Homebrew - Chapter Two - Ivy

Ivy

“And you say you’ve

read the histories

and scoured the

books and interviewed

the elders but you’ve

come up empty-handed?

Well, he who tells

a bigger tale

would have to tell

a lie

of the Green Man

of Portland.”

~ Daniel Duford

                She woke up in the doorway of a coffee shop on NW Glisan. Ivy had hunkered down in the entrance to this particular storefront many times before—so many times, in fact, that she considered the small piece of real estate to be her own personal property, at least between the hours of midnight and five AM. The entrance was eight feet wide by three feet deep; an archway set into an old building, originally constructed in the late 1920’s. The entry was paved with tiles that depicted the Canals of Venice, leading Ivy to postulate that the space was originally an Italian deli or restaurant. The windows of the shop were covered with posters for upcoming musical events at various venues throughout town. Ivy wondered what it would be like to be a singer in one of the bands. Her mother always said she had a lovely voice. Would they even want a singer with a lovely voice in a band called The Screaming Gonads or Wolf Fukken? Probably not, she concluded, although she had never been to one of the shows.

With her head pressed against the glass, Ivy noticed the remaining bits of tape that had once affixed other posters to the window. The sill was littered with poster remnants, thick dust and a few desiccated insect corpses. If she was the actual owner of Buzzby’s Coffee Roasters, she would do a much better job keeping it clean than the current management, she thought. Just as she was considering that the place couldn’t possibly be filthier, she saw that at some time during the night, another homeless person decided the spot would make an excellent latrine and left an incredibly large turd in the opposite corner of the entrance. The store manager would certainly not be happy when he arrived to open the door in an hour. Ivy had witnessed more than few of the man’s tirades over the years and she anticipated a real corker when he saw the disgusting gift left for him to clean up. Ivy imagined that he might not even see it until his Keen loafer was sunk deep into the pile. That would be hilarious. She seriously considering sticking around outside for the show, but she had important things to do and people to see.

Ivy walked through Old Town, past the Chinese Garden, toward the Steel Bridge. It was still early and many of the other homeless people had not yet gotten up and around. So many tarps and tents littered her path, all filled with the slumbering dregs of humanity. When she first arrived in Portland, the homeless population was thriving but much less noticeable: out of sight, out of mind. Today, there was a “crisis”, mainly because it is impossible to ignore a massive tent city when it “suddenly” materializes outside newly valuable parcels of land. Carpet-bagging real estate moguls and Portland’s nouveau riche captains of industry were now screaming for the mayor to do something, anything about the unsightly homeless people bitching up the views from their million dollar condos. “Fuck you, fat cats!” she shouted at the construction cranes on the other side of the Willamette. “Fuck all y’all!”

The Steel Bridge was Ivy’s favorite span of the river. Ugly, squat and sturdy, she felt a certain kinship with the 118 year old structure. Many people would be surprised to learn that the unassuming chunk of steel is the workhorse of Portland bridges, carrying a massive amount of commuters across the Willamette on foot, bike, car and train each and every day. The Steel Bridge was built to last, with its true beauty lying in its utility. “Hello, old friend!” Ivy hailed as she stepped foot on the expanse.  “No ships coming in today?” The bridge’s only response was a solid rattle and rumble as a MAX train trundled across.

Ivy made her way down NE Holladay Street until she got to the park. Like clockwork, there was Skook. He was sitting on a bench, beneath a massive Douglas Fir, smoking a cigarette. His long, gray hair and beard made him look like a wizard, especially with his patchwork trench coat and multi-colored scarf. As always, he would pretend that he wasn’t waiting for her. Of course, he was. She was his only friend, but the charade bolstered his pride somehow, she supposed. If it made him feel better about himself to make believe that he didn’t need the friendship of a lowly street kid, she wasn’t going to press the issue.

“Morning, Mr. Skook! What are you doing on this fuckin’ drizzlin’ day!”

“It’s just Skook, no mister involved in my name. You know that.” Skook coughed and summarily spat a ball of phlegm onto the sidewalk. “I’m just finishing off this perfectly good butt that some privileged little shit of a hipster flicked in my general direction. What are you up to, as if I have to ask?”

Ivy plopped down on the bench next to Skook and stretched out with her fingers laced behind her rainbow crew cut. She raised her black combat boots off the ground and wiggled them in the air. “You know me, Skook. These boots were made for walkin’ and I’ve got places to go! Want to come with?”

“Ugh, I suppose I don’t have a damn thing better to do,” Skook grunted. “Just let me finish my smoke and we can be on our way.”

                Ivy and Skook wormed their way through Portland city streets and alleys in a seemingly directionless and haphazard route. This had been Ivy’s daily routine for as far back has she could remember. Portland is a city of tight knit, self-contained neighborhoods. Each neighborhood used to have its own character, its own personality. Unfortunately, gentrification had been homogenizing the neighborhoods for the past several years. It was becoming more and more difficult to tell Division from Alberta or Mississippi from Hawthorne. All of the same chain markets, the same chain restaurants, the same chain coffee shops—all pretending that they weren’t chains—were popping up in every corner of the city. Tourists or recent transplants couldn’t tell the difference, but old time residents sure could. Of course, many of the old timers were being slowly priced out. They either moved away or became homeless.

Ivy had a fairly clear idea about what caused people to become homeless: poverty, addiction, mental illness, or something else. Her reason was absolutely in the something else category. She didn’t consider herself to be crazy. She was just compelled to walk for hours each day, searching for something—and she had no idea what that something was. Okay, every time she rolled it over in her mind, it sounded pretty damn crazy. Nevertheless, she would not stop until she found the something, and she knew instinctively that it was to be found somewhere in Portland.

                They were quite a sight to behold. Skook, at almost seven feet tall, towered over Ivy’s diminutive frame. Still, no one seemed to notice the pair as they wandered through vacant lots, backyards and patios. Several times throughout their daily journeys, Ivy would get an impression of what she was looking for. The image would lurk in her subconscious, just beyond her grasp. “This is it!” she’d proclaim, while Skook rolled his eyes.

                “This is it!”

                “That’s what you said fifteen minutes ago. Right before you crawled inside that old doghouse,” Skook declared. “I’m pretty sure this fire hydrant isn’t it, either.”

                “Goddamn it, you’re right, Skook. This ain’t it.” Ivy sat down on a curb, drummed her fingers on her knee, and considering her options. “I think I’ll call off the search early today and head back to Old Town, if that’s okay with you.”

                The momentary look of disappointment on Skook’s face was barely perceptible. “Hey, this is your party. See you tomorrow.” Without another word, he strode off down SE Division Street. Ivy watched him go until he was completely out of view.

                Back in Old Town, Ivy walked briskly among the tourists. It was the weekend and the Saturday Market was in full swing. She strolled by the booths and checked out the wares the street vendors were hawking: t-shirts, hats, junk. “Who buys this crap?” she muttered to no one. She stopped to examine a t-shirt with a stubby-armed Tyrannosaurus Rex holding a sign that said “MEAT IS MURDER” and the caption “T-REX VEGAN.” Definitely trying too hard, she thought.

Crossing the street at Skidmore Fountain, she saw The Girl. The long brown hair and flowery peasant skirt immediately caught her attention. She was breath-taking, as always. Ivy felt compelled to follow her. Several blocks away, The Girl went inside a hemp clothing store. Ivy tried to remain a discrete distance away but held her place just outside the store where she could watch her quarry through the window. She could also see her own reflection in the glass. The juxtaposition stunned her. What was she doing? No way in hell would this beautiful girl be interested in the short, dirty street rat she was looking at. No one had ever told Ivy she was pretty, or even cute.  Not that that kind of superficial admiration was important to her, but still, it would certainly make first impressions and introductions easier.

                Dejected, Ivy headed back to Buzzby’s. There was a new poster hanging up in the window. THIS IS NOT A HOMELESS SHITHOUSE! Apparently, the store manager was more than a little upset by the package left for him overnight. She sighed. The sign would likely just inspire more of the same, or perhaps even a broken window. Ivy decided it would be best to find a new place to bed down for the night, at least for the time being.

                Walking up NW Glisan toward The Pearl District, Ivy passed by a building that she had never noticed before. The Greenwood was chiseled into the rough stone above the entrance. The Greenwood? Ivy was trying to remember exactly what building previously occupied this particular block but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. There had been so much destruction and construction over the past year, it was hard to keep track. It certainly didn’t look like a new building. The style of architecture was clearly Late 19^th Century—the workmanship looked like it, too. Why would somebody go to the trouble of putting up a new building that looked so old and rundown? No. There was definitely something very wrong here. Perhaps the building had always been here and she was just confused. She had definitely lost her bearings while walking around this city before, she reasoned.

                Ivy ascended the stone stairs and studied the entryway with more than just a bit of trepidation. The front doors appeared to be solid oak. Animals and trees were carved into the surfaces. The artwork was crude but clearly masterful at the same time. The main features were a large stag on the left door and a stately Douglas Fir on the right.  The doorway was framed by beveled glass windows on each side. Ivy pressed her nose against one of the panes to get a look inside. She couldn’t believe who she saw! The Girl!

                The Girl looked directly at Ivy and smiled. Suddenly, flowers exploded from her hair in an incredible bouffant of color. “What the holy FUCK?” Ivy shouted, falling back from the window and almost slipping off the landing. She lunged for one of the door handles and tugged it open. The door was much heavier than she anticipated and again the inertia almost sent her down the stone steps. She gathered her footing, and composure, and bolted into the hallway. The Girl turned left, just out of view, leaving a trail of flower petals behind her.

                Ivy sprinted after The Girl and followed her into a small, sparsely furnished apartment. She wouldn’t have notice much about the décor because standing in front of her was The Girl. A kaleidoscope of vibrant colors was emanating from her hair, licking at the ceiling like flames. The colors transformed into flowers and then shifted back to a shapeless, blending palette. The Girl reached out her arms toward Ivy. Her smile widened and her eyes twinkled with delight. “I love you,” she proclaimed.

                Ivy stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity. She was unable to comprehend what she was seeing; terrified, fascinated and truly mesmerized. “I love you,” The Girl repeated. This time, there was a hint of pleading in her voice that woke Ivy from her stupor.

                “I, I love you, too,” Ivy replied, not fully certain she had actually spoken the words or just thought them.

                “Come sit with me,” said The Girl as she motioned toward a small, antique settee.

                Ivy obeyed and joined The Girl on the couch. She was even more beautiful up close than Ivy had imagined possible. The supernatural goings-on with her tresses didn’t seem to matter anymore. Ivy was transfixed on that beautiful face.

                “My name is Daphne, and you are Ivy. I’ve been waiting for you for such a very, very long time. What took you so long to find me?”

                Ivy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was this what she had been searching for all these years? It didn’t seem possible. The Girl leaned in toward Ivy, posturing for a kiss. Ivy noticed that Daphne’s skin was flawlessly smooth, like a porcelain doll. She touched The Girl’s face and found that her skin had a texture that was not exactly…skin-like, and when she pressed gently against Daphne’s lips, there was no warmth and a lack of elasticity. Still, Ivy was enveloped with an aching desire. She held the kiss for several minutes; savoring the sweet breath, mingling her saliva with the strange, syrupy taste of The Girl’s perfect mouth.

                The room seemed to lose its shape. The corners disappeared as strange growths and nebulous shoots morphed from the walls. Lush ferns and thick moss appeared on every surface, while the fountain of flowers in Daphne’s hair continued to shed colorful petals everywhere. There was the distant call of a mockingbird and a babbling stream. “Am I in heaven?” Ivy thought.

                “If you want this to be heaven, then it shall be,” The Girl replied aloud.

                Suddenly, Ivy realized that something about the situation seemed too good to be true. Fake. The strange being sitting beside her was not The Girl—that she knew for a certainty. The Girl never even noticed her before. She looked right through her on the street. This creature resembled a human, but clearly was not. The hair was standing up on the back of Ivy’s neck. A warning alarm was going off in her head. There’s something very dangerous about this situation, said a little voice in the still sensible part of her mind; the part that was not yet enraptured by this celestial, ethereal vision. Ivy could feel tiny, insistent tendrils climbing up her ankles, while something foreign infiltrated her consciousness—something very persuasive.

                Looking down, Ivy saw that mushroom-like growths were slowly encasing her feet, anchoring her to the now shapeless floor. Filled with sudden revulsion and horror, she kicked herself free and pushed The Girl away. “No!” Ivy screamed. “You’re not real! This is a trick!”

                Ivy bolted from the room just as colorful tendrils burst out from the The Girl’s entire body. The appendages were solid, had mass, weight and grasped at Ivy, attempting to restrain her. Ivy struggled against the grip and managed to pull herself from the room before they were able to hold her fast.

                As Ivy ran down the hallway, the flower petals in her path darted toward her, stinging her shins and knees. A torrent of rain started to fall from the ceiling and the floor was soon wet and slick beneath her feet. A howl began to rise from the room and Ivy knew that The Girl was coming after her in hot pursuit. She heard the tentacles pounding the floorboards behind her, inches away.

                “I LOVE  YOOOOOU!” shrieked an inhuman voice. “YOU BELONG TO MEEEEE!”

                Ivy reached the heavy doors and with all the strength she could muster, burst through to the landing. This time, she tumbled head over heels down the stone steps, landing hard on the sidewalk below. When she looked back at the entrance, the Greenwood was gone. In its place was an empty lot with nothing but a construction crane and scattered piles of building materials. A sign proclaimed FUTURE HOME OF THE BRIDGETOWN APARTMENTS. DON’T YOU WANT TO LIVE HERE?

                “Fuck no, I don’t want to live here,” muttered Ivy. “Not by any stretch.”

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, 

wondering, fearing, doubting, 

dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

~Edgar Allan Poe

                Ivy found Skook sitting on the curb in front of Revolution Hall, at the intersection of SE Stark Street and 14^th Avenue. His long legs extended so far into the street that bicyclists had to swerve into traffic in order to avoid hitting them. Skook appeared to be enjoying his role as a nuisance just a little too much, daring the bikers to say anything with his cold, dead stare.

                “What the hell happened to you?” said Skook, inspecting the numerous cuts, scrapes and abrasions covering Ivy’s body. “You look like you fell into a hops thresher.”

                “You’re never going to believe me, Skook. I don’t even think I believe it myself.”

                “Try me,” Skook replied, pushing his long, thin body up from the sidewalk; brushing a few rotting leaves and some of the pervasive Portland grime from the back of his coat. “You might be surprised.”

                As they walked up SE Stark, Ivy told Skook about The Girl and the Greenwood. Skook listened intently without asking any questions. The only response he provided was an occasional grunt, while Ivy continued her narrative uninterrupted.

                They passed a zombie house at the corner of SE Stark and 18^th. These empty houses had been considered a blight in Portland for decades. Many were once grand, beautiful Craftsman homes but fell into disrepair when they were abandoned by their owners for various reasons—typically, foreclosure or ill-advised real estate investment. Recently, with the Portland real estate market booming, these houses were being torn down in great numbers and replaced by modern multi-use condo units. The entire city was changing into a landscape of concrete boxes with little charm and character remaining.

One of the meth-head squatters staggered onto the dilapidated porch and shouted a few choice, misdirected profanities at Skook. With a look of annoyance on his face, Skook simply waved his hand in the man’s direction and the addict fell silent, grasping at his throat like he was choking on a spicy Pok Pok fish sauce wing.

                By the time they reached the entrance to Lone Fir Cemetery, Ivy had finished her tale. “Come on, Skook, say something! You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”

                “No, you are definitely not nuts, Ivy. What you saw was very real and now I have to show you something.” Skook extended an inviting flourish toward the entrance of the cemetery. “Let’s take a walk in here.”

                An expression of suspicion and confusion immediately crossed Ivy’s face. “What the hell, Skook? You’ve always told me to never go inside the cemetery. You said it was dangerous.”

                “It is very, very dangerous, Ivy, but it is also time for the truth.”

                Ivy followed Skook through the wrought iron gates and onto a paved, tree-lined path. Lone Fir Cemetery is one of the oldest, continuously used cemeteries in Portland. Located in the middle of a densely populated SE Portland neighborhood, Lone Fir is home to 25,000 interred souls. Ivy kept some distance between herself and Skook. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her oldest and dearest friend—her ONLY friend—but she was seized with a deep feeling of dread and foreboding.

                Skook turned off the path and proceeded into the midst of the headstones with great, purposeful strides. Suddenly, he stopped in front of a small, tilted marker and respectfully bowed his head.

                “This is it,” Ivy whispered. Her eyes welled up with tears as she tentatively approached Skook’s flank. “Oh, my God, this is it.”

                Ivy fell to her knees before the headstone. Loud sobs and wails came from somewhere deep within her core. She grimaced and pulled wildly at her hair. She beat the ground with her fists. The paroxysm continued unabated for a quarter of an hour. Skook stood silently and dutifully by her side, hands clasped at ease behind his back like a solemn guard.

                Ivy crawled to the headstone and gently caressed the faded inscription with her index finger.

ROBERT IVERSON

BORN: FEBRUARY 2, 1899

DIED: DECEMBER 20, 1918

                “It was the Spanish Influenza,” Ivy said through her sobs. “The flu killed me when I came home from college for Christmas. Everyone thought it was just a bad cold. My mother must have been heartbroken, Skook. She had such high hopes for her son. I was going to be the first in our family to get a college degree from the University of Oregon. She was so proud of me.”

                Skook placed a comforting hand on Ivy’s trembling shoulder. “Do you remember everything?” he asked.

                Ivy shook her head in the affirmative. Yes, everything made sense now. Following her death, no one ever noticed her or talked to her because no one could see her! She was more than just lonely, she was INVISIBLE! She could be in Forest Park one minute and in Old Town the next because she was nothing but ether. Time was not linear for her. A day, a week, a month, a second; there was no mortal reference point. She looked down at her body. The cuts, scratches and bruises were gone. She realized that there was no corporeal substance to her form. In death, she could be exactly what her soul was intended to be, so that’s what she was.

                “Yeah, I do remember everything, Skook. I’m a fucking ghost! I’ve been wandering around this fucking city for ONE HUNDRED YEARS! I’m finding that pretty hard to process, Skook, and then there’s the fact that you knew the whole time. Didn’t you? YOU KNEW! Are you a ghost, too?”

                “I know you have many questions, Ivy, and I will do my best to answer them. First, know that I am not like you. A spirit of sorts, yes, but I was never a mortal human being. I’m something much different than you. I had to keep you from finding out the truth until the time was right. You are very special, Ivy, and there are forces that want to use you because of something only you can do. Those forces are evil, Ivy, and you encountered them today. They are finally coming for you. They are coming for all of humanity. Normally, my kind is ambivalent about human existence, but the replacement that these forces have in store is much, much worse than man.”

                “What is it that I can do, Skook?” Ivy implored. “Who are they and why did they wait until this long after my death to come for me?

                “That can all be explained later,” replied Skook. “But first, there is a transformation that needs to take place and it’s a choice that you have to make. No one can force you to join this fight. Ghosts are actually very rare, Ivy. Most people just simply cease to exist when they die, and you can stop existing as a singular consciousness, too, which is the ultimate transformation, if you choose. Your life force will peacefully rejoin all those who have gone before you—your friends, your parents, every human soul that has ever existed. I can help you make that journey, if you so desire.”

                “What is the other choice, Skook? Because ceasing to exist doesn’t sound too amazing.”

                Skook did not reply. Instead, he stood back from the grave and began to change. His shape twisted, coiled and stretched. Hooves appeared where his hands and feet were just seconds earlier. His face transformed into that of an animal and sharp, pointed appendages grew from the top of his head. Within mere moments, Skook was gone and in his place stood a magnificent white stag.

                “Behold,” Skook declared. “What you see is the true projection of my being or, at least, the MOST TRUE projection. Do you want to live again, Ivy? This is the time to make your choice. You can walk among mortal men and women again in your MOST TRUE form! Is that your desire?”

                Ivy remained kneeling before the white stag. “YES!,” she proclaimed. “I want to live again!”

                “Then it will be so. This might hurt a bit,” answered Skook, as he pawed the cemetery soil with his sharp hoof.

                Similar to her experience at the Greenwood, mushroom-like tendrils began to grow up from the ground beneath her. This time, however, Ivy was not afraid. The shoots quickly enveloped her. Ivy felt the threads of her existence unravel and begin to mesh with the tendrils. Skook did not lie. It was painful. It felt like she was being torn to pieces and knitted back together with sharp, stinging needles. New flesh was joined to new bone. Organs began to function. A heart began to beat. Nerve endings fired messages of excruciating pain into a newly formed brain. The pain finally became unbearable and Ivy lost consciousness.

                When she awoke, Ivy found that she was lying prone and naked upon her grave. She was cold and shivering. It had been a very long time since she had felt anything. She sat up and examined her body. Her flesh was pale and covered with goose bumps. She wiggled her toes and fingers. She touched the dirt beneath her and relished the texture. She touched her own skin; her face, her breasts, her vagina. She was ALIVE!

                Ivy found it difficult to stand. She finally got to her feet and lumbered like a zombie out of the cemetery. It was far too cold to be outside without clothing. She felt incredibly weak and knew that she could easily die from exposure. It was Fall, but the temperatures were already in the high 30’s. She staggered up SE Stark toward a pizza parlor. Cars traveling down the street began honking and someone shouted something unintelligible from a passing bike. As she approached the pizza place, a young woman exited the doorway. It was The Girl!

                Ivy reached out her arms and stumbled forward. “Please, please help me.”

                The Girl recoiled in horror. “Get the fuck away from me, you crazy, naked bitch!” she screeched.

                A young man wearing a tan cardigan rushed out of the restaurant. He quickly wrapped a wool topcoat around Ivy’s shivering body and directed her inside.

                “Oh, my God! Are you okay?” he shouted. “I saw you come out of the cemetery. Did someone attack you?”

                “Attacked me…” was all Ivy could say in response.

                “Stop gawking and call 9-1-1!” barked the young man. “Daphne! Wake the hell up and call the cops!”

                Across the street, an unseen figure watched the drama unfold. The small green man, smiled and flew to the top of a tall spruce. “I see you, Ivy! I see you! We’ll play soon!”

Homebrew - Chapter One - Bier

“The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.” ~John Muir

The sky was its usual dull, monotonous gray at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. Gerry didn’t have to check the weather widget on his smartphone to know that it was going to stay that way all day--and probably all weekend--as he looked upward through the branches of the massive Douglas Fir; the stalwart guardian of his Northeast Portland frontyard. Gerry was wearing only his tartan plaid, Pendleton bathrobe, and the ugly, green Crocs that he kept on the front porch for gardening and quick trips to the mailbox. The light drizzle coming down from the sky dampened everything except the walkway beside the Doug Fir. Raindrops rarely made it all the way through the thick canopy of needles and cones provided by the tree, and Gerry was sincerely grateful for the shelter. He felt an odd kinship with the old tree; that it possessed some kind of innate honesty that he really couldn’t describe.

Gerry wondered how old the tree was. The trunk was almost eight feet around at its widest point and it had to be almost forty feet tall. Considering the age of the house, the tree was probably at least 100 years old, he postulated, but he really had no idea. He had considered suspending a hammock from the tree’s impressive trunk to another lesser pine tree fifteen feet away, but somehow that seemed like an inappropriate indignity--an insult to the great tree’s stature and grace. Gerry liked paying the Doug Fir an early visit every morning. The communion with its natural beauty made him feel like all was right with the Universe--at least for a few minutes.

RATATAT-TAT! RATATAT-TAT! RATATAT-TAT!

A loud staccato, from seemingly out of nowhere, startled Gerry and almost caused him to drop his coffee mug. A good portion of the steaming, hot liquid spilled onto the front of his robe, and into the holes of the Crocs, but he managed enough of a contorted juggle to save his most recent Father’s Day gift from destruction. I’d Rather Be Drinking BEER, the mug proclaimed.

“Goddamn fucking woodpecker!” Gerry was more embarrassed than angry. He wondered if anyone saw him doing his impromptu St. Vitus dance so early in the morning. Most of his neighbors liked to sleep in. The woodpecker was a neighborhood resident, too, or at least it had been for the past week or so. Every morning he (or she--Gerry wasn’t quite sure) would perch atop the streetlight mounted in the parkway across the street and let out several loud, trilling calls. Those calls were subsequently followed by the red-headed avian bashing his beak repeatedly into the metal dome that covered the light.

Clearly, the bird had decided to mix things up a bit and start this Saturday symphony with a bang, rather than a tweet. The insane hammering sounded exactly like a machinegun, and Gerry wondered how the bird didn’t get knocked senseless or end up with a broken beak. He thought about going back inside and googling “woodpecker skull”, just to find out why the annoying creature didn’t have a perpetual concussion. Instead, he went back to sipping his coffee and admiring his tree.

“Gerald Hoffman! Why are you cussing out there? What is wrong with you? I could hear you from the bathroom!”

Gerry’s wife, Elda, was quickly descending the newly power washed steps of the front porch. Until yesterday, those concrete steps had been covered with a thick, green carpet of moss. The 108 year old Craftsman was in need of some significant TLC and Gerry took a moment to admire the success of his latest project. They had only moved into the house a month ago, with grandiose plans to restore the old mansion to its former state of preeminence in the neighborhood and with the most sincere but naive intentions to do all the renovation work themselves. Unfortunately, Gerry was far from being a competent handyman and Elda was much better at directing tasks than she was at actually doing the physical labor needed to accomplish them.

“Hey, those steps look pretty spic and span, don’t they?” Gerry called to his wife, raising his coffee mug in toast; hoping to distract her from her immediate mission to scold him for cursing within earshot of the neighbors.

Elda looked down at the steps below her pink, fuzzy slippered feet. “Oh, yeah! They do look great! Wow, what a difference. The porch looks brand new!” She toasted Gerry back with her own coffee. I’m the Queen of Everything, her mug decreed.

“Get your filthy mouth inside, Mister. You owe the swear jar five dollars...and I made waffles.”

Before entering the house, Gerry kicked off the Crocs and they landed haphazardly near the power washer he failed to return to Home Depot the day before. Shit! He couldn’t believe he forgot. Of course, he did eat four pot brownies immediately after cleaning off the moss--a chore that took all of 15 minutes to accomplish. At the time, the $125 for the extra day rental didn’t seem like such a big deal. He decided he’d better make the most out of his irresponsibility and give the basement walls a rundown with the washer. He would tell Elda that was his plan all along.

Gerry hung his robe on a decorative hook by the front door, right next to his wife’s flower print kimono, and strode into the kitchen au natural. Now that the kids were all grown up and out on their own, Gerry and Elda decided it was time to live out their long-suppressed desire to practice nudism within the confines of their own four walls. Elda was wearing nothing but her fuzzy slippers and was busy trying to unstick a burning waffle from the top of the iron.

“Fuck it!” Elda yelped, as the rising smoke briefly set off the fire alarm.

“Should I go get the swear jar...and your purse?” chuckled Gerry as he reached his arm around his wife’s waist and moved in to nibble her ear.

“Oh, shut up, you old geezer and get away from me with THAT, or you get the burnt waffle.”

“It’s not so burnt, and I like my waffles like I like my women: hot and smokey.” Gerry made a move for the other ear and without turning around, Elda swatted at his groin with the spatula she was wielding. Gerry knew she meant business, so he turned his attention to finding the accoutrement for the waffles. He was disappointed to find that there was only the tiniest pat left in the butter dish. It was Gerry’s most ardent conviction that each and every little well in a waffle had to be filled with melted butter, and right now, there was only a hard, unspreadable stick in the fridge. He tried not to let his irritation show, but Elda could read him like a book.

“There’s plenty of butter already IN these waffles,” Elda admonished, tensing at her husband’s audible clucks and passive aggressive posture. “The last thing you need is more fat coursing through your cloggy veins. Those cardiac roto-rooters are expensive.”

There it was. Elda had to bring up the hospital bills. Of course! She brought it up every day, even though they were finally, completely, totally paid off. She just couldn’t let it go. Sure things were rough for a while, but didn’t it all turn out fine? They were able to buy the dream house--it just wasn’t quite as dreamy as that extra $100,000 would have made the remodel go.

It happened more than three years ago. Gerry left his corporate job and launched his own consulting business. He had always been as healthy as the proverbial horse and didn’t think it was too particularly risky to go without health insurance until the business started to take off. He had new clients lined up and a tidy book of business that he was bringing with him. There was no way anybody could have anticipated the mild heart attack and the balloon angioplasty needed to unclog that goddamn coronary artery. In the end, Gerry only missed three weeks of work and his recovery was exemplary, but the Hoffman Family finances took a massive hit.

RATATAT-TAT! RATATAT-TAT! RATATAT-TAT!

“Goddamn that fucking woodpecker!” Gerry shouted. He tossed the butter dish across the counter with a bit more force than he intended and it carromed into the sink with a loud clatter. Elda started to protest but the look on her husband’s face deterred her. She knew that look. Gerry was heading down the dark passage to one of his “moods” and she had no desire to go there with him. “I’ll be in the basement working,” he muttered under his breath. “You can have my fucking burnt waffle.”

The basement was actually one of the main reasons Gerry wanted to buy the old Craftsman. It spanned the entire area of the house and was completely unfinished. Except for the heavy wooden support beams, it was a massive, open space. The walls were the mortared stones of the foundation--smooth, round rocks of various sizes, expertly jigsawed together. Gerry had big plans. The basement was going to be his home brewing operation, speakeasy and man cave par excellence. Of course, right now, it was a filthy mess. Decades of accumulated dirt, dust, and cobwebs as thick as rope made the room look like something out of an old horror film. There was also a huge pile of trash and old junk in one corner that likely dated back to the McKinley Administration.

A sloped drain had been installed in the middle of the floor and there was an ancient double sink that still worked. Modern hook-ups for a washer and dryer were located near the staircase, but otherwise, a trip to the basement was like walking into a time capsule. A single light fixture provided only enough illumination for a small area around the stairs, resulting in the far corners casting spooky shadows and allowing the imagination to conjure up shapes of unnamed monstrosities that could very well be lurking in any creepy, old basement.

Gerry decided that it would probably be safe enough to use the power washer on the walls and floor. He would run the machine outside and pull the hose down through the outside door. The floor drain would take out the water and he would use a couple of box fans to make sure the joists and beams dried out completely. The last thing he wanted to do was create a black mold habitat. There was only one daunting task standing in his way: getting rid of the pile of junk. There was a dumpster parked in the backyard for the ongoing clean-up. He would have to haul everything up the back stairway and toss it in. Easy job, really, and Gerry decided that it might actually get done today, if all the planets aligned.

Now fully dressed in his favorite Grateful Dead t-shirt and a pair of hole-riddled overalls, Gerry hooked an extension cord and trouble light up to the solitary electric socket and approached the junk pile like the hippie version of Indiana Jones in the Temple of Doom. Hopefully, there would be no snakes in this scene, he mused. The pile went from floor to ceiling. Errant chair legs, boxes, lampshades, pallets, garden tools and scraps of splintered boards were sticking out in every direction. Rat feces was scattered across the floor and Gerry recognized the rank, fetid, unwholesome odor of rodent nests. This was going to get nasty, he thought, just as a rat the size of a chihuahua chittered across the floor and into the pile.

Piece by piece, Gerry carried the junk up the stairs and chucked it all into the dumpster. Some of it looked like viable antiques--four old hurricane lamps, a half dozen horseshoes, a grocer’s scale, two sauerkraut graters--and he placed those items on the kitchen table for Elda’s inspection. The rest, he decided, could go to pickers at the city dump. He really just wanted the basement empty for his power washing job--and to make room for his brewing operation.

Gerry fully expected to disturb several rat’s nests and brought down a garden spade to dispatch whatever vermin he might find, but after greatly reducing the pile, he had yet to spy any rodents. The putrid smell, however, only got worse the deeper he dug in. The stench was so bad, in fact, that he had to tie a bandana over his face and take several breaks for fresh air. He was certain he would eventually uncover something truly ghastly. Elda even complained that the smell was starting to drift upstairs to the rest of the house.

The final item for discard was a small steamer trunk of indeterminate age. It certainly looked old. Gerry pulled it away from the wall and discovered the source of the horrible putrescence: a large, soapbox-size hole in the foundation wall that was sloppily plugged with a weird, roughly cast, iron hatch. This was obviously the point of egress for the rat he saw earlier, as there were several gaps between the wall and the hatch large enough for a rat to squeeze through.

The smell was unbelievable and when Gerry pulled the handle to open the hatch, a disgusting ooze that he could only surmise was raw sewage seeped from the hole and began making its way across the basement floor. The stuff certainly smelled like shit, but there was a weird luminescent quality to it that was like nothing he had ever seen before. The color was certainly not found in nature. Regardless, it absolutely looked like the makings of a major repair bill, even by Gerry’s unhandy estimation. It could even require an incredibly expensive hazmat clean-up. He could have none of that. Holy crap, he could hear Elda now, endlessly berating him for failing to adequately inspect this fucking money pit of a house.

Gerry hauled over the trouble light and crouched over to inspect the tendril of lightly glowing ooze that was slowly creeping toward the drain in the floor. As he moved the light closer, the ooze appeared to stop moving and actually recoiled--retreating against gravity. “What the holy fuck?” he muttered.

Gerry held the light closer to the ooze and it reversed its direction even more quickly, back to the cast iron hatch. Is this goo actually alive? He started to reach his index finger toward the substance, just to give it a poke, but thought better of it. Whatever the substance or organism might be, it certainly was alien and probably toxic, he theorized. Within thirty seconds the slimey ooze was back behind the hatch and the smell began to diminish immediately. Gerry closed the hatch and noticed a crude inscription etched upon it.

Intra Iacet Tsathoggua

“Tsathoggua” sounded like it could be a small town somewhere in Oregon, although he’d never heard of it before. An Indian name? Perhaps where the hatch was manufactured? He quickly closed the weird aperture and considered what materials and tools he might require to seal it permanently. He decided that a few large stones and some cement would probably do the job most effectively, and he could get that project completed next weekend. He concluded that the ooze was probably some kind of mold or fungus. It was clearly light sensitive. He had never seen anything like it, but perhaps it was something common that he had just never read about or encountered before. He would have to do some research on the Internet, he decided.

Gerry turned his attention to the little trunk. There was an ancient, rusty padlock securing the latch. Gerry made quick work of that with the garden spade, completely knocking it off the trunk in one shot. He brought the trouble light down to inspect the contents. The only item inside the trunk was a dusty, dog-eared book. Gerry brushed away the dust and uncovered a title that appeared to be handwritten with a fountain pen flourish: BIER

To be continued...

Hipster Noir

My first mistake was taking Elwood at his word. He always was a big, fat liar. My second mistake was believing, even for a minute, that something would turn out good for me. Hell, that wasn’t even a mistake...it was a joke. I sure hope somebody got a good laugh out of it: Jesus, Buddha, Xenu, whoever the hell is in charge of this shitshow. I hope they had a really good time at my expense. I hope they busted a gut. I really do. At least there’d be some meaning behind it all, even if my life turned out to be nothing more than lowbrow entertainment for some sadistic deity. Maybe ol’ Elwood knows the answer, huh? That stupid stoner is probably laughing harder than anybody.

That morning started out like any other morning. I woke up at about eleven and discovered I’d passed out in my clothes again. I was still in my Navy pea coat and I was missing a shoe. I tossed my apartment upside down and sideways but couldn’t find that goddamned Keen loafer to save my ass. I found it later, stuck in a muddy planter next to the carport. I probably never even realized it came off my foot. My hunter green Outback was parked perfectly, though. I have to give myself some props for that. Right between the lines. Dead center. The keys were still in the ignition and there was a parking ticket on the windshield from wherever the hell I illegally parked the night before or the night before that.

Sometimes, I wonder what I’m like when I’m blackout drunk. Am I mean? Witty? Maybe I speak with a charming British accent. That would be cool.

Have you ever been to Portland, Oregon? Easiest damned city for a drunk to live, in my opinion. It rains all the time in my shitty burg. Nothing else to do except drink. Happy hour starts at three o’clock and it seems like everybody I know has their boney ass parked on a barstool at some point during the day. Drinks aren’t cheap, but they’re usually strong. Two dollar pints of PBR are always available when the funds are low. Ten bucks can get you well on your way to a good time. Twenty can guarantee it. Forty can get you in trouble--get me in trouble, anyway.

Portland. Nothing but gray skies and black hearts. Somebody told me once that when the settlers came West on the Oregon Trail, only the biggest losers and Johnny Come Latelies ended up in Portland. All that loser DNA concentrated in one big clusterfuck of a gene pool between the Willamette and Columbia Rivers. I think that’s a pretty solid theory. Elwood’s family arrived in a Conestoga wagon in the 1800s. Most of their descendants went out in a blaze of stupidity, just as I’m certain Elwood will someday.

The landscape that is now the city of Portland was once covered with pristine, old-growth forest. When the population started to boom, the forest was clear-cut to make room for housing developments. That’s where the nickname “Stumptown” came from. Did you know that? Portland was literally covered with stumps. I think the whole town is haunted by ancient spirits who suddenly found themselves ejected from their primordial home. The place is cursed and the genetically defective miscreants who live there can feel the vindictive retribution of those pissed-off ghosts deep in their soggy, rain-drenched bones.

I was born in Portland, so nobody can cry foul on my opinion about the town and its people. I’m one of them, after all. Elwood is a Stumptown native, too, and my best friend since kindergarten. I really can’t remember a time when he wasn’t in my life. Elwood was always just there. Mucking everything up. Truthfully, I don’t really recall much about my childhood. High school is kind of a blur, too. Scattered memories come back to me from time to time, but none of them are particularly pleasant or interesting, so I try to concentrate on the here and now. Of course, my here and now is pretty crappy, too. Elwood made sure of that.

As I was saying, that morning was like any other morning, except it was my day off. I work, or I should say worked, as a barista at Axelrod Coffee Roasters in Northeast. The pay is minimum wage and tips. Yeah, I think you already figured out that I’m not what you would call an over-achiever. I earned just enough money to pay the rent for my low-income studio, and get my drink on. I like to tell people that I’m a poet slash songwriter, but that’s really just a tall tale for the ladies. Offbeat, historical trivia is what’s really my thing. I’ll admit it, I’m really more nerd than hipster. The flannel shirt, pencil-thin mustache and knit cap I sport are de rigueur for any single, twenty-four-year-old male hoping to get occasionally laid in Portland.

Elwood works as a busboy at Duchamp’s Steakhouse downtown. Elwood. Let me tell you about Elwood. He’s about five foot five with a mangy mop of bright orange hair. That’s his natural hair color, by the way, as unnatural as it looks. He keeps that hair tucked underneath a gray and white trucker hat, which is his sole, lame attempt to try to look hip. Elwood isn’t hip. He’s the epitome of non-hip. Smokes weed like a human bonfire. He has a medical marijuana card to treat his depression or CTE or something or other, which is a crock of bullshit. The dude is smarter than I ever gave him credit for, and he certainly pays attention to everything going on around him. Everything.

Duchamp’s is located on the ground floor of the old Excelsior Hotel. The Excelsior was built in 1872, by probably more than a few of Elwood’s redheaded ancestors. At the time, it was considered an architectural marvel. Its impressive brick and marble edifice welcomed heads of state and the best-heeled visitors to Portland before the turn of the last century. The suites on the highest floors had unobstructed views of the Willamette River, and the elegant restaurant on the ground level was staffed by European chefs with pedigrees that would impress even the most refined traveler of the day. I learned all of this on a walking history tour of the city. I can’t tell you exactly why I love this kind of crap, but I do.

In its heyday, every major reception, event and benefit were held at the Excelsior. It was the place to see and be seen among Portland’s elite. Gentleman Jim Corbett once put on a boxing exhibition in the hotel’s Grand Ballroom, and although no actual U.S. President is believed to have ever slept in the Presidential Suite, famed British actress Lillie Langtry reportedly spent several nights there in 1893.

That walking tour was sure worth the forty bucks, right? Am I right?

I always likened the old building to a mausoleum. Almost 140 years after the Excelsior’s grand opening, the place was dank, moldy and in significant disrepair. The fine silk wallpaper, the rich hardwood moldings, the expensive, Italian marble floors; all long gone or rotting away. The basement was the worst, or perhaps the best, depending on how you look at it. A damp, roughly hewn locker in the basement was where the wine and liquor bottles were stored. As the lead busboy and a frequent closer at Duchamp’s, Elwood was charged with restocking the bar. Of course, Elwood spent most of his time down in that basement smoking pot. Apparently, he did some other, more odious things down there, too.

Many restaurants had opened and closed in the space that was once occupied by the Excelsior’s five-star eatery. The basement was like a mass grave for the failed businesses, cluttered with piles of old fixtures and furniture dating back to god-knows-when. Duchamp’s was the latest attempt to revive the building and the neighborhood to some semblance of its former glory. Sadly, grandiose plans to restore and transform the upper floors into high-end condos never came to fruition and the restaurant was struggling to survive.

On his first day of duty at Duchamp’s, the manager gave Elwood the grand tour of the basement and treated him to the obligatory ghost stories. Of course, the place was haunted—-had to be—-it was a creepy basement in an old, run-down hotel. However, the creep factor at the Excelsior was seriously magnified by the fact that the basement was a bona fide, verified entrance to the notorious Shanghai Tunnels.

The Shanghai Tunnels were a legendary series of underground caverns that linked numerous restaurants, bars and hotels with various houses of debauchery and dens of iniquity during the lawless days of Portland’s early history. Brothels, opium dens, gambling parlors—-all could be easily and covertly accessed by captains of industry, politicians, preachers and other respectable members of society who did not wish to be seen indulging in the sins of the flesh.

Let me know if I start to bore you. I could go on forever about this stuff.

There was also a much more sinister aspect of the tunnels and the reason for the name “Shanghai”. It had nothing to do with the fact that they were buried beneath Portland’s Chinatown, and everything to do with tales of unfortunate young men who were slipped knockout drops and subsequently dropped through trapdoors into underground cells, where they waited to be shipped off as unwilling crew members on merchant ships to China. The tunnels were said to be haunted by the restless spirits of those men, forever seeking vengeance against the pirates who stole their very lives.

Duchamp’s owners opened the basement up for “ghost tours”, hoping to lure in some customers. I was one of the first to sign up for a tour, but like most of the tourists, I was extremely disappointed to discover that the tunnel entrances were long sealed and I would be exploring a dirty basement storage room instead of the actual tunnels. Still, I was always fascinated by the history surrounding it all. I often wondered what it was like for those young men. One minute they were belting down a few shots of rotgut, hand up the skirt of a skanky prostitute, no doubt, and the next minute they were dumped down a deadfall and sold into white slavery. That had to be one helluva hangover. How many fellows were dragged feet first through the Excelsior’s basement and into those tunnels? The arched entryways are still there.

Newer brick was used to wall up the ancient brick access points to the tunnels; a haphazard array that stood in stark contrast against the 19th Century craftsmanship of the original construction. Chunks of sloppy mortar appeared to ooze out of the ragged cracks. It appeared to be the work of a drunk or a madman--or more likely Elwood’s toothless great grandpappy.

Elwood came over to my apartment just after I finished cleaning the mud off of my shoe. His trucker cap was pulled way too far down on his forehead to look appropriately ironic, and his Edgar Allan Poe t-shirt was so last year. As usual, I wasn’t very excited to see him, but he was very excited and quite animated. That piqued my interest enough to listen to what he was babbling on and on about.

Elwood told me that he discovered an entrance to a long-forgotten section of the tunnels. It was filled with all kinds of historical artifacts that appeared to be untouched for decades. Shoes, hats, and even cases of liquor that had to date back at least as far as the Prohibition Era. He didn’t have to say much more. I was dying to see for myself.

We took the MAX downtown and disembarked at Pioneer Courthouse Square--the unofficial center of downtown Portland. A small group of anarchists in Guy Fawkes masks were preparing for an afternoon protest march. It would have been fun to join them, but I had some postmodern archeology to attend to. I made a mental note that Postmodern Archeology would make a great name for a neofolk band.

It was a short walk to Duchamp’s from the square. It was raining, of course. We just pulled up our hoodies and walked on with scrunched up faces. Only tourists use umbrellas in Portland. Locals know there’s no sense in trying to stay dry. Eternal dampness permeates every soul in Stumptown sooner or later.

Elwood took me through a service entrance in the back alley and straight down a rickety, wooden staircase to the basement of the Excelsior. He had two large Maglites waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Looking back, I realize how odd it was for Elwood to be that prepared. This was a twenty-four-year-old man who still relied on his mom to get him up in the morning. A grown-ass man who could so easily forget that he was supposed to meet his incredibly cute girlfriend for drinks on a rare Friday night off. As we proceeded into the farthest reaches of the basement, I started to feel a little uneasy. Seriously, the little hairs on the back of my neck started to tingle.

“The entrance is just a few feet ahead there,” Elwood exhorted as if he could sense my growing apprehension. “And I didn’t even tell you the best part. There’s a safe!”

“Seriously?” I replied. “What kind of safe?”

“It’s really, really old, and it says Wells Fargo on the door. It isn’t locked and there's all kinds of stuff inside!”

“Wells Fargo?” I exclaimed. “Wells Fargo?” I had to see this for myself.

We finally reached a small opening in the brick wall that looked to be recently created. The hole was barely large enough to crawl through.

“They were doing some plumbing work down here and the workmen busted open that hole. It leads right into the tunnel I was telling you about. Don’t worry, I made it through and back, no problem.”

I turned around and saw an odd, quirky smile on Elwood’s face. He rarely smiled. I took it to mean that he was really excited about what he’d found. Poor chump was way too stupid to understand the historical importance of this discovery. An old safe hidden in the recesses of the Shanghai Tunnels? It’s contents had to be in the very least curious, and in the very best scandalous!

“Wells Fargo? Are you sure the safe had the words Wells Fargo written on it?” I asked as I shimmied through the narrow opening. “That’s what it said, absolutely,” assured my diminutive, ginger companion.

Once through to the other side of the hole, I found myself in a narrow, dusty tunnel that was barely high enough to stand in. I’m six feet tall and the ceiling was only about an inch above my head. Elwood had plenty of headroom. He skipped ahead of me like an excited elf.

“Come on, man! The safe is right up here!”

“Wells Fargo, huh?”

“Yes! Wells Fargo!”

We reached what appeared to be another fresh opening in the wall. There was a pile of old bricks nearby. Elwood stopped at this larger hole and waved his Maglite toward the pitch-black interior. “It’s right over THERE!”

I shined my light inside, but I didn’t see anything but dust and cobwebs. That’s the last thing I remember before I woke up here. When I came to, I found a Kryptonite bike lock around my neck that was firmly attached to the brick wall. Elwood was on the other side of the opening, bricking it back up! “Elwood! What the hell are you doing?” I was in full panic mode. Pulling and tugging violently against the lock around my neck, I realized that I was about to suffer the same fate as that poor schlub of a cognoscente in Poe’s Cask of Amontillado!

“You don’t even remember what you did, do you?” Elwood muttered as he troweled wet, uneven mortar between the bricks he was stacking. “What kind of a piece of shit sleeps with his best friend’s girl and DOESN’T EVEN REMEMBER IT?”

That was the first time I had ever heard Elwood raise his voice in anger. Frankly, I didn’t know he had it in him. He didn’t say another word as he finished his grim project, no matter how much I cursed, implored and screamed.

That was two days ago, and I’m feeling myself grow weaker with every agonizing, slow-passing hour. I know I don’t have much longer to live, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m getting what I deserve. I won’t be joining the ghosts in these tunnels because I know there really aren’t any such things as ghosts and spirits. There’s no afterlife and there’s no salvation. All that exists is the here and now, and like I said, my here and now is pretty crappy.

I do remember meeting Elwood’s girlfriend, Dori, at the Little Pony Bar for a drink. I also remember thinking how cute she looked in that polka dot vintage dress and how upset she was when Elwood didn’t show up for their “date” again. After that? Who knows? I’m a blackout drunk, remember?

Even as the terror of my inevitable, pitiful demise begins to sink in, I still can’t help finding some amusement at the irony. I also can’t help wondering what an urban archeologist will think when he or she opens this impromptu crypt 100 years from now. What will be more interesting? The skeletal remains attached to the wall with a bike lock...or the Wells Fargo safe in the corner.