Trouble Brewing: The Un-BEER-able Lightness of Being

One of my aunts passed away in the autumn of 2013. 

I have been blessed with several awesome aunts and uncles, (some through marriage) and so I avoid handing out appellations like “Favorite Aunt or Uncle.” Truth-be-told, almost all of my aunts and uncles are equally my “favorite.” Aunt Carol was definitely a “Beloved Aunt.” She also was a fellow writer and creator, and also the mother of some of the world’s coolest cousins.

Needless to say, she was a wonderful woman, and I took a week off from work to drive to her memorial service in California.

For me, it was a no-brainer. I hadn’t had a good road trip in a long time, and it was an opportunity to see family again to celebrate the life of a loved-one.

At the time of the trip, I drove a green ’04 Chevy Trailblazer. Being a recently-separated guy alone on the road, it was just shy of a perfect setup. I owned a twin-bed mattress, which fit perfectly in the back if the seats were down. (In the back of my head, I envisioned a situation where, if I were to suddenly become homeless, I at least had a “roof” (complete with roof-rack) over my head.

In addition to my ultimate goal of celebrating my Aunt’s life with the family, I had a handful of secondary objectives.

One of my side-missions on the drive was collect Casino Player’s Club cards from different tribal casinos up and down the coast. This was in part because usually casinos give you some sort of a $25-for-20 offer when you sign up, as well as swag (smoke-scented ballcaps, pens, coffee mugs, etc.) In addition, a local casino had a special where, if you brought in a competitor’s club card and defiantly cut it up in front of the club card representatives, you’d get $25-for-20 at their casino.

(Spoiler alert: I made it back with seven new club cards and assorted swag from seven different casinos. The card-cutting promotion ended while I was out of state. **Sigh**)

Another mission was to document the trip with my new smartphone. Originally said documentation was to be done on Facebook and Twitter, but my newly-crafted “smartphone skillz” were somewhat lacking. As a result, I posted a LOT of stuff on Google-Plus, and inadvertently on Picasa (whatever that is.) I planned to drive over the Astoria-Megler bridge across the Columbia River between Washington and Oregon. (For those of you who are not located in the Pacific Northwest, this is a bridge that connects “nowhere” to “nowhere.” (OK, I’ll amend that: It connects “nowhere” to the “Home State of The Seattle Seahawks, SuperBowl XLVIII Champions!”) 

This trip is documented here:  https://plus.google.com/u/0/110507535482438582761/posts/aUnFfHGNXud?pid=5945642812281939570&oid=110507535482438582761

My third mission was to visit Powell’s “City of Books,” in Portland, Ore. (aka “Portlandia”)  https://plus.google.com/u/0/110507535482438582761/posts the most incredible bookstore in the known universe. This bookstore is about as big of an average sized-town. If its population were books, it’s about size of China and India combined. I mean, come on, how many independent bookstores have their own parking garage? While at Powell’s, I completed my collection of John Scalzi’s “Old Man’s War” tetralogy, picked up a few other books, subtly plugged myself as an author by pretending to look for my own novel “Sorry, sir. We don’t have any of those yet.”

I drove as far as I could on the first day/night, finally stopping in a place that my phone’s GPS called “Oakland, Ore.” It was convenient because it had a truck stop (ostensibly a shower if I felt so inclined) and a Subway® sandwich shop. There was also the first of several “Adult Shops.” I speculated that, since it’s not legal to buy children, perhaps you could get an adult at an inexpensive price. (Hey, there are times when the carpool lane looks really tempting, but you’re alone in the car. If you picked up a few extra adults, you could get through traffic much more quickly.)

I took an unusual route to get to the Northern California town of Blue Lake. Usually, one takes I-5 (or “The I-5” once you get to California) to Grants Pass, Ore., and then cuts west to take “The 10”1 to McKinleyville and subsequently my destination of Blue Lake. I, however, stayed on “The I-5” because I wanted to stop in Weed, Calif. to get some pictures and do a little research on ambience for my second novel, which starts off in that city. Then I stayed on “The I-5” to Redding, Calif. before cutting across to the west on “The 299.”

For the record: “The 299” is a crazy series of hills and valleys, “S-Curves” and hairpin turns that runs through “The Trinity County” to “The Humboldt County.” According to my family “The Trinity County” is “The Marijuana-Growing Capitol” of “The Known Universe.”

I don’t know if this fact accounted for the dense fog I encountered while trekking through the county, but it likely explained the skunk-like smell I inhaled constantly.

A later conversation went like this…

Paul:  “Man, that’s a really long drive through Skunk Country! Oh, sorry. ‘The Skunk Country.’”

Cousin:  “No, Paul, that’s pot. Trinity County is Pot Country.”

Paul:  “No… ’The Trinity County’ is ‘The Pot Country.’”

Come on. These are native Californians. They shouldn’t need this kind of coaching.

So, luckily I had learned to use my GPS and the Navigation Program on my phone. 

Unfortunately, the service was spotty. But it successfully warned me at least two hairpin turns that would have been the subject of ‘50s songs if I’d not had the GPS.

Then one foggy autumn eve, PJ hit a turn,

And hit it he verily did, and PJ’s car did burn

Burnin’ Burnin’ the Blazer blew

And no one ever knew…

And no one ever knew…

OK. Maybe a Johnny Cash song.

Either way, I finally made it to “The Blue Lake” (and the Blue Lake Casino, who gave me five dollars of free slot play and five dollars of free table play and a meal discount. I walked out ten dollars ahead, and had a club card ostensibly worth five dollars of play at my local casino.)

The following morning, I stopped at a K-Mart in McKinleyville to buy some shavers, which I had forgotten when I left home. I shaved at a McDonald’s restaurant across the parking lot. (Nothing but the best here in Northern California.)

The hardest part of going to K-Mart was entering the store and being surrounded by a sea of red “The 49ers” jerseys and black “The Raiders” jerseys. I felt like I was in hostile territory. Aside from the “Adult Shops,” this really was my first realization that I wasn’t in Washington anymore.

My second realization of the day came at the memorial service, which was held, of all places, a bowling alley in Blue Lake. We didn’t bowl at the service, but there was an ancillary banquet room attached to the bowling alley, separated by a full-service bar.

As I was interacting with my long-lost family members, explaining (among other things) that I was separated and had filed for a divorce, I decided that a beer would help the barbecue meatballs and cold-cuts go down.

I approached the bar, just in time to see a semi-surly bartender informing my cousin-in-law that he could not start a tab at the bar with a credit card.

“Cash only,” she said, gruffly.

He continued to hold out his card.

“Come on,” he said. “I’m trying to start a tab for about two hundred people we’re expecting here.”

“Cash only if you want to start a tab,” she said, equally gruffly as the first time.

Eventually my cousin-in-law produced two $100 bills. The bartender took the bills, but gave him a leery glance.

Needless to say, this woman was already on my bad side, and I’d only met this cousin-in-law the night before.

She poked around and finally noticed that my 6’ 4” two-hundred-fifty pound frame was occupying about two thirds of her available retail space.

“Whattaya want?” She asked, more gruffly than before.

“A beer,” I said. Then I looked over at the taps.

First of all, the taps in this dimly lit (mostly by neon beer signs) bowling-alley-tavern were as far away from my location as they could be and not be located in “The Trinity County.”

Secondly…

Uh oh…

OK, if you rule out Bud Light and Coors Light and Busch Light, that usually leaves one additional national brand and then microbrews. I worked full-time at a casino that had dozens of microbrews. I frequented restaurants that have dozens of microbrews.

The funny thing about microbrews: They’re LOCAL TO THE PLACE FROM WHICH YOU ARE PLACING THE ORDER!

Instead of seeing the familiar Pyramid, or Elysian or Mac & Jacks or Red Hook, or even Portland’s Widmer Brothers logos and emblems, I was faced with something that looked like “The Golden Gate Bridge” and “The Hawk’s Head” and “The Large Brown Bear,” and another “The Generic Bird-of-Prey’s Head” and another “The Large Bear.”

Double uh oh…

“Whattaya want?” (Again.)

“Uhhh... funny thing,” I stammered. “Uhh… I’m from out of state, so I don’t recognize any of the local micros.”

“Whattaya want?” This woman had no sympathy for my plight.

“Uhhh… what do you have in a wheat beer?” I finally asked. “I like wheat beers.”

“Wheat beer?” She sniffed as she opened a cooler and pointed to a bottle of Hefeweizen. “But that’s a GIRLY beer!”

<<Brief aside here: Wheat Beers, Hefeweizen in particular, come from Germany. Germany is an übermacho beer-making country. I promise you, there was never a Braumeister guy named Hans making a beer and saying “Ja, Ja, wir machen ein GIRLY-BIER!”>>

Chagrined, I examined my choices in the distance…

Hmmmmmm…

“Uhhhh… uhhmmm… I’ll take…”

Bear, Bear, Falcon, Hawk or Bridge?

“I… uh… I’ll take the Golden Gate Bridge one,” I finally said.

“It’s an ALE," she chided. "Sure you're OK with that?”

“Word on the street is that wheat beers are girly beers,” I said. “I’m fine with an ale.”

She poured me a pint of what turned out to be a pretty tasty amber ale.

“Four bucks,” she barked as she slammed the drink onto the counter, spilling an ounce of my precious cargo in the process.

At least the price was reasonable.

I pulled four single dollar-bills from my pocket and handed them to her.

She walked toward her cash register as she counted her money. She stopped halfway to the register, turned and faced me.

“Exact change?” She growled. “Exact change? Niiiice.”

“Yes, exact change,” I said.

There was a moment of silence. I’m not exactly sure what was silently communicated between us, but I’m positive that my apathy overpowered her disdain. If it didn’t, I really didn’t care, because… well, I’m apathetic.

“Usually people give me tips,” she spat out the final word of the sentence.

“Oh… here’s a tip for you,” I started. “The primary component of customer service is… the customer! If you don’t have customers, you don’t have business.”

I took the drink and drained it in three continuous gulps. I slapped the glass back onto the counter.

“Yawannanother?”

“No,” I said. “You’re not getting another penny from me.”

I stalked away, trying to find a place to sit before the sudden assault on my equilibrium embarrassed me.

I almost made it.

In truth, I began to focus on my family: My Aunt who had lost her sister, my cousins who had lost their mother, my other cousins who’d lost an aunt.

In all, I took lots of pictures, hugged lots of family, and shook lots of hands. We eventually adjourned to my cousin’s “The House” for additional celebration of her mother’s life, shooting pool and one more beer.

I was careful not to drink too much, because I had to make my way back home on “The 101” northbound out of “The McKinleyville.”