Bar Talk

I had Google Maps up on my phone, swiping around, trying to find the name of the hill in Southeast Portland dad and I had driven by on the way to the bar. “I don’t think Google has it labeled. Was it Mt. Scott?” I showed the phone to dad, sitting next to me, facing the mirror and the rows of bottles, ripe for the drinking.

“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” he conceded. “I didn’t realize that it extended all the way to the freeway.”

“I thought the one you were thinking about was more to the east. I guess that’s it.” I put the phone away.

Dad’s head wiggled, a smile on his face. “I have fond memories of it. Your mother and I used to go up there to neck.”

I just shook my head. “Yeah, yeah. That was a long time ago.” I took a sip of my beer, a slightly-not-so-hoppy IPA, perfect for the summer heat outside. Inside, the bar was cool, and dark, lit in orange and red, punctuated by flourescent (not neon, not anymore) and LCD screens.

The music, some pop song I didn’t recognize, pulsed in the background.

Dad sipped his drink, too, lost in memories. I felt a surge of compassion. I was happy to share these moments with him. I’m grateful he’s still around, still telling stories, still a part of my life. The short-term stay while his place was being remodeled had become months, but it was a good thing.

“There was a place out on Foster your mother and I used to go to, with Ray and Carol,” he said. Ray and Carol were from mom’s side of the family; Carol was one of mom’s younger sisters, Ray her husband. Both of them had passed, Ray a long time ago, Carol more recently. There were fewer and fewer of my aunts and uncles, a tale as old as time.

“What kind of place?”

“Oh, they had music, and dancing. Food, bar food.” He swirled his glass. The ice clinked. “It’s probably long gone now.”

“We should go try to find it sometime.” My car wasn’t much, an old beater, but it would still take dad and me out on the backroads of Clackamas County some summer evening.

“It was all open fields and farmland back then. Now it’s… developed.” Dad’s gravely voice dropped an extra octave in disdain, turning that final word into a curse.

I sang, “Houses made of ticky-tack, and they all look just the same!” I laughed. “You taught me that song.”

“I did! I can’t remember where I learned it. Probably some commercial jingle.”

“Those damned commercials sure get stuck in our brains. What else d’you got in there?” I squinted at him.

His face, rough, lined, skin a bit loose on his skull, eyebrows bushy over pale blue eyes, turned toward me from the shoulders. He had to look left and right like Batman since they put the metal rods in his spine. “I still have my mind. It’s the body that’s kinda falling apart.”