You will notice
as we go along, that I mention the Branding
Iron and the Cellar fairly often. I am not ordinarily what you would
call a
bar fly. The names of bars around the world do not drop readily
from my
lips. I can't even remember the name of a single place where Kiki
and I drank
in Jamaica, except for a bar in Montego called the Pelican, where
a real
Rastafarian glared at us through two dances. In San Diego, I followed
the girls
and tended to spend Saturday nights (I worked Fridays) at wherever
was
currently in with the singles.
So why do I
display a certain preoccupation with the bars of Garberville? It
may be misunderstood by outsiders with TV blaring seductively, or
movie ads
tempting them; with a basketball game at the sports arena, maybe
a play at a
dinner theater, or the beach, or skiing, tennis anyone? I remember
it well,
such urban existence. But in Garberville on any given Saturay night,
there are
three bars available, and maybe a performance by the local little
theater
group, the Redwood Players. You can't even get anything to eat after
9 P.M.
So why do I
bother to go out at all? I live in a tent. I have no
electricity. My running water comes out of a garden hose with a
shutoff valve
at the end. My bed consists of air mattress and sleeping bag, usually
occupied
by Spiro. I tried jogging. But after hauling supplies up the hill
and over the
ridge just to keep my plants alive, there was something strangely
unsatisfying
about running through the woods empty handed. Besides, my back hurt.
I then
tried collecting deer antlers shed by the bucks, and carved chess
pieces out of
them. Until Spiro buried them.
So what finally
happened was that nearly every Saturday morning until September
(I'll tell you the why of that later) I ended up driving to Garberville
to rent
a motel room. I would have a late, leisurely breakfast at the Woodrose
cafe,
catching up on all the week's gossip. I would pick up my mail at
the P.O. and
do whatever shopping was necessary at the hardware and growers supply.
Then I'd
saunter back to the motel, flip on the TV, look through my mail,
take a shower,
and toss down three, maybe four beers. By this time it would be
late afternoon,
and time for a nap on an honest to God bed. That done, if I were
seeing Kiki
that night, I'd put on clean clothes to meet her, and we'd take
Rain to the
movie, no matter what was playing. (One movie house does not allow
you to be
picky). While Rain was whooping it up with his peers in the movie
house, Kiki
and I wold have dinner, then buy Rain some fries and a cheese sandwich
to give
him in the motel room, so he could scarf, watch TV, and fall asleep.
Thus freed,
we'd walk down to the Branding Iron or the Cellar, depending on
which bands were offering what. They all sounded equally bad to
me, but Kiki
had her preferences.
The next day,
after mutually satisfying sex (call a fuck a fuck, was Kiki's
philosophy, but I'm more sensitive), the three of us would breakfast
at the
Woodrose, after which Kiki would take off into her "own space,"
of which she
seemed to need plenty. I'd complete my grand tour at the laundromat
and grocery
store, and head again for the hills, my whole social life having
been squeezed
into a day and a half. That's why the Branding Iron and the Cellar
get
mentioned.
I guess I like
the Branding Iron the best. It has a special feel, an atmosphere
that makes it my kind of place. Everybody has an idea of what a
special hang
out should be: an English pub, a French sidewalk cafe, a MacDonald's.
The
Branding Iron is mine. Noisy, but fairly clean; the beer cold, and
the
proprietors terrifying enough to keep brawls infrequent. (I am not
a Saturday
night fighter.) By keeping my eyes open, I can watch the likes of
Fast Eddie
Success put the make on a new girl in town. His name suited Eddie.
He usually
scored in the first fifteen minutes. Or I could observe a local
dealer invite a
customer outside for a sniff of the latest import. Or I could note
who had
broken up with whom the previous week, and who the new items were...all
the
while drinking three or more beers and having my eardrums blasted
by the latest
musical combo.
There is a local
pool of musicians who combine and recombine like DNA in a mad
scientist's gene lab. One week, Louie Louie (drummer and plant salesman)
would
be playing Reggae with the "Tegos", and the next week
he's rattling out country
blues with the "Nightcrawler." It's the same with all
the other guys who think
they are musicians because they happen to own an instrument. The
only combo
closed to them is an all Dyke group that goes by a lot of names,
and plays
mostly a kind of soft punk...if there is such a thing. Brenda plays
drums with
them sometimes. I remember how horrified my folks were when Brenda
chose drums
as her instrument. They said little Jewish girls played the cello,
or
piano. So she settled temporarily for a sax, until she saved enough
money to
buy her own set of skins. I was glad I was out of the house by then.
Even the
Army was better than Brenda on drums. But for this punk band, her
drums were
just right. Her sax, when she tried it, was something else. Even
her most loyal
fem-rad-sisters dispersed at the first "blaat."
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