October 5, 2004
It finally happened. A week after I swore myself done with the nonsense, Stan knocked on my door with a foam-backed USGS bathymetry poster of Crater Lake, and a wine decantur we had been drinking from all season. "What's this?" I asked, probably visibly stunned after spending so many days ignoring or dodging each other.
"It's for you."
"Why did you do that?"
"I'm here to make recompense. Not to get overly academic, but I respect the Asian and Native American cultures the most, and in tradition, they bear gifts when they enter someone's home for the first time, or when they enter someone's home to make recompense."
He held his arms out and we hugged. He said, "I guess I should just say I'm sorry." I thanked him for the gifts and for coming down. I offered him a chair and a beer. We talked skittishly about what had happpened. I reluctantly told him I was sorry for blowing up. We agreed that this mountain makes things intense, and that overall we just overheated and needed to cool down. He acknowledged that when he started drinking that rum from George on an empty stomach, combined with the "forced celebratory atmosphere," he snapped and pushed too far. He made a few attempts to justify his behavior, calling himself a revolutionary in more words, and defending his attacks on management. I tried to hold firm on my anger. But just as I reluctantly but sincerely apologized, so had he. And he came down and knocked on my door with extended arms and gifts and that meant a lot. He's still an asshole and an abusive drunk, and I still stand by my notion that I like him better as a friend than as a person. But as I told them, this mountain is too small to hold a grudge. I think things will still be different between us, more subdued. But Stan made a strong point that we shouldn't part on such terms. I can swallow my contempt and my ego enough to tolerate his qualified apology. What does he have to do, get on his knees? Dru said she asked Stan, "What if you go down there and he says, "Sorry Stan, I don't want to talk to you.'" She remembered my "add me to the list of ...' speech, and was afraid I meant it. I told her I did and felt that way for a few days, but that I was never any good at holding grudges. As I tried to sum up, "I've had far worse arguments in the past and I'll have far worse arguments in the future, so what are you going to do?" We hugged and went to bed early, without struggle or chaos, for perhaps the first time since we became friends.
October 6, 2004
14 days left . . . When I came home from work I went to sleep at about 4 p.m. and stayed so until almost 7. During that time it rained all evening. I was tired. When I awoke, I dressed quickly and drove to Prospect Pizza for dinner. I've said a lot about Prospect, but tonight was one of those good nights in a town where you can see why people would want to live there. I ate a small onion and jalapeno pizza and a Kona beer while watching a new prime time drama about some really attractive plane crash survivors stuck on an island. At the table next to me, there were three bald and/or mustachioed rednecks. They were pretty drunk and the plane crash show was one guy's "favorite new program." He also referred to it as a movie. A homely woman and her young daughter were running the pizza place. The daughter watched as the mother dumped out the flower vase/tip jar. "Wow Mom." She had a lot of tips that night.
I stopped in at Prospect Trophy Room Bar, now under new management by a nice enough guy named Ralph. I took a stool under a row of about 50 deer racks. To my left was a 43-year-old guy, short with a mustache, a cowboy hat and wearing jeans and a tank top. He was talking to another guy, 45, wearing a Rogue Valley Fire Department cap. He was drinking a mug of beer and a shot of whiskey, and had clearly had many more before I pulled in.
The two men were talking about pugs. Yeah, the little dogs with squished noses and wrinkled faces, pugs. They were both enthusiasts. The little guy with the cowboy hat had been raising and breeding them for quite a while. The other guy had just one, but he was a fan, and wanted to know more about the dogs, despite his being very drunk interfering with the conversation. Halfway into their discussion, he said, "So you are experienced with pugs, huh?" They both agreed that pugs had lots of personality, moreso than their other dogs, Sharpeis and Basset hounds and such. No, pugs are the best dogs. They snore. They like to sleep on their backs. They don't like the heat, but they love the snow. If you breed them, the cowboy guy recommends cesarian section, to avoid common complications. When your female begins heat, she needs a week or so before she can conceive, so you need to separate the dogs during that time. Otherwise, the male will go crazy and wear himself out before she's fertile. "He won't even eat. All he can think about is poontang." Then they got a bit sentimental, asking the names of each others' dogs. Cowboy guy had pugs named Killer, Killer Jr., and Pooper. Drunken guy had a pug named Pugsy. "That's a great name," Cowboy said. "Yep," Drunk said. "Pugsy Winchester von Ruger."
To my right, two gentlemen walked up to the bar after I ordered my second mug. One man was at least 6'7" wearing farmer overalls and a hooded sweatshirt. He had long stringy hair and a big bushy moustache. His hands were massive and gnarled, with fingernails that looked more like pieces of bark than cartiledge. His friend had crewcut hair, slightly balding and big Buddy Holly glasses. You'd think them from totally different backgrounds, except that the guy with glasses also had massive, strong hands. They ordered beer and burgers and were catching up on baseball scores. The Yankees had just defeated the Twins, but the tall guy said, "I hate both of those squads." I asked what they were doing here, and the tall guy told me they were blowing up trees for the Forest Service. Buddy Holly climbs 70 feet up a tree and plants dynamite, but tall guy just gets to hit the detonator. They're from the other side of the world: Corvalis. "Fucking Yankees," tall guy said, watching highlights.
I left after two mugs, drove home the 30 miles back to my dorm with an open Miler Lite in the cupholder and the new Giant Sand on the stereo. Howe Gelb is a mad genius.
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