LIaDVp.27: Norsemen and The Clanks

October 3, 2004

I was able to spend two full days in Portland recently, which was much needed after the meltdown in the dorm parking lot the night before. Being home was wonderful. Probably my last trip before shutting this bitch down. I probably could have used a haircut, but the last day in town I was hungover, so Casey and I watched eight episodes of Freaks and Geeks instead. That show is incredible, but just watching dvds all day and night hit the spot. The night before we visited the Hotel Mallory's popular lobby bar, The Driftwood Room. Aside from a handful of locals, there were about 30 visitors from Norway, here to gather at the Norse Hall in SE Portland. When we arrived, they were all in the lobby, playing six accordians, an acoustic guitar, and a handsaw, while others danced. When that party wound down, they shifted to the bar where one Norseman played the guitar and another led them in song. The crazy part: when they weren't playing Norse folk songs that sounded exactly like old American songs, they were playing actual old American songs. "Do you guys know Merle Aggard?" Then leading us all in a rousing version of "Okie from Muskogee," with all of the words dead on in English, except for the "th" sound was replaced with "t," like "everyting," and a few other minor pronunciation mistakes. And this went on and on until the bar closed. Some Ringo Starr song. The Green Green Grass of Home. A Bobby Darren song.

The mountain feels a little lonely lately. The neverending sunny and beautiful weather is grating at me. After seeing leaves in the Portland streets, I want the seasons to change, badly. I guess that's mainly why I decided to stay. I needed to see it happen. The snow fall, the doors lock, the cars dissapear. To know that when I leave, there will be nothing here to leave behind but snowdrifts and a park service skeleton staff.

I work nights now, and it's a whole new perspective on the lodge and the park. The stars and moon and sunset are as breathtaking as the glassy lake on a crisp morning at Cleetwood. The lodge in particular takes on a unique beauty at night. No more bustling in and out of doors as people settle down for their dinner reservations or sit back in the great hall for cocktails and desserts. A major duty for the night front deskman is checking out blankets so people can sit in rocking chairs on the back porch and watch the moon over the big dark water. Twice tonight people came up to me to comment that at 7000 feet with no clouds or light pollution for about a 75 to 100 mile radius, this is the greatest night sky they had ever seen. I sort of take it as a compliment, though I have nothing to do with it. It's nice to know that I had something to do with people seeing the most beautiful night sky of their lives, as small as that part is.

The other night at the campground, bellman Cory told me about a fungus that grows on wheat, which the U.S. Department of Agriculture has long devoted resources to monitoring. It creates hallucinations in someone who ingests it. One of his former government co-workers accidentally ingested it and proved such. Historians can trace back a massive presence of the fungus in the area during the Salem witch trials. This is how they account for the visions among the persecuted. They were all loopy on wheat fungus and were burned at the stake.

Another job that Cory actually had in common with Captain Roger was night watch at a morgue. Cory didn't hold the job, but often assisted a friend who did. All parties present testified to a phenomenon called, "The Clanks." This is when waning nerve impulses remaining in corpses kick in and cause the bodies to lurch up in their slumbers, creating "clanks," in their metal drawers, which echo throughout the halls most nights. One night, Cory saw a particularly powerful Clank that knocked the drawer loose and out of its slot, so it appeared as though one of the corpses had pushed its way out. He pissed in his pants.

I heard all of these stories on that same night that Stan was nearly fired. I got completely hammered (but never caused trouble with anyone I'd like to point out). We sat around a campfire and bullshitted till late at night. Two servers came by right before the General Manager showed up looking for Stan. One server was smoking dope right before she appeared from the shadows. We started joking that she was a ninja and I kept going on about how she has the power to manipulate time and space, probably a bit too long. I think (this is fuzzy) I raised some eyebrows. I was talking a lot to this waitress. We had a nice talk, but I vaguely remember the sensation that I was wearing her out a bit. I couldn't help it. After the Stan thing, I really needed to have a positive social experience, even if I was about 20 or so drinks ahead of her.

I rode back to the dorm with her and Bruce, a pretty cool middle aged waiter who drives this Oldsmobile hoopty looking thing with the coolest interior I've ever seen. In my drunken state, I was silently obsessing over its massive wall of console and dashboard and electronics. In the dark, lit by glowing stereo gizmos and dashlights, it looked like the interior of a spacecraft or a 747. I decided at that moment that I would have such a car of my own someday. A 1980s sedan of some sort with a massive dash and instruments. That's all I had to go on, but my mind was made up. I sheepishly thanked Bruce the next day for the ride, but couldn't remember the girl's name so didn't talk to her. Now I feel bad about not saying hello. I'm told I'm pretty coherent even when extremely wasted. But they were so sober and I was so drunk, I had that weird feeling like they saw me naked or something.