"The Men That Don’t Fit In"
Robert Service
There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: “Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;
He’s a man who won’t fit in.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Writing Exercise: The Walk
A little long...but hey, a good read ----------------------------------------
I went on a walk this morning, well actually all day. I returned to my childhood hometown for a memorial service. The brother of my high school best friend died in Iraq. He was 25, a medic, and on his way to offer medical assistance to a community when a roadside bomb went off, killing him and 4 or 5 other guys in the Humvee. So I am in a town of 15,000 people that no longer feels like home. Sure, my memories of this place are fond, but that is probably rooted in the brains ability to remember more easily the good things than the bad things. Let me elaborate. I woke up this morning and laid in bed staring at the ceiling. It was still fairly early, but the light had started to seep through the Venetian blinds. This was not my own bed, but that of a friends. He promised not to make fun of me for sleeping in a frilly fluffy bed, complete with its own white doily pillow.
It feels like a hotel, the kind you find at highway off ramps, where you can see the hotel sign from a mile away on the road. As you near it, you see big numbers displaying the cost to stay a night. Below that is the inevitable amenities sign that reads, “HBO, Pool, A/C, Cont Bkfst.” Finally under that is the glowing neon light that says “vacancy.” Beside the word vacancy is another neon bulb that reads “No.” This light, however, is never turned on. Once inside, should you dare, you are greeted by a sleepy front desk agent, who checks you in, gives you your keys, and reminds you of the pool hours. You inquire about the continental breakfast, and then retire into the hotel room. The bed takes up two-thirds of the room, but there is a TV, complete with HBO. Eventually after sitting on the corner of the bed, bored and missing home, you start channel surfing. This doesn’t bring you comfort so you turn off the TV, go stare at yourself in the mirror, and realize you are very tired. After tearing the plastic wrapper from the plastic cup, you drink some water and crawl into bed. The bed is big and fluffy, yet isn’t all that comfortable. The sheets are cold and sterile, and the bedspread was probably designed to match the cheesy art hanging above the bed., pastel blue and pastel pink, submissive colors that are used together to create an androgynous room with nothing that could shock the people who stay under the AARP discount pricing.
I woke up in a bed like that this morning, staring at the ceiling. I decided that I would take a walk through my old hometown. I would visit the unchanged, and I would remember all the little things that I experienced growing up around all these changed places. Turns out, nothing changes in these small towns. Well, some buildings get painted, and some restaurants change. There are only so many times you can visit a restaurant, before the cuisine becomes food, so the restaurant changes. I walked down the street looking at the houses, having faint memories of the residents of some of the houses. Were they still living in the houses, or did they escape this pit of a town like me and my family.
Perhaps it was the rain, perhaps it was the weekend, perhaps it was the situation I was here for, whatever it was, this town felt lonely, empty, and disturbingly sad. I am used to walking among dense buildings of multiple stories, some actually reach high into the sky, caressing the clouds, not here though. My memory has erased all the space between buildings and houses. It has been years since I’ve been here, and I feel a sense of shock at how spread out everything is. I don’t recall this emptiness, but this emptiness is reflected in the eyes of some of the people I encountered today. I first stopped at Subway for a bite to eat. Located in an old Taco Bell building, there is still the cavity on the roof to suspend a bell from. The inside changed a lot since I worked there. An addition/remodel brought in a TCBY. That business failed, so there are now vacant freezers sitting on the floor, begging to be used again. I used to work at this Subway.
Turns out that scandal struck shortly after I left. My boss, husband to my eighth grade English teacher, bought the franchise with his wife’s inheritance money. He eventually started using business money to buy and sell drugs. Amid his drug dealing, he fell for a client, and coworker of mine. Soon enough his wife caught him fucking one of his employees. Divorce gave the franchise to her. He lost all his money, and couldn’t really afford to get my coworker high for free anymore. She left him. Last I heard, he slid further down the slippery slope of hardcore drugs. He is probably dead now, or in prison, or giving handjobs for heroin in one of the hidden cultures of this small town. Just down the hill from subway are two buildings. When I lived here, one was a skippers, then Arby’s. The other was a video store and then a realty office. Now the realty office is moving into the old restaurant, and a new restaurant is moving into the realty office. The buildings are the same size, seems like a waste of money to me. The restaurant is already fitted to handle another restaurant.
Oh well, most of this town is backwards anyway.
As I reached the bottom of the hill, I passed Denny’s, a Pendleton Staple. The dances would end and people would go there to continue socializing. At least those who didn’t go get drunk would head there. There have been countless evenings I sat among ten to twenty friends complaining about teachers, homework, backstabbing friends, and all the things that seem important to high schoolers. I took a left toward Melanie Square, the closest thing to a strip mall in this small town. The store I used to do holiday work at has changed to a Rite-Aid. Our French class had the opportunity to dress up as Frosty the Snowman over the holiday season. I donned the large round head with a carrot nose and eyes of coal, to wander around handing out candy canes to wide-eyed little kids. I terrified a few of them, but I guess it comes with the job. Frosty still comes out during the holidays. Five feet tall at times, six feet tall at other times, pending who is on shift, only the older more observant people notice this dramatic change.
Next to Rite-Aid is a bowling alley. The bowling alley is new, or rather it occupies the space of a former business. Back in 1994, the old bowling alley burned down, destroying one-third of all entertainment possibilities for kids (bowling, roller-skating, and movies). I imagine that the pregnancy rate went up and more kids slid into deep heroin and meth addictions after that. Then again, I don’t exactly see a bowler trading in his bowling ball for a needle and a belt. The new bowling alley takes the space of the old Emporium clothing store, yet another small store that fell victim to the opening of a Wal-Mart.
I remember the day Wal-Mart opened, what a nightmare. Half the population (those not working) showed up for the grand opening. The high school Jazz/Pep band was brought down to play music. The cheerleaders came too, in full yellow and green PHS Bucks regalia. They actually did a cheer. “Give me a ‘W’… give me an ‘A’…give me an ‘L’…” Can you say, “Give me a Barf Bag”? I was in the band. I had a sudden looming view of an unsuccessful future in music. I passed up the music scholarship (full ride) to Idaho, and pursued architecture instead. I walked on to the intersection of Court St. and Dorian St. at one of the many railroad crossings. This was the Western Terminus for the two parades during the Pendleton Round-Up, a world famous rodeo. After matching a couple miles in itchy wool outfits in hundred plus degree weather, it was inevitable, the Dairy Queen would be flooded with orders for sundaes, blizzards, soda, and water. Shiny brass instruments would be scattered across the tables.
When the rodeo comes to town, businesses make most their money. The town triples in size, and every available lawn has an RV or tent perched on it. The Dairy Queen is located right next to the fairgrounds, so it does really well. I passed by Dairy Queen, looking up at the sign on the fairgrounds. “Pendleton Round-Up Sept. 13, 14, 15, 16 2006” It was probably painted the day after the 2005 round-up ended. It’s the only thing this town has to look forward to. Fifty-one weeks of preparation for one week of drunken, tight pants and cowboy hat wearing, ass grabbing, bull riding, twangy music listening, tobacco chewing fun and frivolity. It’s like Jack Skelington of Halloween town in “Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas.”
I continued walking until I was passing PGG (Pendleton Grain Growers) at the corner of Dorian Street and 10th Street. I looked up 10th towards the north hill and remembered getting my only driving ticket, not bad for being pulled over nine times in my life (all inside or around Pendleton). If you were two cars back at the light on 10th and Dorian, you could make the light at 10th and Court. I was three cars back, so I sped to try and make it. Realizing I wouldn’t make it, I slammed on the brakes. However, I was too close to stop on time, so I coasted through the red light at a mere five miles per hour. Lo and behold, just behind the cow hauling semi was a cop. I knew he had me, so I was practically pulling over before his lights turned on. To this day, I ask myself why I was so set on getting to school three minutes earlier than usual. Oh well, c’est la vie.
I walked past Blueberry Hill Nursery, on Emigrant Street. The sign outside had the letters on backward. It read, “Great Gifts For All Occasions.” I quickly realized it was written backwards for a reason. As the cars wait at the train tracks, the drivers can look in their rear view mirrors and read the sign. Clever, but it is not working well enough, another small business closing due to the almighty power of Wal-Mart. “All the world’s a Wal-Mart and we are merely its consumers.” (Adapted from Shakespeare) As I continued walking east, I made my way to Main Street. I passed Big Johns Pizza, home to several birthday parties. Along the way, I stopped in at the library. This was the biggest development in Pendleton, excluding Wal-Mart and the high school, which occurred while I lived here.
The building housed the library, the city hall, and the community center that I never went into. There is a “Daddy Daughter Dance” coming up soon at the community center. I wonder how many people will come, ten or twelve. I stepped into the library and caught up a bit with the librarian. She and I used to talk every couple weeks when I lived there, so she recognized me right away, even though it has been roughly eight or nine years. I guess I still look about the same, all the changes are internal. We talked, I left. Exiting the library, I found myself standing at the corner of my first Pendleton memory. I had not moved to Pendleton yet, but we were visiting my dad for Christmas. He took the Job at the Prison, while the rest of the family stayed in Salem, so my oldest brother could finish high school. It was cold, as it was Christmas time, and I was walking with my mom. We were looking for a place to eat. I pointed to a flashing neon sign and said, “Let’s eat there mom.” She started laughing out loud. Apparently the word “mortuary” was not yet in my vocabulary. She told me what “Burn’s Mortuary” was and we joked about eating there. Mmmm, eyeball soup, kidneys and livers of the deceased. To this day, I still find the flashing neon lights on a mortuary slightly off key.
A few blocks later, I was at Main Street, a stretch of stores similar to what you would expect. A flower shop, around the corner from Armchair Books and Top Hatt Travel (Both owned by friends parents), a couple jewelry stores, clothing stores, art galleries, coffee shops, and a bank were among the scattered businesses. Back in the day, several of these buildings were brothels, and almost all of them have connections to the Chinese underground city. I walked down Main Street, toward Great Pacific, an old preferred coffee shop I frequented. I stepped into an entirely different coffee shop. They originally were a narrow space with a small second story. They have now taken over the next door space, Pendleton Book Company, to open up the coffee and wine shop into a much more elegant experience. As I stood there looking around the room, they asked if I was looking for a menu. “No, I’m just looking at the changes.” They looked at me like I was crazy. As I ordered my chamomile Mint tea, I found out that the space changed several years ago. I guess it has been that long. I sat enjoying my tea while I worked on my Soduku Puzzles and Crossword Puzzles. My friends Brian, Jeff, and Meg came for lunch and left. I started writing.
Soon after my friend left, I exited to continue my walk. I stepped out onto the sidewalk of Main Street. Several years before I moved away, the city had the brilliant idea of making the sidewalks of Main Street Boardwalks in and attempt to be more reminiscent of the early days of Pendleton’s history. Discovering the cost of such a project, they opted for dyed printed concrete instead. The result is an unsuccessful pitiful attempt to create a “western” experience. I walked down the concrete board walk toward the candy store. Whitey’s, an aptly named candy store was owned by one of the biggest bigots I’ve known in my life. She employed two of my exes, bitter rivals who were lucky to rarely work together. When they did, they put on their phony facades and were amicable. The candy store had the feel of a fifties diner, and I felt one day a Marilyn Monroe look-a-like would be serving me my Jelly Bellies and Gummy Bears. The owner was known to come up with new racial slurs at any given moment and frequently said, “Be careful today, the casino paid the injuns.” She inherited/bought the store and kept its name, but she might as well have named it “Whitey’s.” If the name changed, she probably would have called it, “His Highnesses Official Candy Store of the Third Reich.” Then she would stop selling chocolate milkshakes, and all vanilla shakes would be called Aryan Shakes. If there is a Racial Slur that I know, chances are, I learned it from her. I walked past to the corner of Main Street and Byers Street, where one of the towns few bridges crossed over the Umatilla River, an odd intersection in town.
The northeast corner has an old Carnegie Library, which is now an Arts Center. Opposite this pentagonal building is a church that looks more like a British castle with heavy rusticated walls. Across the river, where I stood was an adobe building that houses a Christian Science center. Finally, on the southeast corner is an old retired theater that is now home to a “Rock” Church. I turned to walk south toward my old house. My foot actually got caught up on the remains of a tumbleweed bush. I had to laugh at this. The town was unusually dead and I was watching tumbleweed blow down Main Street. I half expected to see two dirty men step out into the middle of the road, wearing chaps. The one with a mustache would holler, “Boy!! I thought we gone done run you out of this town.” The wind would howl, the dust would blow, and eyes would be seen peering out of every window at the confrontation. I snapped back to reality when I saw the bar called Crabby’s, aptly named for the mood of all who walk-in. Behind Crabby’s is another local watering hole, The Rainbow. It is probably one of the only bars in the US named The Rainbow that isn’t a gay bar.
Continuing south on Court Street, I walked past the old Taco Time Restaurant. My mother asked that I would never eat there. I obliged, and found out why a few years later. The owner of the franchise was a convicted pedophile. It’s closed now. I hope he lost a lot of money on his investment. It is now a Thai Restaurant. It seems odd to see Thai Cuisine in a building that looks like it should be sitting next to the Alamo. Further down the road, I walked past Roy Raley Park. People were ice skating on the outdoor skating rink, a fixture which was put in after I moved away, basketball courts in summer, ice skating rink in winter. Located at the heart of a former drug dealing area, the city probably placed it there in a failed attempt to decrease meth abusers. I passed the fairgrounds, Wal-Mart, and Melanie Square as I turned to head back up Southgate. Passing the intersection at Denny’s, I recalled the second time I was pulled over. I was driving my dad’s truck. It was a manual transmission that I wasn’t fully comfortable with. Not being fond of stopping on hills, I opted to turn without yielding to another car. My lesson learned, if you choose to neglect a yield sign, try not to fail to yield to a police car. He let me go with a warning. So my driving record to date is one ticket and eight warnings.
I only wish I could get eight warnings for all the mistakes I’ve made in my life. I stopped at McDonalds to use the bathroom on my way back. The doors are labeled “Cowboys” and “Cowgirls.” Only in Pendleton would it be this way at McDonalds. I imagine half the businesses here have done the same thing, cowboys everywhere. About eighty percent of the art in town is dedicated to a man on a horse. The rest is either just the horse, or just the cowboy. Just beyond McDonalds is Thompson’s RV. This place used to be the Red Apple Market, an interesting little store that had the proclivity to draw shop lifters. My sister and a friend were caught stealing candy there. My brother was caught stealing cake frosting. My crime, though I was never caught, was eating a dog biscuit on a dare. I never paid for it, and eating it made me wonder why dog biscuits are used as treats for good behavior. I turned up the street leading to my house.
Passing Comrie’s Auto Dealership, I walked past the retirement community I tormented in my juvenile delinquent days. I imagine that when I’m old and grey, alone with no children, I will check myself into a similar facility. Karma will come back at me in ten fold and I will be tormented by tomorrow’s youth. Of all the crazy things I did growing up, the ones I feel guilty about surround my actions at the retirement community. Those poor elderly folk, some are probably dead now. It is a wonder they don’t haunt me. Chances are, they are off playing Kick the Can on some celestial cloud, screaming, “Olley olley oxen free,” to the delights of their childhood days. I turned the corner onto Quinney Drive, just five houses away from what was once home. It isn’t home anymore. My parents sold the house to a young single cop and moved to the San Juan Islands. This town now feels empty to me. They say, “Home is where the heart is.” How many more years will I be homeless? As I walked past the house on the corner, I had memories of all my youthful nighttime excursions.
After I snuck out of my basement with my friends, we would ring a bell to signify the beginning of our adventures. The house on the corner had stairs with a handrail. A monogram of the residents name was inset on the handrail. JK it read. Just over the handrail was a black iron bell. At the beginning of the nights adventures, I would slowly pull on the robe, inverting the bell. Then readying myself to run, I would yank down on the rope causing the bell to chime loudly, echoing down the corridor of houses on Perkins and Quinney Drive. I passed up the bell this time. I walked past the houses of my old neighbors and stopped in front of my house. Looking over the fence toward the park, I saw a new gazebo in the park. Up the hill were the restroom facilities I once placed an orange blinking barricade light on. That is another story though. I refocused on my house. A police cruiser was in the driveway. It would have felt more like home if the cruiser was absent, but alas, it wasn’t. It sat there reminding me of my feeling of homelessness. I turned to continue walking, only to pause and look at my former mailbox, black and beat up with chipping paint. The golden numbers 2210 reminded me of the days when the neighbor kids would beat on the mailbox as a means to taunt me. To this day, I still think it would be fun to walk up to one of them and land a fist square on their nose, but that is ridiculous.
I climbed the hill, looking down at my house, no longer my home, just another house on a street that once was mine. On snowy days, we would sled down this hill. Once, returning from school, my brother lost control of the truck and we slid down the hill spinning in circles. We came to a stop at the bottom when the tires bumped a curb. To this day, I don’t ever recall a time when that street was completely devoid of cars like it was that day. A few years later, a girl was speeding down the hill in her car, when she plowed into my parents mini-van, pushing it up onto the curb, destroying it beyond repair. The girl had only had her license for a few days. She nearly fled the scene, but common sense got the better of her. More than likely, she actually saw a witness and knew she was busted. I arrived back at my “Hotel” bed and took a nap. Feeling antsy, I crawled out of bed to continue walking. I made my way down the hill to 23rd Avenue and took a right. Walking up the hill, I passed a sign that read, “Education Service District.” Just below the words was an arrow pointing to the south. The sign once read, “ESD.” Feeling wiley and clever, my friends and I painted over the top two black bars of the letter “E” so that it became an “L.” Twice we changed the ESD sign to read “LSD.” After the second time we did it, the city changed the sign so it read “Education Service District” instead. No more fun with that. Going past McDonalds and down the hill I looked over at K-Mart, or rather what was once K-Mart, until Wal-Mart arrived. It seems that even the blue light specials couldn’t compete with Wal-Mart.
Further down Southgate, past the cemetery, I walked into Denny’s to order a tea. Bonnie and I used to come here often to drink tea and talk of a better life outside of Pendleton. I always drank Earl Gray tea, while she fluctuated between Chamomile, Orange Spice, and Peppermint. She often would have milk and honey with her tea. I sat and drank my tea watching people come and go. I only saw one familiar face. We said a passing hello, and I returned to my tea. I looked up at a family paying their tab. As the mother dug through her purse, I watched the father caress hiss daughter’s ass. She stomped on his foot and he stopped. I don’t picture them going to the “Daddy Daughter Dance” down at the community center. A little later, six high school girls were paying their tab, five fairly attractive girls who probably are mostly superficial, and one larger girl who frequently cries herself to sleep. The attractive skinny girls were all patting their bellies, complaining about how much they ate and how fat they feel. Tonight the bigger one will go home and cry herself to sleep, again.
Tomorrow the city will wake-up. Nothing will have changed. Someone will think of painting their store. Someone will look over their bookkeeping and sigh while cursing Wal-Mart. Another kid will try drugs for the first time, while his ex-girlfriend gets pregnant. But, at least they can all look forward to the rodeo in eight short months. And as for me, I will leave this town, with no plans to return.
Home is somewhere else.
I went on a walk this morning, well actually all day. I returned to my childhood hometown for a memorial service. The brother of my high school best friend died in Iraq. He was 25, a medic, and on his way to offer medical assistance to a community when a roadside bomb went off, killing him and 4 or 5 other guys in the Humvee. So I am in a town of 15,000 people that no longer feels like home. Sure, my memories of this place are fond, but that is probably rooted in the brains ability to remember more easily the good things than the bad things. Let me elaborate. I woke up this morning and laid in bed staring at the ceiling. It was still fairly early, but the light had started to seep through the Venetian blinds. This was not my own bed, but that of a friends. He promised not to make fun of me for sleeping in a frilly fluffy bed, complete with its own white doily pillow.
It feels like a hotel, the kind you find at highway off ramps, where you can see the hotel sign from a mile away on the road. As you near it, you see big numbers displaying the cost to stay a night. Below that is the inevitable amenities sign that reads, “HBO, Pool, A/C, Cont Bkfst.” Finally under that is the glowing neon light that says “vacancy.” Beside the word vacancy is another neon bulb that reads “No.” This light, however, is never turned on. Once inside, should you dare, you are greeted by a sleepy front desk agent, who checks you in, gives you your keys, and reminds you of the pool hours. You inquire about the continental breakfast, and then retire into the hotel room. The bed takes up two-thirds of the room, but there is a TV, complete with HBO. Eventually after sitting on the corner of the bed, bored and missing home, you start channel surfing. This doesn’t bring you comfort so you turn off the TV, go stare at yourself in the mirror, and realize you are very tired. After tearing the plastic wrapper from the plastic cup, you drink some water and crawl into bed. The bed is big and fluffy, yet isn’t all that comfortable. The sheets are cold and sterile, and the bedspread was probably designed to match the cheesy art hanging above the bed., pastel blue and pastel pink, submissive colors that are used together to create an androgynous room with nothing that could shock the people who stay under the AARP discount pricing.
I woke up in a bed like that this morning, staring at the ceiling. I decided that I would take a walk through my old hometown. I would visit the unchanged, and I would remember all the little things that I experienced growing up around all these changed places. Turns out, nothing changes in these small towns. Well, some buildings get painted, and some restaurants change. There are only so many times you can visit a restaurant, before the cuisine becomes food, so the restaurant changes. I walked down the street looking at the houses, having faint memories of the residents of some of the houses. Were they still living in the houses, or did they escape this pit of a town like me and my family.
Perhaps it was the rain, perhaps it was the weekend, perhaps it was the situation I was here for, whatever it was, this town felt lonely, empty, and disturbingly sad. I am used to walking among dense buildings of multiple stories, some actually reach high into the sky, caressing the clouds, not here though. My memory has erased all the space between buildings and houses. It has been years since I’ve been here, and I feel a sense of shock at how spread out everything is. I don’t recall this emptiness, but this emptiness is reflected in the eyes of some of the people I encountered today. I first stopped at Subway for a bite to eat. Located in an old Taco Bell building, there is still the cavity on the roof to suspend a bell from. The inside changed a lot since I worked there. An addition/remodel brought in a TCBY. That business failed, so there are now vacant freezers sitting on the floor, begging to be used again. I used to work at this Subway.
Turns out that scandal struck shortly after I left. My boss, husband to my eighth grade English teacher, bought the franchise with his wife’s inheritance money. He eventually started using business money to buy and sell drugs. Amid his drug dealing, he fell for a client, and coworker of mine. Soon enough his wife caught him fucking one of his employees. Divorce gave the franchise to her. He lost all his money, and couldn’t really afford to get my coworker high for free anymore. She left him. Last I heard, he slid further down the slippery slope of hardcore drugs. He is probably dead now, or in prison, or giving handjobs for heroin in one of the hidden cultures of this small town. Just down the hill from subway are two buildings. When I lived here, one was a skippers, then Arby’s. The other was a video store and then a realty office. Now the realty office is moving into the old restaurant, and a new restaurant is moving into the realty office. The buildings are the same size, seems like a waste of money to me. The restaurant is already fitted to handle another restaurant.
Oh well, most of this town is backwards anyway.
As I reached the bottom of the hill, I passed Denny’s, a Pendleton Staple. The dances would end and people would go there to continue socializing. At least those who didn’t go get drunk would head there. There have been countless evenings I sat among ten to twenty friends complaining about teachers, homework, backstabbing friends, and all the things that seem important to high schoolers. I took a left toward Melanie Square, the closest thing to a strip mall in this small town. The store I used to do holiday work at has changed to a Rite-Aid. Our French class had the opportunity to dress up as Frosty the Snowman over the holiday season. I donned the large round head with a carrot nose and eyes of coal, to wander around handing out candy canes to wide-eyed little kids. I terrified a few of them, but I guess it comes with the job. Frosty still comes out during the holidays. Five feet tall at times, six feet tall at other times, pending who is on shift, only the older more observant people notice this dramatic change.
Next to Rite-Aid is a bowling alley. The bowling alley is new, or rather it occupies the space of a former business. Back in 1994, the old bowling alley burned down, destroying one-third of all entertainment possibilities for kids (bowling, roller-skating, and movies). I imagine that the pregnancy rate went up and more kids slid into deep heroin and meth addictions after that. Then again, I don’t exactly see a bowler trading in his bowling ball for a needle and a belt. The new bowling alley takes the space of the old Emporium clothing store, yet another small store that fell victim to the opening of a Wal-Mart.
I remember the day Wal-Mart opened, what a nightmare. Half the population (those not working) showed up for the grand opening. The high school Jazz/Pep band was brought down to play music. The cheerleaders came too, in full yellow and green PHS Bucks regalia. They actually did a cheer. “Give me a ‘W’… give me an ‘A’…give me an ‘L’…” Can you say, “Give me a Barf Bag”? I was in the band. I had a sudden looming view of an unsuccessful future in music. I passed up the music scholarship (full ride) to Idaho, and pursued architecture instead. I walked on to the intersection of Court St. and Dorian St. at one of the many railroad crossings. This was the Western Terminus for the two parades during the Pendleton Round-Up, a world famous rodeo. After matching a couple miles in itchy wool outfits in hundred plus degree weather, it was inevitable, the Dairy Queen would be flooded with orders for sundaes, blizzards, soda, and water. Shiny brass instruments would be scattered across the tables.
When the rodeo comes to town, businesses make most their money. The town triples in size, and every available lawn has an RV or tent perched on it. The Dairy Queen is located right next to the fairgrounds, so it does really well. I passed by Dairy Queen, looking up at the sign on the fairgrounds. “Pendleton Round-Up Sept. 13, 14, 15, 16 2006” It was probably painted the day after the 2005 round-up ended. It’s the only thing this town has to look forward to. Fifty-one weeks of preparation for one week of drunken, tight pants and cowboy hat wearing, ass grabbing, bull riding, twangy music listening, tobacco chewing fun and frivolity. It’s like Jack Skelington of Halloween town in “Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas.”
I continued walking until I was passing PGG (Pendleton Grain Growers) at the corner of Dorian Street and 10th Street. I looked up 10th towards the north hill and remembered getting my only driving ticket, not bad for being pulled over nine times in my life (all inside or around Pendleton). If you were two cars back at the light on 10th and Dorian, you could make the light at 10th and Court. I was three cars back, so I sped to try and make it. Realizing I wouldn’t make it, I slammed on the brakes. However, I was too close to stop on time, so I coasted through the red light at a mere five miles per hour. Lo and behold, just behind the cow hauling semi was a cop. I knew he had me, so I was practically pulling over before his lights turned on. To this day, I ask myself why I was so set on getting to school three minutes earlier than usual. Oh well, c’est la vie.
I walked past Blueberry Hill Nursery, on Emigrant Street. The sign outside had the letters on backward. It read, “Great Gifts For All Occasions.” I quickly realized it was written backwards for a reason. As the cars wait at the train tracks, the drivers can look in their rear view mirrors and read the sign. Clever, but it is not working well enough, another small business closing due to the almighty power of Wal-Mart. “All the world’s a Wal-Mart and we are merely its consumers.” (Adapted from Shakespeare) As I continued walking east, I made my way to Main Street. I passed Big Johns Pizza, home to several birthday parties. Along the way, I stopped in at the library. This was the biggest development in Pendleton, excluding Wal-Mart and the high school, which occurred while I lived here.
The building housed the library, the city hall, and the community center that I never went into. There is a “Daddy Daughter Dance” coming up soon at the community center. I wonder how many people will come, ten or twelve. I stepped into the library and caught up a bit with the librarian. She and I used to talk every couple weeks when I lived there, so she recognized me right away, even though it has been roughly eight or nine years. I guess I still look about the same, all the changes are internal. We talked, I left. Exiting the library, I found myself standing at the corner of my first Pendleton memory. I had not moved to Pendleton yet, but we were visiting my dad for Christmas. He took the Job at the Prison, while the rest of the family stayed in Salem, so my oldest brother could finish high school. It was cold, as it was Christmas time, and I was walking with my mom. We were looking for a place to eat. I pointed to a flashing neon sign and said, “Let’s eat there mom.” She started laughing out loud. Apparently the word “mortuary” was not yet in my vocabulary. She told me what “Burn’s Mortuary” was and we joked about eating there. Mmmm, eyeball soup, kidneys and livers of the deceased. To this day, I still find the flashing neon lights on a mortuary slightly off key.
A few blocks later, I was at Main Street, a stretch of stores similar to what you would expect. A flower shop, around the corner from Armchair Books and Top Hatt Travel (Both owned by friends parents), a couple jewelry stores, clothing stores, art galleries, coffee shops, and a bank were among the scattered businesses. Back in the day, several of these buildings were brothels, and almost all of them have connections to the Chinese underground city. I walked down Main Street, toward Great Pacific, an old preferred coffee shop I frequented. I stepped into an entirely different coffee shop. They originally were a narrow space with a small second story. They have now taken over the next door space, Pendleton Book Company, to open up the coffee and wine shop into a much more elegant experience. As I stood there looking around the room, they asked if I was looking for a menu. “No, I’m just looking at the changes.” They looked at me like I was crazy. As I ordered my chamomile Mint tea, I found out that the space changed several years ago. I guess it has been that long. I sat enjoying my tea while I worked on my Soduku Puzzles and Crossword Puzzles. My friends Brian, Jeff, and Meg came for lunch and left. I started writing.
Soon after my friend left, I exited to continue my walk. I stepped out onto the sidewalk of Main Street. Several years before I moved away, the city had the brilliant idea of making the sidewalks of Main Street Boardwalks in and attempt to be more reminiscent of the early days of Pendleton’s history. Discovering the cost of such a project, they opted for dyed printed concrete instead. The result is an unsuccessful pitiful attempt to create a “western” experience. I walked down the concrete board walk toward the candy store. Whitey’s, an aptly named candy store was owned by one of the biggest bigots I’ve known in my life. She employed two of my exes, bitter rivals who were lucky to rarely work together. When they did, they put on their phony facades and were amicable. The candy store had the feel of a fifties diner, and I felt one day a Marilyn Monroe look-a-like would be serving me my Jelly Bellies and Gummy Bears. The owner was known to come up with new racial slurs at any given moment and frequently said, “Be careful today, the casino paid the injuns.” She inherited/bought the store and kept its name, but she might as well have named it “Whitey’s.” If the name changed, she probably would have called it, “His Highnesses Official Candy Store of the Third Reich.” Then she would stop selling chocolate milkshakes, and all vanilla shakes would be called Aryan Shakes. If there is a Racial Slur that I know, chances are, I learned it from her. I walked past to the corner of Main Street and Byers Street, where one of the towns few bridges crossed over the Umatilla River, an odd intersection in town.
The northeast corner has an old Carnegie Library, which is now an Arts Center. Opposite this pentagonal building is a church that looks more like a British castle with heavy rusticated walls. Across the river, where I stood was an adobe building that houses a Christian Science center. Finally, on the southeast corner is an old retired theater that is now home to a “Rock” Church. I turned to walk south toward my old house. My foot actually got caught up on the remains of a tumbleweed bush. I had to laugh at this. The town was unusually dead and I was watching tumbleweed blow down Main Street. I half expected to see two dirty men step out into the middle of the road, wearing chaps. The one with a mustache would holler, “Boy!! I thought we gone done run you out of this town.” The wind would howl, the dust would blow, and eyes would be seen peering out of every window at the confrontation. I snapped back to reality when I saw the bar called Crabby’s, aptly named for the mood of all who walk-in. Behind Crabby’s is another local watering hole, The Rainbow. It is probably one of the only bars in the US named The Rainbow that isn’t a gay bar.
Continuing south on Court Street, I walked past the old Taco Time Restaurant. My mother asked that I would never eat there. I obliged, and found out why a few years later. The owner of the franchise was a convicted pedophile. It’s closed now. I hope he lost a lot of money on his investment. It is now a Thai Restaurant. It seems odd to see Thai Cuisine in a building that looks like it should be sitting next to the Alamo. Further down the road, I walked past Roy Raley Park. People were ice skating on the outdoor skating rink, a fixture which was put in after I moved away, basketball courts in summer, ice skating rink in winter. Located at the heart of a former drug dealing area, the city probably placed it there in a failed attempt to decrease meth abusers. I passed the fairgrounds, Wal-Mart, and Melanie Square as I turned to head back up Southgate. Passing the intersection at Denny’s, I recalled the second time I was pulled over. I was driving my dad’s truck. It was a manual transmission that I wasn’t fully comfortable with. Not being fond of stopping on hills, I opted to turn without yielding to another car. My lesson learned, if you choose to neglect a yield sign, try not to fail to yield to a police car. He let me go with a warning. So my driving record to date is one ticket and eight warnings.
I only wish I could get eight warnings for all the mistakes I’ve made in my life. I stopped at McDonalds to use the bathroom on my way back. The doors are labeled “Cowboys” and “Cowgirls.” Only in Pendleton would it be this way at McDonalds. I imagine half the businesses here have done the same thing, cowboys everywhere. About eighty percent of the art in town is dedicated to a man on a horse. The rest is either just the horse, or just the cowboy. Just beyond McDonalds is Thompson’s RV. This place used to be the Red Apple Market, an interesting little store that had the proclivity to draw shop lifters. My sister and a friend were caught stealing candy there. My brother was caught stealing cake frosting. My crime, though I was never caught, was eating a dog biscuit on a dare. I never paid for it, and eating it made me wonder why dog biscuits are used as treats for good behavior. I turned up the street leading to my house.
Passing Comrie’s Auto Dealership, I walked past the retirement community I tormented in my juvenile delinquent days. I imagine that when I’m old and grey, alone with no children, I will check myself into a similar facility. Karma will come back at me in ten fold and I will be tormented by tomorrow’s youth. Of all the crazy things I did growing up, the ones I feel guilty about surround my actions at the retirement community. Those poor elderly folk, some are probably dead now. It is a wonder they don’t haunt me. Chances are, they are off playing Kick the Can on some celestial cloud, screaming, “Olley olley oxen free,” to the delights of their childhood days. I turned the corner onto Quinney Drive, just five houses away from what was once home. It isn’t home anymore. My parents sold the house to a young single cop and moved to the San Juan Islands. This town now feels empty to me. They say, “Home is where the heart is.” How many more years will I be homeless? As I walked past the house on the corner, I had memories of all my youthful nighttime excursions.
After I snuck out of my basement with my friends, we would ring a bell to signify the beginning of our adventures. The house on the corner had stairs with a handrail. A monogram of the residents name was inset on the handrail. JK it read. Just over the handrail was a black iron bell. At the beginning of the nights adventures, I would slowly pull on the robe, inverting the bell. Then readying myself to run, I would yank down on the rope causing the bell to chime loudly, echoing down the corridor of houses on Perkins and Quinney Drive. I passed up the bell this time. I walked past the houses of my old neighbors and stopped in front of my house. Looking over the fence toward the park, I saw a new gazebo in the park. Up the hill were the restroom facilities I once placed an orange blinking barricade light on. That is another story though. I refocused on my house. A police cruiser was in the driveway. It would have felt more like home if the cruiser was absent, but alas, it wasn’t. It sat there reminding me of my feeling of homelessness. I turned to continue walking, only to pause and look at my former mailbox, black and beat up with chipping paint. The golden numbers 2210 reminded me of the days when the neighbor kids would beat on the mailbox as a means to taunt me. To this day, I still think it would be fun to walk up to one of them and land a fist square on their nose, but that is ridiculous.
I climbed the hill, looking down at my house, no longer my home, just another house on a street that once was mine. On snowy days, we would sled down this hill. Once, returning from school, my brother lost control of the truck and we slid down the hill spinning in circles. We came to a stop at the bottom when the tires bumped a curb. To this day, I don’t ever recall a time when that street was completely devoid of cars like it was that day. A few years later, a girl was speeding down the hill in her car, when she plowed into my parents mini-van, pushing it up onto the curb, destroying it beyond repair. The girl had only had her license for a few days. She nearly fled the scene, but common sense got the better of her. More than likely, she actually saw a witness and knew she was busted. I arrived back at my “Hotel” bed and took a nap. Feeling antsy, I crawled out of bed to continue walking. I made my way down the hill to 23rd Avenue and took a right. Walking up the hill, I passed a sign that read, “Education Service District.” Just below the words was an arrow pointing to the south. The sign once read, “ESD.” Feeling wiley and clever, my friends and I painted over the top two black bars of the letter “E” so that it became an “L.” Twice we changed the ESD sign to read “LSD.” After the second time we did it, the city changed the sign so it read “Education Service District” instead. No more fun with that. Going past McDonalds and down the hill I looked over at K-Mart, or rather what was once K-Mart, until Wal-Mart arrived. It seems that even the blue light specials couldn’t compete with Wal-Mart.
Further down Southgate, past the cemetery, I walked into Denny’s to order a tea. Bonnie and I used to come here often to drink tea and talk of a better life outside of Pendleton. I always drank Earl Gray tea, while she fluctuated between Chamomile, Orange Spice, and Peppermint. She often would have milk and honey with her tea. I sat and drank my tea watching people come and go. I only saw one familiar face. We said a passing hello, and I returned to my tea. I looked up at a family paying their tab. As the mother dug through her purse, I watched the father caress hiss daughter’s ass. She stomped on his foot and he stopped. I don’t picture them going to the “Daddy Daughter Dance” down at the community center. A little later, six high school girls were paying their tab, five fairly attractive girls who probably are mostly superficial, and one larger girl who frequently cries herself to sleep. The attractive skinny girls were all patting their bellies, complaining about how much they ate and how fat they feel. Tonight the bigger one will go home and cry herself to sleep, again.
Tomorrow the city will wake-up. Nothing will have changed. Someone will think of painting their store. Someone will look over their bookkeeping and sigh while cursing Wal-Mart. Another kid will try drugs for the first time, while his ex-girlfriend gets pregnant. But, at least they can all look forward to the rodeo in eight short months. And as for me, I will leave this town, with no plans to return.
Home is somewhere else.
Sunday, January 8, 2006
Writing Exercise: The Hook
I cant fucking believe he said that, she said looking into the vanity.
Caught off guard, I looked up from my paper. I seemed to have been lost somewhere between fourteen across and fifteen down on todays crossword. Was she talking and I didnt realize it, or did she just start off like that? What was on her mind, what was bothering her?
I looked up into her crystal eyes where we held a silent stare longer than ordinary. I could always get lost in her eyes. She liked that fact, and used it, even tempted it out of me by returning the gaze. I know she never gets lost, never swims in the sense of wonder that I do. Was she waiting for me to reply or just pausing long enough to let me get my feet wet?
Then she looked down at the array of creams, powders, blushes, and jewelry scattered across her vanity. Grabbing her foundation, she looked back into the mirror. As she dabbed the foundation on her face, I wondered what she meant. Who was he and what did he say? Why was it so fucking unbelievable.
Done with the foundation, she tossed it down amid the rest of the make up. She never used a lot of foundation, and she was particular about how she used it. Her mom used Ponds face cream when she was a little girl and now she uses it religiously. There have been many times I watched her frantically throw her clothes from floor to chair to sofa to floor in a mad search for her Ponds face cream. It is probably due to this religious use of Ponds that her skin is so nice. Why would she need to use much foundation if her skin is typically blemish free.
She once told me that she doesnt like a certain type of foundation because its too cakey. Whatever she does use never quite shows. I have sat in a number of bars and seen women who probably did use the cakey foundation. They sit there with their textureless faces waiting for the next guy to buy them a drink. They may not always leave with someone, but they almost always leave with the slightest bit of foundation smeared across the collars of their Abercrombie Pea coats.
I looked up at the mirror to watch her. She was putting eye shadow on. I could look at her eyes as she took the small felt brush and spread two shades of eye shadow on.
The two of us, she continued, hadnt seen each other in four of five days. As she told me more of the story, she switched over to the other eyelid, first applying the base color with the fatter tip of the eye shadow brush, following it with a highlighting color. She didnt always use two colors when she put eye shadow on, but today she bought a new shirt that she wanted to match.
For me, it is simple. My belt should match my shoes. Beyond that, I dont really care too much. But her attention to detail was often very impressive, or at least it was often well executed. Last week, I saw her with a rich green eye liner on, matching her simple green hoody. Simple, yet it caught my eye. Had she ever worn green eye liner before?
She turned around on the stool and looked at me. The large round mirror of the vanity framed her like a photo. Lost in the thought of her eyes last week, I wondered if she turned around because I should have been saying something.
I looked from her to a black framed photo on the wall and said, Well I dont see anything wrong with that. He was only telling you how he felt.
She swiveled back to face the mirror and grabbed her eye liner. Feeling defeated, I wondered if my reply was unjust.
Exasperated, she pulled one eyelid down and said, It wasnt that that pissed me off. In fact, I agree with him. It wasnt until a little later that the bastard really pissed me off.
Looking in the mirror at me, she switched to her other eye with the eye liner brush. As she turned to look in her other eye, we broke eye contact. Slowly sliding the eye liner pen across the bottom of her left lid, she continued, So we left to go get dinner.
She tossed the eyeliner down amid all the other shades, probably one for every different outfit she owns. She grabbed her mascara and unscrewed the brush. Dammit. She through the mascara down and grabbed another brush, one that had not dried up I presume. As she shook the tube, I listened to her recount the events that led up to this. She twirled the brush over her eyelashes, pausing to punctuate the story, first the lower eyelashes, than the upper ones. When she was finished to fluttered her eyelids to spread the mascara a little more evenly.
I watched her put down the mascara and grab her small compact of blush. The brush of several hundred fine black hairs was poised in her hand like a cigarette as she added a dramatic pause to her story.
I can almost see what you are getting too, I replied, and I sure as hell hope it is not going there.
Oh, it is, she confirmed as she powdered the tips of the brush and sprinkled the blush over her cheeks.
She promptly stood up and walked into the bathroom. A few moments later she walked out with a toothbrush in her mouth. Pacing back and forth as the brush worked back and forth, she continued recounting last nights events. Occasionally she would tilt her head back to clear the toothpaste foam just enough to tell me what she was last saying to him.
Returning to the bathroom, I heard the all to familiar sound of the running faucet, followed by the sound of spit and then the swishing of water in the mouth. She turned off the faucet and I heard the three dull clicks of the toothbrush striking the side of the porcelain sink to shake out excess water.
She walked out and started rifling through her purse, until she found her small black and gold tube of lipstick. I recall making a trip to purchase that for her because she lost her last tube. It is probably hidden under a pile of clothes with a lost bottle of Ponds face cream. As the cap clicked off, she turned to the mirror, while twisting out the lipstick. Tightening her lips, she slowly dragged the red pointed tip back and forth across her lips, while stating that they had just finished ordering dessert when things started to get out of hand. She slid the lipstick one last drag over her upper lip and lower lip, and then slid her lips across one another. Then she kissed the mirror to blot her lipstick. Another perfect set of lips added to the twenty three other prints already on the mirror. Almost one for everyday shed been living here.
And thats what he said.
Shocked, I replied, What a fuck. I cant believe he said that.
As she grabbed her coat, she tossed her lipstick back into the purse and looked at me.
How do I look?
Fantastic, as always.
Lets go.
Lets do.
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