Gold Beach Thanksgiving (Part 3)
The Reverend saw a sign that read: Reedsport Lanes. He looked right and surveyed a cinder block building with two large white bowling pins painted on a wall. He hadn't bowled since he was a kid. He hadn't seen a bowling alley in two decades. The Reverend decided it was time to go bowling again because there was nothing better to do and he had all the time in the world, or at least all the time ten grand would finance. After that? Maybe a great notion would come to him when he wore the weird bowling shoes and scored a strike that made that special smacking sound.
An hour later he emerged from Reedsport Lanes into a light rain after bowling a 112 game with no strikes, but no gutter balls, either. He'd consumed a single beer in the tiny lounge and admired all the faded photographs of bowling teams from a half century ago. He'd talked to himself aloud while bowling, but only about bowling, not about Kari. It was good conversation.
The Reverend drove the Navigator out of the parking lot to Highway 101. He turned right, continuing south. He would keep driving in that direction until it got dark and then find a cheap motel. That gave him four hours of light, so he picked up the pace. He wanted to at least walk on the beach before the sun went down.
Passing through Lakeside, the Reverend saw a sign that read: Gold Beach, 93 miles. Gold Beach! It sounded heavenly or at least a reprieve from the hell of a disastrous breakup. He floored it and was fully prepared to lay on the horn in the event some pilled-up granny cruised her Buick Skylark 30 miles under the speed limit.
Heading to Gold Beach, the Reverend drove into Coos Bay and saw two young men passed out in sleeping bags, surrounded by their possessions scattered at the base of a 40-foot high triptych mural of Steve Prefontaine, the legendary long distance runner. On the mural was a quote from Prefontaine: “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.”
In Port Orford, the Reverend saw a young homeless couple pushing grocery carts full of gear on the shoulder of Highway 101. They were followed by their two dogs and a goose.
Near Ophir, the Reverend saw an elderly man sitting on a guardrail. A toy wagon laden with possessions was next to him. He just sat there, staring at the ocean. The Reverend stared at the ocean, too. It was summoning him.
The Reverend saw about a dozen battered RVs in gravel turnouts and waysides. He observed how their occupants had set up living quarters around the rigs.
At one point, he said aloud: what is happening to people in Oregon? He'd never said such a thing before. No sermons on that subject. Were other preachers and priests talking about such matters from the pulpit?
The Reverend arrived in Gold Beach at four in the afternoon. He crossed the stately bridge spanning the Rogue River adorned with exquisite obelisks. He powered down the windows and listened to the ocean. He could smell it.
He drove into town and saw an elderly man with long gray hair playing a ukulele in a tiny park alongside Highway 101. Behind the musician, a young man and a woman lived in separate makeshift tents pitched in the park. The Reverend thought about pulling over and listening to the performance, but it was getting dark and he wanted get to the beach before everything turned to black.
A sign pointed the way and he turned west and drove down a hill toward the beach. He saw a faded sign that read: Oregon Trail Motel. Then the motel came into view. It was a two-storey beachfront dump with peeling siding and frayed shingles. A vacancy sign was lit up red. Perfect. The Reverend pulled in, parked, went to the office and said he wanted to check in, but was going to see the beach first. The clerk said that was fine. How long did he want to say? The Reverend didn't know. He'd give them an idea in the morning.
The Reverend donned a sweater and took a short trail through some dunes and shore pines. He emerged onto the beach and was staggered to see all the driftwood strewn about. Some of the logs were as big as school buses. He also noticed a dozen forts constructed from driftwood, each one unique. A few of the forts had campfires near their entrances. One of the forts had a tattered American flag attached to a twisting spar. The Reverend could hear voices, laughter, dogs barking and music coming from the forts. He smelled salt and something barbecuing.
Various shades of gray ruled the horizon as the last light died. The Reverend wasn't all that disappointed at the lack of a sunset. Sunsets were bromides anyway. The sight of lazy breakers and the old sound of the ocean were more than enough.
The Reverend meandered south down the beach as dusk fell. He was getting hungry again and remembered a Chinese joint he'd seen on his way into town. He would check into the motel, order Chinese, and eat it on the balcony while watching waves give up their ghosts at the shore, ending journeys of thousands of miles.
Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. The Reverend had never spent a holiday alone.
The Reverend woke at dawn and was surprised at how restfully he had slept. Despite the chilly air, he'd kept the sliding glass door to the balcony open so he could hear the ocean.
What was the Reverend going to do on Thanksgiving? Was he sticking around for another night? Probably. He had nowhere to go and Gold Beach still had a mellifluous ring to it. He could microwave a turkey TV dinner and watch football all day. He could explore the beaches. He could hit a dive bar (were they open on Thanksgiving?) and hit the sauce. He could pick out a Lee Child novel from the lending library in the motel lobby and read it to witness the good guys win. He now had so many options opposed to his previous Thanksgivings, when there was only one and it was always the same and always joyless. That was no way to live, thought the Reverend.
He cleaned up and walked to the ocean before driving around Gold Beach to better assess the town. The air was cold and dry. The forecast called for more of the same.
He first investigated the forts and smoldering remains of the campfires. There must have been good partying around them last night. He ducked inside a few of the structures and it felt like being a kid again, although he realized adults had built them. Why had certain adults done so? It was beyond the Reverend's grasp of reality or metaphor to answer, but he considered building a fort later. Why not?
He checked his phone. No messages. He had no one to text.