginia Cafe of Portland, Oregon from the same entrance the trio had only 10 minutes earlier. The light emanated from the beer, the laughter, the wood itself.
Eventually the vagabond left, long after anyone was still uneasy about his presence. He opened the door and held it open for a while, then smoked a cigarette with his drifter friend who had been with him when he leeched onto the trio, and was still hanging out next to the door of the bar where he had been left. When the trio left Victoria’s they were gone.
Written for Advo, a field guide for adulting. Check us out on our other platforms:
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