This cautionary tale is a possibly accurate historical narrative from the archives of the Wild Dog…..
Ate late a breakfast of granola with banana and yogurt. Cleaned the kitchen, chopped wood, did chores needed doing around the farm, answered mail, worked on the cherry ’69 Bronco he’d spent six months refurbishing, played with Puppy, walked in the woods looking for elk. A typical Tuesday.
After six p.m., but before seven, Barker headed out to return rented videos. At the bottom of the hill, his clutch pedal, which he thought he’d repaired, broke yet again. He nursed the truck to town in second gear, to the shop where his girlfriend’s camper van awaited a routine tune-up. Switched vehicles. Drove to the next town where he exchanged already-watched videos for a couple yet unseen. Probably chick flicks. Suddenly, Barker was hungry and in no mood to cook.
His first mistake. Barker Ajax should’ve gone home. Instead… There are three places to eat, all bars. One cards you at the door to make sure you’re armed and have at least one felony conviction. The second joint charges tourists eleven dollars for greasy burgers the same size as your head. Felt neither dangerous nor wealthy. So Barker went to see what was behind door number three – a working man’s tavern boasting reasonable prices, sensible portions and a big-screen television.
Shaquille O’Neal, the Big Aristotle, was slamming a basketball. Barker ordered a draft beer and sat down to watch the game. Everything on the menu was deep-fired and batter-coated, so he told the waitress he’d need time to think. He ordered another beer. No problem, Barker’s fine so far. These are small glasses.
Engrossed in the game, he found himself involved in the carryings-on of three boisterous burly bearded rednecks. Huey, Dewey and Louie Louie. All clad in plaid flannel shirts and denim coveralls, partying since work ended a few hours earlier. Suddenly, Huey buys Barker a drink, same thing they’re having, an ouzo boilermaker, a shot of the Greek liquor and a glass of beer as a chaser.
Dewey buys the next round. Hadn’t even finished the previous round. Barker thought he was pacing himself. He asked the waitress for a glass of ice water. Louie Louie, of course, buys a round. Barker drank that one, too. Judging by the condition of his wallet the next morning, Barker bought a round.
That’s four shots of ouzo, four smaller beers, two regular drafts. Couldn’t swear he didn’t drink more.
About then, Barker forswore ouzo- no need to overdo – and had another beer. Which was in his hand when he found himself singing a karaoke blues version of Garth Brooks’ “Friends In Low Places,” backed up by the vocal harmonizing of The Three Rednecks.
About this time, whatever time it was, Barker left the tavern. He recalled walking out the door, and hitting the fresh chill air, face first.
The arrest report says the time was 1 a.m. Barker was parked off the road, maybe in somebody’s front yard, much too close to a large oak, accompanied by a couple of patrol cars. Two very polite officers asked him to step out of his vehicle.
Didn’t know how he got there.
Couldn’t sober up fast enough. Nicely, gently, one officer gave him a field sobriety evaluation. Tests like ‘count backwards by three from 117.’ He remembered thinking. ‘if I was sober, I couldn’t do half this stuff.’ Well, Barker Ajax wasn’t sober.
Handcuffs. Becoming more sober. The drive to the jail. More sober still. Jail was in the basement of City Hall. One minute he’s at the bar, next minute he’s behind them. A cage really. No bars, but wire mesh – three sides and the top, too – painted a bilious yellow, a yellow somehow drained of all its brightness and warmth.
Barker blew 0.16 on the blood/alcohol machine, the same reading the coroner found in Steve Prefontaine’s body the night Pre died with his little English sports car atop his chest.
Barker called a poet to bail him out.
He awoke feeling like Mickey Mantle’s liver.
How did that day’s activities vary from any other day? They didn’t, not until Barker walked into that tavern. He wasn’t in the habit of going to bars. Shaquille O’Neal was on TV; he wouldn’t have stayed to watch, say, the Knicks. If he’d had his own truck and/or his normally omnipresent canine companion with him, he doubtlessly wouldn’t have hung around so long. Too long.
His girlfriend was away on vacation. Would’ve gone home for dinner, if she’d been there to cook it.
He blamed her for everything, of course.
At the farm, Oregon Coast Range, 1993. Photographs by Carla Perry.