I'm doing what a guy is supposed to do whenever he wanders into an
unfamiliar bar -- hunch low on his stool, stare at nothing but his
beer. I'm not four fingers into my brewski when the voice comes over my
shoulder.
Do you come here often?
I raise my eyes to the mirror, and give her my best Bogart -- a look that's slow and sort of smoldering.
Lena, she says. Name is Lena. And I see in an instant she has about her
the sort of hunger that has nothing to do with a burger and fries.
I signal the bartender to set up another round. Lena, I say, let's eat.
We'll never know just what might have happened next. For at that very
moment in walks the kind of woman who makes a guy forget what he's
doing. Tall. Skinny. Pants painted on legs that go on forever. Enough
black curls hanging down her back for a guy to lose his past in.
She glances at me, gives me her best Bacall, then disappears into the
back bar. Moments later the bartender pours me another beer. This one's
on Melissa, he says. She's ready for you in back.
It was when
Lena leaned forward to mention to the bartender that she was about
ready to tear Melissa's ugly little heart from that pretty little body
that I began thinking things were taking a turn for the dramatic.
And it was then that I remembered I had just walked on to the set of a play.
Charles Deemer, a big, blowsy, unshaven, unkempt teddy bear of a man,
has never been described as conventional. He's a playwright, a breed
generally associated with late nights and empty bottles. But ever since
he discovered a penchant for a literary genre he calls ``simultaneous
action theatre,'' his life has been even crazier than usual.
It
all started up in the Pittock Mansion a few years back when Deemer
penned ``Chateau du Mort.'' As the cast roamed throughout the mansion,
theatergoers dashed hither and yon, upstairs and down, trying to follow
the action.
With ``
Cocktail Suite,'' playing this
month at a bar called Petticoat Junction in Northwest Portland, Deemer
is attempting something more ambitious still.
A trio of
self-contained plays performed simultaneously in three areas of the bar
has actors and audience alike wandering from one dramatic moment to
another. There are squabbles over marriages and divorces, over affairs
real and imagined. And there are arguments about money, religion and
sex.
As on any Saturday night at The Rusty Pelican, some of
these arguments have gone on longer they should. Which is to say that
Deemer's latest literary effort is not entirely successful. But it does
boast one attribute some theatergoers surely have longed for. If you
get bored in the second act you can get up and go get a drink.
Oh yes, and if you show a little early, you do get to meet some interesting women at the bar.
BAD TASTE AWARD OF THE WEEK: Some tourist development types about town
long have belabored the fact that too few Portland businesses take the
initiative in gearing up for convention business. What, we wonder, will
they say about this latest effort by Rafati's?
The restaurant on
the downtown waterfront is highlighting this week a Chinook salmon dish
it is billing as the ``Police Chiefs' 38 Special.''
GLEANINGS
FROM THE GRAPEVINE: Steady growth continues to be the modus operandi
for Vision Northwest, founded in 1983 by Portland psychologist Robin
DeVour to serve as a support group for the some 500 Oregonians who lose
their sight each year.
Newly installed as executive director is
George Thompson, the inspiring leader who left such an imprint during
his years as headmaster of remarkable Neskowin Valley School.
Friends and supporters of DeVour's effort will get a chance to meet
Thompson Sunday afternoon when Vision Northwest holds its third annual
wine tasting at the Home Builders' Association on Southwest Bangy Road.
Music by DeVour and his jazz combo.
THE END OF THE ROAD: A guy
who claims to have cycled through Sweden, Denmark, Holland, France,
Spain, North Africa, Argentina, Mexico and Calfiornia came to a
grinding halt last week in the Rose City. He dropped by a McDonald's on
Union Avenue for dinner and someone stole his bike. Mike Schuster tells
me he was riding am 18-speed Peugeot mountain bike with a blue frame
and saddlebags. ``I've ridden 185,000 miles on that bike,'' he says.
``Every city has been wonderful. Except this one.''