Still looking to one another (and ourselves) like the eight year-olds we became after a near-death experience, Mularski, Nebraska and I were seated beneath crystal chandeliers in the bar of The Benson’s baroque lobby.
One peek at their Happy Hour menu convinced us we need go no further to satisfy our appetite. And we were just in time—5:53—to get our order in: Spicy Garlic Shrimp and Grilled Como Bread for me; Mixed Greens with Herb Vinaigrette for Nebraska, followed by Cheese Fondue for Two—a total of sixteen bucks!
Mularski opted for Serrano Ham and Brie Crostata with a side of Matchstick Fries.
A feast.
I asked about the best pinot noir from Oregon by the glass, and we ordered one between us to sample. It was translucent ruby red. This color made me think of something that immediately eluded connection, like a name on the tip of a tongue or a dream, the harder you try to remember, the more elusive it becomes.
“Best grape juice I ever had,” said Mularski, tasting after me.
We ordered a bottle and I offered a toast. “To childhood.”
Nebraska tasted for the first time. “Hearty with a stake,” she pronounced.
“I thought you didn’t eat beef?” said Mularski.
“A stake.” She plunged an imaginary stake into her breast. “The kind you use to kill a vampire.”
“You’re scary,” said Mularski. “And you probably belong in this town.”
“Why’s that?”
“Didn’t you see that bumper sticker when we were out walking? Keep Portland Weird. You got all these vegetarians running around here cracking down on carbon dioxide emissions, while the greatest threat to the ozone layer is cows.”
“Cows?” I said.
“Cow flatulence,” Mularski explained. “It’s pure methane. The only answer for saving the planet is to eat more cows.”
I dipped into my Powell’s bag. “I’ve got gifts.”
To Nebraska I presented Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz. And to Mularski, Chicken Little. Their favorite childhood books.
Mularski flipped through it, studying the illustrations, which he hadn’t seen in decades. It struck some kind of nostalgic chord. “My life was falling apart,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t really falling a part, it just felt like it. It was all in my head. You asked about my fear a day or two ago? Abandonment.”
A few months before this trip, Mularski’s wife had left him.
Mularski continued, “I’d wake up on a Saturday morning and everyone would be gone. Gone. My other fear was not being good enough. I didn’t know how to interpret reality. I thought I was unworthy, and it was all in my head.” He paused, looked around. “Wow, it felt good to unload that. I’m free now. I can live my life. God bless Chicken Little.”
Nebraska grasped Mularski’s hand, for the first time showing affection toward him. With the other she raised her glass. “Let’s drink to Chicken Little.”
“And no more falling sky,” I added.
A glass and a half each and we were tipsy, a light buzz. I got up to consult the concierge. “Where’s good to go?”
“What is it you want to do?”
I answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Play.”
“Pearl District,” said the Concierge. “Try Vault Martini.” He mapped it, walking distance. Twenty minutes later there we were.
Comfortable with pinot noir, we ordered a bottle and sat upon high stools at an annex bar squeezed in between others, including an extroverted and seemingly gay male who looked like Mork from Ork and immediately struck up a conversation full of kinetic energy, as if he were also eight, without social inhibition. Others joined in and it felt like a school playground during recess.
Nebraska retreated somewhat, observing with her watchful gaze, until she pulled Lewis Carroll from her woolen handbag and delved into Wonderland.
When our bottle was empty, we caroused into the night, walking the funky streets towards our hotel. Turning off West Burnside, we encountered a group of rough-looking hipsters or homeless assembled outside a public toilet.
Nebraska drew near me, frightened.
“Hey!” a scruffy young man called. “Got any smokes?”
We ignored him, kept walking.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” He moved from the group directly into our path on the sidewalk. He wore a long goatee and tattoos on both arms, stringy hair beneath a porkpie hat, and bad teeth, some missing.
I thought of a kid in third grade that had approached me in a menacing way in the hallway outside my classroom and demanded my fifty-five cents lunch money. I hadn’t obliged him, but I’d felt seriously intimidated and it instilled in me a fear that never quit. And a hatred for bullies.
“What I really want is for your girlfriend to blow me,” the creep snarled.
His friends snorted and guffawed. “Me too,” one called from behind.
Nebraska stiffened and turned ghostly pale.
When I was eight, I would not have done what I did next, but would only have wished I had in my classroom daydreams.
I stepped forward in front of Nebraska and looked him in the eye. Then I punched him where, it seemed to me, was within reach of an eight year-old—and for him was most discomforting. After he regained his balance a few seconds later, I stepped forward. “Get out of my way.”
Out the corner of my eye, I saw the others in his clique tense up. I felt certain Mularski had them covered. The creep looked back into my eyes, then blinked and stepped aside. “Aw, I just wanted a smoke, man.”
“Then get yourself a job and smoke yourself to hell,” I said.
We walked on.
The creep followed behind, heckling with obscenities. I turned around.
“Don’t.” Nebraska tugged at me. “He’s not worth it.”
“It’s not about him,” I mumbled. “It’s about me. I’ve been walking away from bullies my whole life.” I walked straight toward the creep, quickening my pace.
He turned and ran, and his cronies melted away into the night.
When I returned to Nebraska, she trembled. “Why did you have to do that?”
I looked into her teary eyes, pairing them with my own. “Because I didn’t do it when I was eight. I’ve always regretted not standing up to childhood bullies.” I paused, absorbing what had transpired with a lump in my throat. “And now,” I said. “Now I don’t have to regret it any more.”
Mularski nodded, and our trio walked quietly back to The Benson.
Mularski took the sofa bed so he could stay up and work on one of his fighter plane models.
Nebraska curled up on her side of the mammoth king bed. She wept softly.
I touched her arm and whispered, “Are you that unhappy being eight?”
She shook her head vigorously. “At first, yes,” she said. “But not now. I’m overcome with emotion about this gift, whatever it is, to be a child again.”
“Nighty-night.”
“Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
We fell asleep facing one another, and we slept soundly.
Like children.