MOTIONAL BLUR (THE BACKSTORY: 7) OREGON
Travels with Andrew
Goldie’s Breakfast Bistro serves a fine mug of coffee, and we’re off again, if sorry to leave Boise—who would’ve known?
Crossing into Oregon does not put us back an hour to Pacific Time because this part of Oregon is more like Idaho than Oregon—extending to the clock.
We transition through a portal of curved roads and alien-like mounds until we enter a clean & green zone otherwise known as The Beaver State.
At long last, a short driving day, which means we enter Bend at lunchtime and, conveniently, find ourselves amid Bend’s annual Bite food festival.
The Oxford Hotel looks like the right sort of place to relax my road-weary bones.
Andrew is practically orgasmic about it. He phones me soon after checking out his room and the hotel’s amenities. “This is the best hotel I’ve ever stayed in my whole life! They have a complimentary laundromat! Even the detergent is free!” (Andrew then washes all his clothes and, he confides later, takes three baths.)
I stroll Bend, filling my stomach with ethnic bites from various food stalls before retiring to my room in search of a snooze. Back home, I sleep an easy eight hours a night. On the road, five or six.
Come evening, The Pine Tavern (recommended by a friend back home) with rear patio alongside a pond.
Wild Chinook Salmon with Lobster Claws and local pinot noir for me; Andrew strays from indigenous, orders beef stroganoff that looks and smells like dog food.
Bronwyn, our server, sends us to The Astro Lounge for excitement. It is closed. And just as well from the look of it. In this town, even the crescent moon sets before dark.
It is Sunday, Bend has folded, and so do I, which means I arise early enough to see a sunrise reflection on Mounts Faith, Hope and Charity—and Mount Bachelor further to the east.
En route to Grants Pass, I decide to look up a book editor I’ve known for 25 years.
When I first met Bernie in Manhattan, he was editor-in-chief of Contemporary Books and already had enjoyed a distinguished career in book publishing, having adopted Hunter Thompson’s serial Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas from Rolling Stone and turned it into a bestselling book
White-haired and dapper with a clipped mustache, Bernie was a favorite of mine during my two-year stint as a literary agent.
Last I heard he had moved to Merlin, Oregon and, in semi-retirement, kept his mind active as a literary agent.
I key his number into my phone and listen to it ring. Bernie answers! His voice sounds as it always has.
“I was thinking about you recently,” he says.
It’s funny how that works.
Well, I’m about 45 minutes from you, assuming you’re still in southern Oregon.”
He confirms he is.
“I haven’t eaten yet,” I say. “May I take you out for a late breakfast?”
“Sure, let’s have a beer.”
“I can be there in thirty-three minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll get ready.”
My iPad guides us to the address Bernie provided, depositing us at the last house of a dead-end road at the top of a hill. I open a gate, ring the doorbell. A sign says to be patient, it may take a while for anyone to reach the door, feel free to keep ringing.
About five minutes later Bernie comes into view through the glass door. I cannot believe my eyes. Slowly, he trudges toward the door. He looks frail, very frail, and I haven’t yet noticed the oxygen tank he carries.
“I’ll throw on some nicer clothes,” says Bernie.
I wait, and wait, and wait some more, as 20 minutes ticks by. Has he forgotten Alzheimer’s seems possible. Didn’t he say he’d get ready when we spoke on the phone? I’m about to leave when Bernie reappears.
“We don’t need to go anywhere,” I say, knowing it would take hours. “Let’s sit and chat.”
Bernie guides me to a bench on his patio and sits down, fiddles with his oxygen tank.
“What’s that about, Bernie?”
“I have COPD.”
Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. The oxygen tank is Bernie’s lifeline to the world, and his eyes regard it fearfully.
We talk about the old days: New York book publishing, circa late 1980s. He asks about other editors. I know a couple and tell him what I can. In truth, he’s one of the very few editors with whom I’m still in contact. And though many book publishing people knew him better, I’ll guess I’m the only one that ever made it to his door in Oregon.
Bernie’s mind is sharp, to hell with any thought of Alzheimer’s. To my mind, it would be better the other way round: A working body and a mind that checks out slowly.
In any case, you get what you get, and everybody—if they’re lucky—grows old.
Saddened, I take my leave from Bernie, disconcerted by the effects of time—and by what the future holds for everyone, including myself.
Which is reason enough to hit the road, as often as possible.