This is an amalgamation of a few different drinking trips that I made to Portland back when I lived in Seattle.
I’d just hopped the train from Seattle. I boarded at King Street
Station in Pioneer Square with a small flask of scotch to gird the old
loins for the three hour trek Portland. See, I had a hankering for a
good solid bender and I knew too many people in Seattle to get any
proper drinking done there. That meant I had to get as far away from
them as possible—for their own good.
Portland is Seattle’s retarded little brother. It’s a bit meaner,
somewhat stunted, and convinced that the shit on its teeth is
delicious chocolate. What better place to go and get blind drunk?
Plus, I was much more likely to be stabbed in Portland than in Seattle
if for no other reason than the fact that Portland is filled to the
brim with bloodthirsty villains. Nothing says “adventure” like a good
stabbing and I’m a man who loves adventure.
I got to town around five in the afternoon, the timing was perfect—
I wandered out of the train station and made my way into Old Town just
as happy hour was starting. After a few streets I ended up walking
into Kell’s, a shitty over-priced Irish bar.
“Can I have a Guinness and a Johnny Powers?”
“Neat or rocks?” The paddy behind the bar was prickly and sour, who
could blame him though? He was like the Irish exhibit at the
zoo. These guys are hired because of their accent and they have to put
up with fifty wide-eyed yanks per day asking them what part of Ireland
(or even more cringeworthy, The Old Country) that they are from. As
soon as it’s revealed the customer, who invariably hasn’t had a potato
eater in his family for six generations, exclaims that his family has
a castle in that very county.
“Neat.”
I was eventually served a pint of Guinness and a glass of John Powers
brand Irish Whiskey. I hate Irish Whiskey. It tastes like gasoline and
canola oil but I keep drinking it in hopes that it will
improve. There’s no better brand to self-flagellate with than Johnny
Powers, that’s a proven fact. Anybody who says differently is a filthy
lying liar and likely a communist to boot. I polished off two pints
and two more Johnnies before hitting the road. Thankfully it was dark
when I walked out the door, Portland is a mean town and I didn’t want
to look it directly in the face.
The streets in Old Town Portland are nice and narrow, it’s the
Portlandized version of Seattle’s Pioneer Square with hipper bars and
better food. After a bit I noticed a bar called the Shanghai Tunnel, I
was reasonably sure it wasn’t a strip joint although since strip
joints account for roughly one in twelve businesses in Portland you
never can be entirely sure of these things without looking inside. The
sex industry is so rampant in Portland that if the girl you are dating
is over sixteen you can be assured that either she is a stripper or
has been one.
The Shanghai Tunnel was in fact a cozy little booze joint with an
Oriental theme. I sidled up to the bar next to a weedy guy with
glasses and an average looking blonde girl. They were talking about
the bar business and I was drinking whiskey at a terrible pace.
“What do you know about the bar business?” I challenged the both of them.
“Well, I’m a bartender.” Bingo.
“Ha! Excellent, I used to be a bartender before I was chased out of
the industry over an incident involving the mayor’s daughter, a pack
of pornographic playing cards and a cucumber.” I scooted stools and
leaned over Blondie to shake hands with my new found sponsor “I’m
Scott.”
“Gerry, nice to meet you.”
“Shot?”
“Sure.”
“Three Sauzas please—Hornitos.” This was a bad idea.
“Cheers” in unison.
The shots were large, much larger than they would have been had they
not been poured for a regular, respected patron and fellow service
industry veteran. When on a drinking vacation the best course of
action is to spot the man with the most social capital, crawl into his
ass and then set fire to his reputation. This is a proven strategy
that can never go wrong, I learned it from an old Chinese monk.
Gerry filled me in on all the details, he loved Portland because it
was a young town. He felt like a bit of a big fish and who could blame
him? He clearly had the place dialed in. To be a young bartender in a
hot neighbourhood—even in Portland—is like being a rock star
without having to know how to play music or perform in a band. All you
have to do is show up and sling the fucking shots because man, you
control the booze. Even when you’re off shift the chances are that you
know the staff of every bar in town. It’s a beautiful thing, the
drinks are strong and you can get away with murder.
The shots kept coming and Gerry was getting ready to move. He invited
me to a bar called Dante’s a couple of blocks up. His blonde friend
joined us, she was starting to get prettier and I wasn’t sure if I
could blame the whiskey or the tequila for improving her appearance.
Dante’s is a dark bar with lots of exposed flame and red velvet. It
rocks the classic wank martini bar aesthetic but it was packed with
your general riff-raff. As we staggered in I could tell that it was
going to be a good night. I drank a few more Sauzas on Gerry’s
generous tab and began dragging him around the bar, explaining to
everyone that he was a very important person and that I was his life
coach, there to make sure that he wasn’t wasting his talent.
“What talent?” A particularly wide eyed brunette piped up.
“Oh, you don’t want to know. Actually you probably do but I don’t want
him to get mobbed” shifting my eyes “he’s supposed to be relaxing
right now.”
“Should I be asking him for his autograph?” This brought to mind a
classic trick that I had learned from my dear friend Kevin. It was
first employed during the 1999 Rugby World Cup in Cardiff where it met
with resounding success.
“Funny that my dear, as Gerry doesn’t sign autographs but he does in
fact let people sign his ass.”
“What?” She nearly hollered my face off.
“Really. I’ll show you.” I went to the bar and as luck would have it
they had a Sharpie for me “Take this, and take it quickly before
you’re spotted.”
“You want me to sign his ass?”
“It’s your duty.” I grabbed Gerry by the shoulder and leaned in “Man,
drop your drawers there’s a beautiful twenty-one year old with a
marker and she wants to sign your ass, as your life coach I insist!” A
man has to pay attention to his life coach, Gerry bared his ass and it
was soon signed. Moments later a crowd had formed and people were
lining up to sign the ass. Some were having their photos taken with
it. Gerry’s ass had become a celebrity.
In the meantime I moved in on the brunette. I learned her name was
Marla and she was originally from a small town in Oklahoma named
Waurika. I told her that Waurika was a boring dead end and she’s lucky
she made it to Portland where she at least had a chance of being
stabbed. She laughed and I moved in close.
“Hi” A tall frowny guy in a black shirt interrupted before I could get too
much further along.
“Hello, pleased to meet you. I think I want to have sex with your
girlfriend.”
“What?”
“Sorry, that was disingenuous, I meant to say that I’m going to have
sex with your girlfriend.” What the hell, I’m in Portland I may as
well get stabbed. I shot her a wink and a smile.
The girl giggled but she was no fool. She backed up a bit so he could
get a clean shot. I was standing there grinning in whiskey-soaked
oblivion watching him wind his fist up. I saw it coming but something
in me couldn’t be bothered to get out of the way. The bastard caught
me full on in the temple which wouldn’t have been so bad but he was
wearing cheap silver rings and tore a good chunk out. I grinned and
jumped onto him but was pulled away by an angry Samoan bouncer before
I could bite his ear off.
I tried in vain to explain to the bouncer that it wasn’t my fault and
a grave mistake was being made but this was to no avail. I then tried
to explain that I was a life coach and that one of my clients was
having his ass defaced in the most literal of senses just inside the
doors. It was futile of course but at least the brute managed to hand
me a couple of napkins to staunch the blood.
My first thought was to grab a hotel room. That hope was dashed as
soon as I had wandered the periphery of Old Town. Either I obliviously
walked by all of the cheap hotels in the neighbourhood or none exist
in the area. Given the dearth of options I decided to check and see
what time my morning train came at, the station being only a few
blocks away.
The Portland train station as I soon found out was not a twenty four
hour establishment. It was just a little past two thirty in the
morning and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t open the front
doors. To be sure that it wasn’t just my drunken lack of coordination
I repeatedly yanked at the doors, throwing my weight into it.
“Hey get out of here” A chubby uniformed guy in his late twenties
waddled out from behind something inside the station and stood looking
at me through glass in the door.
“Hey buddy, I’m just trying to see if these doors will actually
open. I can’t seem to find a hotel in this shitbox of a city you have
here.”
“The train station is closed. Please come back at seven when we open.”
“What sort of train station is this? Did I move to a communist
country? Did Portland secede? This is AMERICA dammit, I demand that
the trains stations be open for twenty four hours of every day!” Where
was this man’s sense of patriotism? Didn’t he know how important it
was to keep the communist threat at bay? Hadn’t he heard of
Containment? The only way to succeed is to keep American commerce in
session twenty four hours of every goddamned day. It dawned on me that
he might as well have been on their side, this man was clearly a
communist and had to be dealt with accordingly.
“Please go get some sleep and come again in the morning.”
“You communist fool! Didn’t you hear me say that I haven’t been able
to find a hotel?”
“Sir, leave or I’ll call the cops.”
“Call ‘em you red bastard, I’ll be right here.” We’ll get to the
bottom of this.
He made quick intonation into his walkie-talkie, was silent and then
fixed me in his beady stare. No matter how much I pleaded with him he
wouldn’t come outside, not even for a moment. Once he made to open the
door but I leapt too soon and spooked him. Failing to flush him out, I
quizzed him to pass the time.
“Is it hard for you to lose weight?”
“Interesting career choice, how long have you been doing this?”
“Parents proud?”
“I bet this job really brings in the trim, huh?”
All of these were asked in the name of science and that filthy
Stalinist bastard wouldn’t answer any of them. All he did was sit
there and fittingly enough, turn red.
“Sir,” came from behind me. I turned to see Portland’s Finest emerging
from their vehicle. “please take your hands out of your pockets.”
I turned and extracted my hands from my pockets while making a “woo”
noise. I have always prided myself on my diplomacy and I’d be damned
if I lost my edge at that point. They asked for my identification and
my wallet, which I reluctantly handed over.
“This communist won’t let me into the station sir, there’s obviously
been some sort of error. Please arrest this man and either open these
doors or point me at a hotel so I can get some sleep before my train
comes in the morning.” Reasonable, non?
“You are aware that the train station is closed?”
“Of course, what do you take me for?”
“How much have you had to drink tonight?”
“All of it.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I was going to get a hotel but I haven’t been able to find any. Plan
B was to catch a midnight train back to Seattle.”
“There are no midnight trains, and it’s pushing three AM.”
“Fair enough.” While all of this was going on they were running my
details and inspecting the contents of my wallet. The filthy
troglodyte of a security guard was smirking in the way that only fat
people can.
“There’s a hotel about three blocks that way.” The officer pointed in
the direction that I had just come from.
“That’s horseshit and you know it! You must be in on it too, holy
Mother of God is it the whole fucking town?”
The officer let out a sigh and motioned to his partner that it was
time to throw this loony in the bin. As they cuffed me and led me into
the back of the car the security guard chortled.
I immediately began asking questions “So am I being charged with anything?”
“Nope, we’re just going to take you to Detox.”
“The Drunk Tank?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you guys at least going to kick the shit out of me?”
Pause.
“Nope, we’re just going to let you sleep it off.”
“Right, do I get a fine?”
“Nope.”
“What time do I get released?”
“Seven.”
“My train comes at eight, how far away is the station?” Just as I
finished the sentence we pulled in. “Wow, this is great. I think you
guys saved me seventy bucks for a hotel room. Are you sure you don’t
want to kick the shit out of me? At least to get your money’s worth?”
“Sir, we’re not going to beat you up.”
They let me out of the car and I offered once again to hang tight for
a good old fashion shit kicking but they wouldn’t have a bar of it. I
told ‘em I could do anything—foetal position, face off the hood of
the cop car, billy clubs across the mid-thigh. They clearly missed an
opportunity. The sad bastards even chuckled as they processed me into
the Portland Detox Facility.
I spent twenty or so minutes bugging the only other occupant of the
tank, asking him how he got there and what he thought about the
communist threat. I soon lost interest though as the man was clearly
drunk and you just can’t talk to those people.
Seven AM came quickly and I was jarred awake by my name being bellowed
over the PA system. They were kind enough to have all of my personal
effects waiting for me. I thanked them and walked back to the train
depot. Porky the security guard was just getting off shift as I
arrived to catch my train. I thanked him for the place to crash and
the foresight to save me the outlandish cost of a city hotel. He
quickly removed himself from the situation, no doubt overcome with
modesty.
I boarded the train with a renewed outlook on Portland, not only had I
avoided any actual stabbing but they were kind enough to put me up for
the night. What a lovely town. At that point I made a note to visit
again sometime.
