Almost a Western in a Thai Joint
I carried my journal as I approached the sidewalk on a weekday afternoon. My destination was the Thai joint for spring rolls and a glass of white wine. Dad had experienced a good day at the assisted living center and that called for a minor celebration.
Mark was malt liquoring while reading Tarot cards to a woman of indeterminate age riddled with meth scars. She was applying a first aid spray to an abrasion on her leg through fraying black mesh stockings.
Donny was drinking vodka from a pint and eating applesauce from a can. He sported a shiner below and above his right eye. I asked him about it. He said he'd tripped on a bulge in the sidewalk, fallen to the concrete, then bumped his head on a tree. Mark said the impact sounded like a baseball bat whacking a pumpkin. I remarked to Donny that he was lucky to be alive. He agreed. He also said a stranger had asked him if could take a picture of his shiner so now Donny was a mini social media star.
I wished everyone well and walked to the restaurant. I was greeted by the owner, a kindly Thai woman in her 60s, and placed my order at the counter through Plexiglas. The server, a Thai woman in her 40s brought my wine over to my booth. I sat facing the counter and was the only customer. I opened my journal and begin to write about the homeless.
A tall, shaggy man wearing filthy clothing entered the restaurant. He was anywhere from 20 to 50 years old and clearly of the streets. I didn't recognize him from the neighborhood.
The owner was standing behind the counter. I was less than ten feet away from the man. I stopped writing and looked at him. He couldn't see me. Asian foliage and Buddhist décor camouflaged me.
When she saw the man, she said to him in a firm but calm voice, “I want you to leave. I already gave you a water. Please leave.”
“Why are you talking so loud,” he said. He took a step toward the counter.
She wasn't talking loud.
“Please go away,” she said. “I already helped you. I am running a business.”
“Why are you talking so loud?” he said, with increased intensity.
The server came out from behind the counter and stood in the wings. She said nothing.
“Please go. I am trying to run my business and you must leave,” she said, her voice rising, but still calm.
He said something that was totally non linear to the conversation. He pulled out a pen flashlight and flashed it at the woman.
Okay, this it. I am going to have to intervene. He's out of his mind. He might attack her. He might be armed. Should I say something? No. It might ratchet up a worsening situation. If he moves toward her in a menacing fashion I am going to bolt out of the booth and explode into him while simultaneously wrapping my arms around his legs. I'll clasp my hands together and then lift with all my strength and smash him into the Plexiglas and into the small bar area behind the counter. It's all about leverage and I would have it. In essence, I would execute a textbook football tackle where a cornerback hits a ball carrier on a sweep with more momentum than the ball carrier's momentum and stands up the son-of-a-bitch and then drives him backward into the turf. I'd done it a thousand times in my football youth and was damn good at it. In fact, it was my favorite play in football, way more enjoyable than scoring a touchdown.
Yes, that's what I am going to do. There is no else around. He'll never see it coming. I am prepared to inflict violence on another person, something I've never done before, and in the name of protecting someone. There will be shattered glass and blood and whiskey spilled. It's going to be a scene out of a goddamn B Western. This is a Western! A psychotic meth Western! All I need is a shot of rotgut rye before springing into action. Wine isn't going to cut it!
The woman asked him to leave again. He remained stationary for a full 30 seconds and then left without saying a word.
She started crying. I stood up to check the door. I opened it and the man had vanished, presumably into the convenience store to fuck with someone in there.
“You were great,” I said. “You remained calm. You gave him a dignified away out.”
She thanked me and lowered the tempo of her breathing.
“I'm sorry you had to do this,” I said. “You didn't call the cops.”
“No cops. They might have shot him.”
It occurred to me I had just witnessed an exchange that was happening a hundred, if not a thousand times a day all over Oregon. I'd seen similar incidents in Portland, Oregon City, Gold Beach and Sweet Home, but never this close.
“I need to get some mace,” said the woman.
“Maybe you do,” I said, “but practice with it first.”
“Good idea. I can go in my backyard.”
I flashed on the image of a diminutive elderly Thai woman practicing macing a crazy homeless man in her restaurant and I actually laughed, but of course it wasn't funny. I told her I would stick around in case he returned, at least until some other customers arrived. She thanked me multiple times. So did the server. I sat down in the booth, took a sip of wine, opened my journal, and began to write about the homeless.