Remember clearly. Astonishing for me. Can’t even recall yesterday. Anyway, I was sitting in my office at Delilah’s Delicatessen on NW 21st, reading somebody’s barely wrinkled copy of the day’s out-of-town newspaper. An airline was making an offer that couldn’t be refused. And so I was gone. From July 19, 1989. – JDW
Okay, so nobody ever said I had the best smile but I did like that tie.
And the damn parrot said something real funny.
This letter just in from Barker Ajax.
Dear Jack D., you dog you –
A few days ago, I stopped my bike to spectate at a pickup basketball game at Wallace Park in Northwest Portland. Some feet got tangled. Words were exchanged. The ball was hurled in challenge. And while racial epithets were given voice, a burly black youth snuck up behind the most vocal white man. He sucker-punched him with a roundhouse right to the head. Sounded like a melon dropped from the second floor.
The victim dropped to the ground, just in time to receive a kick to the ribs that rattled my teeth. He crawled off the court, onto the grass and moaned as his feet twitched.
You weren’t at Delilah’s when I stopped by, my heart dark with so much violence – black and white, rich and poor, people and trees, neighbor and neighbor. I want to live in a kinder, gentler Portland. I wanted to tell you about it.
Instead, I picked up a copy of U.S.A. Today, my second most favorite newspaper for people who don’t actually like to read. Continental Airlines was offering round-trip jet travel to any city in the continental – no relation – United States for the paltry sum of one hundred and fifty dollars.
$150.00. American.
But you had to leave in the next two days, stay over Sunday… and no refunds. Really, who’s got that kind of freedom? Who?
Right now, I’m sitting at a table on a beach of white sand, watching the sun turn golden as it falls behind the flat edge of the Gulf of Mexico. I’m on Coronado Avenue in Clearwater Beach, Florida. The place is actually called Seafood and Sunsets at Julies.
Sometimes it’s really good to be me. I saw that article about a $150 ticket to only-He-knows-where and I said to myself, Barkster, you anointed stud muffin, why not go? No job, no wife, no house, no kids… no reason not to.”
Hell, it would cost me $150 just to stay home.
Anyway, as I write, I am ingesting thankfully a fried grouper sandwich so good Bill Cosby and Linda Ellerbee would both endorse it. More than really special. My hotel room? Omigosh. It’s better than the meal.
By the way, I found Clearwater by flying to Tampa and asking Carlos, the guy gassing up my rental car, just where the closest most fun was.
Went straight to my high school Espanol. Donde es entertainment?
I am still wondering why I would want to go to the same places as a nineteen-year-old Cuban parking lot attendant. But it made sense at the time. And Carlos was right on.
Of course, I’m charging this whole trip, which is not only my inalienable right as an American citizen, but damn patriotic besides.
And I’m saving all my receipts, ’cause this trip might be tax-deductible. I’ve been watching all those savings and loans executives.
This entire adventure could be a business expense. Research.
Later. Right now, in your honor, I am researching “Jack’s Place.” It’s located at the best hotel on the beach. The waitresses wear bikini tops and micro-sarong bottoms. Let’s not forget the white ankle socks. I find it all simply too calculated. Obviously, such scanty attire is nothing more than a clever marketing ploy, a trick to which only a social cretin would respond.
Guaranteed, you betcha, I’ll be watching the sunset right from here tomorrow.
Inside the waitresses are more decorously clad. They simply need more clothing. The air conditioning is on full blast. Warp speed. I’m in a land where they chill the insides of buildings. It’s almost too warm and too sunny.
Tomorrow I’m going parasailing. Honest. They hook up this chair with pontoons on the bottom. They hook up said chair to a parachute and drag the sucker like a kite. Behind this giant speedboat. Six hundred (600) feet above water. That’s like two football fields. That’s high.
“No skill required.”
I can do that. Should give me at least one story to embellish when I get back.
If I get back.
Which reminds me. Make sure I tell you about ChaCha. She’s the stewardess who wheeled the breakfast cart alongside my seat, winked and breathed, “Name your poison, Big Fella.”
What a country.
Hope to see you soon.
Might need a loan.
Stay safe. Cross at the light.
Rotate your tires.
Barker