Old Crow Meets Dr. Pepper
It was pushing 95 degrees on a Tuesday afternoon in July. I craved a Dr. Pepper on ice so I walked to the convenience store to purchase one.
Mark was sitting on his sidewalk, malt liquoring, still plowing through a volume of the Dune Chronicles. Sean sat next to him tippling a fifth of Dr. Old Crow. Donny was sitting across the path from them. An empty half pint of vodka rested near him. A tattooed woman wearing what amounted to a black bikini stood nearby. I didn't recognize her.
I asked if they needed any water to survive the heat wave. Donny said yes. Sean said no. Mark said he'd love a pack of Lucky Strikes. The woman didn't respond.
The thought occurred that I needed to do a little fact checking on my writing about the Old Crow Book Club so I asked Sean some questions about a few of the personalities I'd met.
He set me straight on a few errors and then I asked about his life.
Donny and Sean had grown up in Oregon City, near the Clackamas River. Oregon City is my hometown, they are roughly my same age, and those comparisons braced me. I'd also been volunteering at a street mission in Oregon City down the street from my former high school for almost a year and could not believe the number of homeless people living in and around the area. It must tally in the hundreds.
There were none in my youth in the 70s and 80s. None. Thank you President Ronald Reagan for starting it all.
I learned more. Sean had two sons, one living in Milwaukie, just south of Portland. The other son lived in Bly, in Southern Oregon. He said his local son had found him this past Father's Day to say hello. That was the last he'd heard from him. I wondered what it was like being a son and knowing your father was living on the streets and drinking Old Crow.
As Sean and I talked about his youth and family, Donny kept interrupting with complete non sequiturs. Mark finally lit into him like he did with ornery crows and told him to shut the fuck up! This set off an angry and profane exchange between them that seemed headed toward fisticuffs.
I wasn't in the mood for that so I said I'd be right back with the supplies.
The exchange had somewhat subsided upon my return from the store. I carried my 16-ounce Dr. Pepper on ice and doled out the water and cigarettes. The woman had vanished. I looked at Sean, who was now standing and holding...I couldn't make it out...until I did—a whole coconut in his right hand.
I did a double, then triple take. He was holding it as a wizard might an orb. Then I noticed a milk crate full of whole coconuts resting on the sidewalk behind Donny.
It was obvious that someone had delivered them for Mark and company to...? Eat? Drink?
I remarked on the crate. Donny said he thought the Thai folks who operated the restaurant a block away had left them. They often helped out the local homeless in a variety of ways.
A crate of whole coconuts certainly was a unique offering and presented a significant challenge: like how do you split the sons-a-bitches open?
I suggested a hammer or camp ax. I could retrieve either from home.
Mark mentioned Gilligan's Island and all the absurd uses of coconuts in that sitcom. He broke into the theme song and we yukked it up.
I suggested to Sean he split the coconut, dribble in some Old Crow, let it seep, then scrape out the boozy confection.
He agreed. He then recounted a brief story of climbing a tree in Hawaii years ago and shaking loose a coconut.
I vaguely recalled a scene in Castaway with Tom Hanks that involved opening a coconut and mentioned it to the crew. Mark jumped in and said Hanks had used an ice skate.
Donny interrupted Mark again and their heated exchange resumed. They stood up. Donny grabbed a coconut from the crate. I thought they were going to square off with coconuts! Someone might get concussed or murdered!
Just like that, the tension evaporated and I sensed Mark and Donny might have been hamming it up a bit, particularly with coconuts as props.
Mark then started singing the chorus of “Escape, (The Piña Colada Song)” and I joined in. He faltered after the first line but I finished without botching a single word!
If you like piña coladasAnd gettin' caught in the rainIf you're not into yogaIf you have half a brainIf you like makin' love at midnightIn the dunes on the capeThen I'm the love that you've looked for
Write to me and escape
What was I doing? I was singing one of the cheesiest pop hits in the history of American popular music and knew all the lyrics! And I couldn't quote a single poem from Wordsworth or Emily Dickinson!
This was nuts, coconuts, worthy of the Marx Brothers!
Sean offered me tug off the Old Crow but I declined. I had to move along or I'd start swigging cheap bourbon and then throwing coconuts against the cinder block wall of the convenience store or playing dodge ball with them and the crew.
“How about in the Dr. Pepper?” said Sean.
He held out the bottle to pour a shot!
Well, why the hell not? Old Crow met Dr. Pepper.
I tasted it and coughed like one of the gimp cowhands in the B Westerns who plum couldn't handle his rye.
“Hellfire!” I said.
“You got to stir it around,” said Sean.
My finger stirred the concoction and then he splashed in another shot! I tasted it.
Deluxe hellfire!
I asked Sean why he always drank Old Crow. He launched into a detailed story about discovering it as the well whiskey in many bars and that it offered thrift and simplicity, especially when he began purchasing pints and fifths at the liquor store.
“What about the taste?” I said.
“I enjoy it,” he said.
My liver twinged at hearing that.
I said my goodbyes, walked away laughing, and sipped Old Crow in my Dr Pepper all the way home.