by StevenL, 8/11/10
Some of you might recall my visit with Woody Barker as related in the July 14 issue of Olympia Power & Light. Hunkered over his schooners at the bend of the bar in the Head Loader, it’s difficult to determine how much of Woody’s grizzled performance is just that – performance – and how much is simply autotalk.
The fact that no one seems to be paying attention except for your OP&L correspondent makes that question all the more intriguing.
I bid farewell to a beautiful sunny mid-morning in order to enter that dark hole in time existing under the guise of an obscure, trapped-in-amber tavern hiding on a remnant of the old Highway 410 (the things I do in order to record history for you folks) between Mud Bay and McCleary. Even before my eyes made the adjustment to the stark contrast in light, or should I say lack thereof, I could hear Woody’s voice in a grandiose tremble conclude a very tragic soliloquy.
“Yes, a mere violin is not enough to express my sorrow. Instead, I require a cello. In fact, a quartet of them!”
A picture of a baked ham began to form in my thought balloon.
There’s a puncture in the moss-covered wood shake roof that normally lets rainwater drip into an old bucket, allowing patrons to use the intensity and timing of the drops to measure the weather without having to disturb their drinking with the bother of looking outside. But today this opening is permitting a shaft of light to enter the Head Loader, a ray singling out and illuminating Woody.
The dust in the air is lit up as well, giving Woody a sort of magical aura as the particles twinkle around him. Today he is wearing a red shirt, making him look like a cross between a demented Santa Claus and a barely domesticated Caliban. The rare cessation of drops through the roof has the effect of stopping the grains of sand in an hourglass, temporarily halting the passage of time.
He tilted his neck and regarded my presence with a very slight nod and an off-center smile.
“Mornin’ lad.”
He knew I was there to write another piece about him. Close up I noticed the wispy hairs on his top cranial curve twisted straight up into the air like solar flares off the sun.
“Watch this,” he winks. Woody then hailed the bartender.
“Hey! Smiley! Give my friend here a slug from the mug.”
‘Smiley’ is a tall, gaunt and expressionless man who does not appear to converse with anyone. He pours the coffee into a battered but sturdy cup. I notice a giant can of Folgers next to the pot. He sets the mug in front of me without meeting my eyes. The whole transaction took about 20 seconds.
Although I was grateful to have a cup of coffee (black) this a.m., I expected Woody to use this exercise as an opportunity to editorialize on some pet annoyance.
And he didn’t disappoint.
“Now what just happened there? I asked Smiley to pour a cup of coffee. He did and in no time at all it appeared before you. It was a beautiful and simple act.”
Apparently my face exuded the “So what?” look. Woody shook his head and continued.
“Here’s what didn’t happen. You didn’t have to choose between a long list of sugared down and milky beverages with fakey Italian names and cute designs in the foam. You didn’t have to select the size of your drink. What Smiley gave you is what he gives everybody. It’s democracy at work. It requires employing the almost lost quality of acceptance on the part of the customer.”
“It’s a spoiled, spoiled world we live in,” he added.
I wondered if I was supposed to employ acceptance while observing a fly struggling for its life in the middle of my coffee.
Woody continued, “You didn’t have to wait in line. You didn’t have to engage some kid behind the counter and cash register in forced friendly banter. You didn’t have to wait while your order is being slowly made through a convoluted series of noisy and Rube-Goldberg contraptions.”
“You didn’t have to experience the incredible shame of making the social fox pox of ordering a regular cup of coffee only to be told such a beverage is not available in their hoit de la toit establishment.”
“Imagine. A place advertises itself as a coffee house, and they don’t even serve regular coffee!”
He pounded the bar with his calloused fist to punctuate his final three words: “Serve! [pound!] Regular! [pound!] Coffee! [pound!]” His emphatic body language made my cup dance around, creating more of a challenge for the fly valiantly attempting to swim to the rim.
In fact, I swear I could her that insect emote, “must… make… it. Got… to… reach rim… or… all is… lost… nnngh…”
Woody went on, “And these new coffee places are filled with people staring into the screens of tiny gizmos or yammering away loudly on cellphones or doing anything but engaging in face to face talking.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Not like in here.”
In the corner there was a guy snoring loudly, sort of in the style of Shemp Howard, “Snort! [whistle sound] Heebeebeebeeb!” (repeat over and over). He was the only other customer in the Head Loader. Woody chose to ignore the irony of my observation.
Even so, Woody is a relic from the old Evergreen State I knew as a child. We are fellow natives and that is turning out to be a rare thing these days. I’ll cut him slack.
I looked in my coffee cup. The fly was dead. Each one of his thousand little eye cells had an “x” on it.
So, unlike the fly, Woody has bucked the tides. I’d give him a toast but there is no way I’m drinking this cup of coffee. ◙