He was somewhere on the Oregon coast, heading north on his bicycle with the wind and rain in his face. 17 years in the desert and now here he was in all this rain, his bicycle loaded and clownish with front and rear pannier bags.
“GOD FUCKIN’ DAMN YOU!” he yelled.
It was a tiny coastal town, a 1-taxi town. He rode in around noon. Exhausted. It was so dark it seemed like 7 o’clock at night. He found shelter next to an abandoned building with a roof over the sidewalk. He was soaked and miserable. He locked his bike to a gas pipe and walked toward the only sign of life anywhere: the neon light in the little tavern across the street.
The handle was made from a tree branch nailed to the door. Wind and rain came in as the heavy door closed behind him. There were three old men and one middle-aged woman at the bar. They all turned and looked at him. He sat down on the end stool.
The bartender was maybe 60 years old with a wart on her forehead. She walked over and leaned on the bar and smiled at him.
“You look like a wet chicken.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked at the way he was dressed. Shorts over a blue pair of athletic tights and a blue sweatshirt. His short salt and pepper hair was matted to his skull.
“What can I get you?”
“Pitcher of whatever’s cheap, please.”
She poured the beer and set it down in front of him.
It was warm in there. The smell of hot dogs and onion rings.
“What’s the name of this town?” he asked, taking a drink.
“This is Port Orford, honey.”
“Port AWFUL!” one of the old geezers down the bar called out.
“It ain’t all that bad,” the old lady said. “But it’s close.”
She winked at him.
His wife used to wink at him like that. He and Melissa had been together for 12 years, since they were 15. They were best pals. She was always a little tormented, but so was he.
“Have you heard anything about the weather for tomorrow?”
“Just more of the same,” she said.
“I figured.”
“You need anything, you let me know.”
She walked back to her friends. He wanted a hamburger and onion rings but was afraid to spend the money.
Old photographs of loggers covered the wall, tiny men standing next to trees as big as skyscrapers. You didn’t see trees that big anymore. A pool table in one corner. An old piano against a wall with a chalkboard on the wall above it: LIVE MUSIC EVERY SAT. NIGHT. Another sign on the wall behind the bar said PITCH’S TAVERN. When the phone rang the bartender picked it up and said, “Pitch’s!” But it sounded like “Bitch’s!”
He stood up and headed to the bathrooms, which were designated QUAILS and WOODPECKERS. He took a piss and walked to the tiny sink. As he washed his hands he looked at himself in the mirror. He was only 27, but looked 40, already had quite a few gray hairs, circles under his eyes. He’d been riding 75 miles a day in terrible weather, eating cans of Chef Boyardee and gas station bread. He came out and sat back down.
One morning a couple of years ago his wife had awakened him and told him she was a man now. He was not to call her Melissa anymore, but instead, Eric. He knew why she had chosen that name. “Eric” had been the name of her little brother who had died when he was two months old, when Melissa was five. Her parents began to fight a lot and sent Melissa to stay with her grandparents until she graduated high school. She rarely talked about it but sometimes when they were drunk on Boones Farm wine down by the Peoria River at night she would open up. He never knew what to say when she told him about those horrible memories, her old creep grandpa and the things he did to her. He just hugged her and listened. And tried to understand. His mother had always told him that good people win. That was her motto. Never get upset, she told him, because it isn’t worth it. You can’t change people and you will only do more damage to yourself. She was married four times and at age 45 she looked 80. She never liked Melissa.
It wasn’t easy learning to call Melissa, Eric. It seemed like a joke. She said she had been living a lie all her life. She was not a woman and had never been a woman. She was a man. She hoped he would support her and stay by her side. And he did. She was his whole life. He’d been with a couple other girls in high school but it had been awkward and fruitless. There was always a great gap between him and them and when the sex was over there was nothing but the gap. He immediately wanted to get away from them. With Melissa it was different. The sex was lukewarm but the kinship was real. She was a friend, a sister. A brother.
The middle-aged woman began telling the bartender and the three old men a story. “You know the Johnsons who live way out off the highway?”
They all nodded.
“I was up there the other day,” she said. “You know, to read the meter, and they’ve got this big Rottweiler. I mean, they warned me about this Rottweiler. It’s just the sweetest thing, really, just a big pussy cat, only thing is he hates trucks. I guess he got hit by a truck when he was a pup and he just hates trucks. Cars are ok, but trucks, no. I was up there the other day, trying to read the meter, and this damn dog’s just barking and growling his fool head off. I wasn’t worried, I brought my binoculars to read the meter through. I didn’t even have to get out of the truck. Sally down at the shop told me to take those binoculars. But after I wrote down the numbers, I felt the truck start to shake and then there’s this loud WHOOSH and one side of the truck goes down. He bit right through my tire!”
They all laughed.
“I had to sit there until the kids got home from school and called the dog off.”
A man in a cheap suit came into the tavern and sat down near him. He looked wild eyed and a little crazy and sad and he was wet from the rain. He ordered a coffee and a bunch of change for the pay phone, but he never got up to use it. He just sat there smoking and sipping his coffee.
“Rotten fucking weather,” he said. “My name’s Ed.”
“Robert, nice to meet you.”
“You live here?”
“Just passing through.”
“Where to?”
“Washington, maybe.”
“You got work there?”
“No, just a vacation.”
“Some vacation.”
“What about you?”
“I’m on vacation too,” the man said. “I’m with my wife.”
“Where is she?”
“She went on ahead, she had some things to do.”
“How long’s she been gone?”
“Just a few days. But she’s coming back.”
“She took your car?”
“It’s her car. But she’s coming back any time now, and not a moment too soon, because I’m getting tired of this town.”
“Staying in the motel?”
He nodded and sipped his coffee. Robert looked at the pile of quarters on the bar. “She’s a beautiful person,” the man said. “She’s not much to look at, you know, really, on the outside, but she’s got this inner beauty. She’s really a beautiful person.”
“I’m sure she is.”
Melissa—Eric—began hormone treatments to raise her—his—testosterone levels. Robert was continually calling her “Melissa” which pissed her off. He supported her on social media, always calling her “they.” But it was confusing. They stopped having sex completely. She had never dressed in a truly feminine manner but now started buying all her clothes from the men’s department. She didn’t seem happier but Robert figured he would give it time. He was always the one to do the dishes and cooking and laundry anyway so not much really changed in their daily routine. He went to work at his job at the insurance company as a phone rep and came home and tried to tread as lightly as possible.
The bar door opened and fresh wind and rain came in. Boots clumped across the floor. An old man took a barstool between the regulars and Robert.
The bartender clanged the cow bell that was hanging over the bar. Then she came and sat a beer down in front of Robert.
“J.R. just bought a round for the house,” she said. Robert lifted the beer in thanks toward the old guy and the old guy smiled and returned the gesture. Then he got up and walked over and sat down next to Robert. He slapped Robert’s back.
“Hiya,” he said in a loud voice. “I’m J.R.”
“Robert.”
They shook hands.
“You riding that bicycle?”
“Yep.”
“Goin’ a long way?”
“Pretty long.”
“I like people,” the old man said. “I like people and I saw you ride into town on that bike in the rain and I thought I’ve got to talk to that guy. And now here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“Say,” he said, “you going to the wedding later?”
“Wedding?”
“Didn’t Mollie tell you? We’re having a wedding later on today. You should come. It’s gonna be up on Nate’s Hill, a little west of town.”
“Outdoors?”
J.R. looked out the only window at the rain. “Hope the weather breaks. Anyway, Mollie will tell you how to get there. Maybe you could catch a ride with somebody.”
“We’ll see how things go.”
“Well,” J.R. said, draining his beer and slamming it down on the bar, “I’ve got to skeedaddle.” He slapped Robert for the last time. “I just saw you and I wanted to say hello. I wanted to make sure you remember this place, you remember old J.R. Remember me young man, remember J.R. from Port Orford!”
“I promise.”
Then J.R. was gone and it was quiet again.
Robert and Melissa had been married at the court house in Peoria. Just the two of them. No honeymoon. They had gone out to eat at the Crab Shack and then went home and watched movies. That’s when they decided to move to Tucson and make a fresh start.
“Fresh start” was the phrase Melissa used the day before she got her breasts cut off. She was groggy in the hospital room and Robert sat by her bed. She opened her eyes and looked at him like he was a stranger. He asked her if she needed anything and she said, “More painkillers.”
With a flat chest the men’s shirts fit her better and she even began to walk differently. She sprouted a little mustache like a 13-year-old boy. Her teaching job had given her a sabbatical and she sat around the house, spending most of her time in front of the mirror looking at her scars and her jaw line. Or she was on social media. Robert couldn’t do anything right. She went to therapy once a week and always came home angry.
An hour later another man came into the bar and sat down on the other side of Robert. The man was around 60 years old and had thick, completely white hair. He also had a white mustache and a smoothly tanned face. The bartender came down.
“Jim,” she said. “How are you this afternoon?”
“Hangin’ in there, Mollie.”
Robert looked up and Jim was staring at him.
“How ya doin?” he said.
“Good,” Robert said.
“You ain’t from around here.”
“Tucson, in Arizona.”
“Mmmm, hmm.”
“You going to the wedding?” Robert asked.
“Who told you about that?”
“J.R. He bought me a beer.”
“I don’t think I can attend,” Jim said. “What brings you down this way?”
“Bicycle trip.”
“Bicycle?” He looked at Robert’s clothes for the first time. “You must be crazy.” “Yeah.”
“I’ve never even been out of Oregon,” Jim said, his mustache twitching. “I’ve lived here all my life. I was a logger here for 40 years.”
“Long time.”
“Naw, it all just flew by, I loved every minute of it, except when my friends got killed. That happened sometimes. But mostly it was fun, I loved it all, life is something to enjoy, don’t forget that. What’s your name?”
“Robert.”
“Nice to meet you, I guess you know I’m Jim.”
“I heard.”
“You married?”
“Yes.”
“Back in Arizona?”
“Yep.”
“Miss her?”
“Yes.”
“I miss my wife,” Jim said. “She died a few years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, don’t be, it wasn’t your fault. She was a good woman, a real good woman, stayed
married to me for thirty-seven years.”
“Sounds like a Saint.”
“Any kids?”
“No,” Robert said.
Robert had never wanted kids. In fact, he had been thinking about getting a vasectomy for a few years but when Melissa got her tubes cut out it seemed unnecessary.
“You’ll change your mind.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, mark my words, you’ll change your mind.”
“It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want kids either.”
Jim almost fell off his chair laughing.
“Son, you got a lot to learn about women.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“I know you may think you don’t want kids, maybe even she thinks that, but just wait—How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Damn, I thought you were older than that. You’re just a pup.”
Without exactly knowing why, Robert said: “I got a vasectomy last year, so I don’t think I’ll be having any kids.”
Jim just about choked on his beer, and looked at Robert like he was suddenly some kind of monster. “You what?”
“Vasectomy. It’s when you—”
“I know what it is! Why’n hell would you do something stupid as that?”
“Because I don’t want kids.”
“Son, I sure wish I could talk to you again in 15 years. I just wish I could be there to see the look on your face when you realize how much you’ve missed out on.”
“Sorry.”
Jim’s face was red.
“I logged these mountains for 40 years. Look at these hands.”
They were huge and wrinkly and gnarled and scarred. Robert’s hands were tiny in comparison. Soft.
“I retired 10 years ago because I could afford it and I wanted to enjoy my remaining years. I love life and I love this town and now you tell me that you’ve let a doctor—”
Robert was sorry he had lied.
Jim got up, disgusted, and went to the bathroom.
He called her “Melissa” instead of “Eric” one night and she went ballistic. She started throwing plates and utensils around and knocked a hole in the plaster wall with her hand. He started going on longer and longer bicycle rides, to all parts of the city he’d never been and beyond the city to the desert.
One day when he got back from a bicycle ride the car was gone. He didn’t hear from Melissa for a couple of days. Then he got a phone call. She’d been in an accident and died on the way to the hospital. They said she was drunk and also killed a woman with a small child on the interstate. They asked him some questions, like what sex category to put on the death certificate. He didn’t know what to tell them.
Jim returned from the bathroom.
“So, what are you going to do later, if you’re not going to the big wedding?” Robert asked.
“Just go on home and cook some supper I guess.”
“I hope you’re not having Chef Boyardee,” Robert said, thinking of the cans of Ravioli that he had been eating for 2 weeks straight.
Jim stood up so fast his stool fell backwards on the floor.
“Listen to me, young man! I don’t know who you think you are, but if you think you can come into a town and insult the locals, then you’re looking for trouble.”
“But, I—”
“That’s a darn good way to get hurt! Good day, sir!”
He stomped out.
The bartender came over.
“What’s going on? Where’d Jim go?” she asked.
“Home, I guess,” Robert said. “He’s got quite a temper on him.”
His hand was shaking a little as he lifted his cigarette.
“Old Jim?” the bartender lady said, laughing. “Old Jim’s gentle as a lamb. I’ve ever seen
him mad at anybody, and I’ve known him forty years.”
She wiped up the bar where Jim had been sitting although there was nothing to wipe up. Then she walked away. Robert stood up and bent over and grabbed Jim’s stool and stood it on its legs.
A couple hours later Robert sat huddled next to his bicycle under the awning trying to keep out of the rain. He dug a can of ravioli out of his bag. The little Chef Boyardee guy on the can looked at him and Jim looked back. The picture on the label looked just like Jim from the bar with his big white mustache. Robert shook his head, laughing a little. He hadn’t realized the similarity at the time. Sorry, Jim.
Robert thought about all the things he’d left back at the house, which was only half paid for, never to see again. The morning after the funeral he’d put some clothes in his pannier bags and rode away. His money was nearly gone and he didn’t have any idea what he was going to do.
In his living room across town Old Jim sat forward on his chair and took a bite of porterhouse steak. He chewed the steak and thought about the smart-ass kid from the bar and wondered what was going on with today’s youth. He shook his head and dismissed the ugly episode, the whole idea of it.
He turned up the volume on the tv. The weather was on. They called it “El Nino,” the system that was bringing all the rain and wind to Oregon and causing hurricanes in Mexico. There was a cute little name for everything these days, he thought.
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