Summer Nights with Mr Brown

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Geo: 45.7056, -121.52

At about 10pm the phone rang, a number that I didn't know.
"Hey is this Brett?"
"Yeah."
"Hey this is Kev, I'm having a little trouble finding your house. I'm walking out in the street right now."
"Ok, I'll be right out."..."I see you down there, I'm in the middle of the street, just keep walking."
A large silhouette of a man and a silhouette of a lot of hair approached me.
"Hi, I'm Kev."
"Brett. Nice to meet you."

That was my first interaction with Kev. He was (well, still is) the older brother of the girl that Jon, my roommate at the time, was dating (and their younger sister is the one who grew up with the girl I met and bathed in the river with in Durango...small world). He had been living in New England and was driving West, to Oregon, to live and work for the summer. Jon had offered him a place to crash for the night, but at the last moment got the chance to go to the mountains for the weekend for a retreat-type event with some graphic designers, a great opportunity to make some friends and contacts. Although he felt bad for ditching, Kev and I both told him individually that he had better go. So here I was, hosting Jon's future brother-in-law for the night, whom I had never met.

It was no problem and no inconvenience in any way, and we actually had a great time just chatting and having a couple beers that evening. He was setting out on a brand new chapter in life, somewhat against his own will, but was very excited and optimistic about what his future held. He was already back on the road by the time I woke up in the morning, but I was appreciative for our brief, random meeting.

The next summer, Kev and one of his friends were driving from Oregon back to the east coast to go to his sister's wedding in New Hampshire, and I told him they were more than welcome to crash in Denver. Jon had since moved out to be with his fiance in New England. As a trade, Kev had an extra ticket to a Rockies/Red Sox game for one of the nights they were there. I can't remember, but I'm sure we did a little pregaming before the event. Once in the stadium, we all enjoyed a few wallet-breaking beers and hot dog, and decided to make a night of it downtown. When in Denver. We selected a location a few blocks away. They had taken a taxi to the game, so they began walking. I had ridden my bike from home, so I hopped on and rode in the direction of the bar, nearly knocking down a few people with my swerving, Coors-altered riding abilities.

For some reason, we changed plans, but eventually found ourselves at a lovely little dive called Herb's. I parked and chained my bike and we walked inside. Now, Kev is the kind of guy who can talk to anyone, anyplace, anytime. Put him in a room of a hundred strangers, give him an hour, and he knows every one of them (especially anyone with a Sox hat on). Naturally, literally within seconds of walking in, we were chatting and laughing with the doorman and a handful of patrons. A few times a shot would mysteriously appear in my hand. I was with friends, so why not? Before too long, we were all invited over to one of their downtown condos, along with a few of the guy's buddies. I was with friends, so why not? A limo was waiting outside. What the hell? I assured the driver, a short Hispanic man, that I would just ride my bike the few short blocks to the destination. He would not have it, directed me into the limo, and then proceeded to carefully pass my bike into the back with all of us.

Upon arrival a few minutes later the process was reversed. The condo was pretty swanky. Two or three story, well put together, and clean, especially for a bachelor pad. Of course, the whole situation was a bit sketchy, and I never would have put myself in it if I were alone, so I was thankful to have Kev and Tom around. We proceeded to hang out, have a couple more drinks, I think a bong was involved (we didn't inhale), and a guitar that was missing two strings. By the end of the night, everybody was in that happy, love everybody and everything mood. Danny, the doorman at Herb's, a huge guy twice my size, was shaking out hands and telling us that we were so awesome and he's so glad he met us, eyes heavy, bloodshot, and half closed, of course. The three of us decided to make our way out at around 2. Kev and Tom got a taxi and encouraged me to wait with them. "Nah, I'm just gonna ride my bike home, it's not that far." Despite my better judgement and their best efforts to convince me otherwise, I triumphantly rode off on my bike, comforted that most of the ride home would be on the Platte River bike path.

How I actually found my way home, I am still not sure. It would have only been a 20-25 minute bike ride under normal circumstances. Somehow, it took me about an hour and a half to get home. I walked at least half of the time with my bike next to me. Although my state was not very functional, I had enough sense to realize that any time I tried to ride a straight line on the bike that my path more resembled that of a circle. Kev and Tom were still awake, sitting on the front steps when I finally managed to get home at roughly 3:30 in the morning (and did I mention this was a weeknight and I had to work the next day?) Thankful and probably somewhat amazed to actually see me, they listened to my tales and we had some laughs about our ridiculous night before all passing out like the dead.

And here it is, almost exactly a year later, I rejoin them in Hood River for a couple days. I have been going through some great towns during my travels, Hood River not to be the least of them. Dumping itself right in to the Columbia River on the Oregon/Washington border, small main street with quaint shops and restaurants, hilly and thickly wooded. A mecca in the summertime for vagabond wind surfers and kiteboarders. During the summer, Kev told me, there is hardly a street in the entire town that is not home to a van of some sort with boards strapped to the roof. Where camping is allowed down near the water, there is only a one-night limit at any location, so each night everybody just rotates down 50 feet to the next spot, like the treads of a tank.

We were looking for some live music. While waiting for our food at Brian's Pourhouse, one of the fancier locales in town, we heard a few strums of an acoustic guitar coming from the bar downstairs. Upon investigation, I noticed that there was an open mic that night. Perfect! The list had room for 6 acts, all blank, so I just wrote my name on number four with a note saying "I may be upstairs at Brian's". Kev's wonderful lady showed up and joined us for dinner, and then we made our way downstairs. A guy by the name of Sharky was playing when we got there. I asked the host if I would be able to get on soon. "Do you have a knife?" Confused, thinking perhaps he was referring to my guitar as a knife instead of the more typical axe, I replied, "Yeah, but it doesn't have a plug, so I'll need another mic or may need to borrow a guitar." "No, I mean do you have a knife? Cause you might need to threaten this guy at knifepoint to get him off the stage!" I told him about my 6" Buck knife, which should do the trick. He agreed, and proceeded to inform me that Buck knives have a lifetime warranty, a fact that I did not know.

Anyway, I was able to get on stage without threatening anyone and got to play for a good 30 minutes! I realized that night that, with the exception of my two nights in Yakima, I had played an open mic in every state I had been to. I made a point to do my best to play an open mic in every state from that point forward.

Kev introduced me to disc golf - a "sport" I had obviously heard of but never played. He even gifted me four discs! He assured me that there are courses everywhere and encouraged me to practice so that he would have someone else to play with next time I came through town. I enjoyed the 18 holes we played on a perfect-weathered day in the park, but was rudely made aware of my lack of fitness when I woke up the next day with a sore arm.

I'm not sure if it was just residual from nearly putting out my eye a few days earlier, or perhaps something I inherited from the communal guitar at open mic, but my eyes were doing worse. Tuesday, my left eye (the one that didn't get snapped, oddly enough) started getting a little goopy. Shit. I picked up some pink eye relief drops from Walgreen's. No luck. Woke up Wednesday morning with both eyes crudded shut. Shit. That afternoon I visited a walk-in clinic across the border in Washington and got confirmation that there was indeed a corneal laceration on my right eye, and also got a prescription for some pink eye drops. Relief! (I am actually writing this entry a week and a half after it occurred and, although I have been using the drops, am still suffering from some minor pink eye symptoms. wtf?)

During my time there, Kev and I discussed and laughed about that crazy night in Denver after the Red Sox game. "Ugh, and I can't believe I did all that when I had to work the next day." "I know," he agreed, "and I remember thinking when you actually got up and went to work, 'that is one of the toughest men I have ever known!'" Haha, thanks man. Can't bench press my own body weight, can't really function when it's over 90 degrees, but keep me up all night partying and I can somehow manage to press through a day in the office!

The three nights in Hood River were incredibly more calm than the last time I had seen these two chaps. But that was fine with me. Movies, music, relaxing, backyard horseshoes, disc golf, a few beers here and there, and no rush to be any place at any time.

I was back on the road bearing gifts from Hood River: four disc golf discs, a bag of road-trip/backpack friendly food inherited from Kev's recent travels, two boxes of SOYJOY fruit bars, and two eyes filled with puss.

I should have some pictures coming soon (don't have my camera at the time). Come back now, ya hear?

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