Mobile Junkie I: Oregon Postcards

Mobile Junkie
drawing by MJ

The day I lost my phone, Georgia and I left Portland just like Thelma and Louise, in the wake of her crazy man. We each tried, in our separate way, to enjoy the moment. I was determined not to let his nagging presence in our minds ruin my newfound Buddhist nature (we all are inherently good, repeat several times) even if her boyfriend IS an asshole. We headed west toward Tillamook and followed the coast down toward Bandon, our goal to gaze at the Pacific and play on the big rocks. Finding ourselves tired in Lincoln City, we drove on to Newport and parked with relief at a two-story motel that proudly boasted "39.99 for 2". Sandwiched among gas stations, parking lots, super stores and strip malls on the bleak and busy commercial strip, it felt like home.

Georgia set out alone for the office to check in so "they" wouldn't think we were lesbians. (Georgia's mantra became: "This is my sister! I'm showing her the Oregon coast! She has never been to Oregon!") Cousin Eddie from National Lampoon's Vacation signed us in- he was accomodating, ingratiating- and scary. Our second floor room smelled suspiciously foul and carried with it visions of the worst possible sexual perversions. I told Georgia that the board nailed to the wall above the bed at head-level looked chipped and dented by a thousand battered heads.

Desperate for incense but without matches, I crept down the steps outside and headed for the darkened office. The door was locked, but I saw shadows moving inside, so I boldly knocked. Cousin Eddie finally tore himself away and peered out at me through the glass, sizing me up. He unlocked the door, opened it a bit, and when I asked if he might have some matches, he said, "COME IN". In a split second I simultaneously hesitated (by rote, through years of training as a girl) and was somewhat comforted by a motherly-looking figure wearing a pink chenille bathrobe who had frozen mid-exit in a doorway leading to what I imagined was the bedroom. (Was he her son? Was she his wife? The possibilities were mind-boggling.) I stepped inside, her eyes warily tolerating my presence, and the door closed behind me.

I waited while Eddie rummaged through a box of lighters that rattled like bones as one by one they were held up with a flick and dropped back for dead into the multi-coloured glittering plunder. There were BICS and Scriptos and Jack Daniels and glow in the dark and green flame, jet flame, bargain lighters, disposable lighters, all colors and contours, and finally one surfaced that, when clicked, lit up Eddie's face. It was pink. "Thank you," I said, genuinely taken with the lighter game. "Oh, that's OK. I know how that is. I'm a smoker too," said Eddie, who couldn't have been happier if he'd given me a pair of white shoes.