Featuring the Lucky Devil Lounge
Portland OR
The parking lot was spacious, and dimly lit. The doormen were inside. A row of choppers lined the front of the building and a few cars beyond that. A sole couple were outside, leaning distance from a car, standing silently, and I went opposite them 15 paces or so. It was breezy. I dug my hands into my pockets and contemplated calling a cab instead of making the lengthy walk home. Thats when my serenity was broken, by a big commanding voice. I leisurely swung around to face it. The man with the raised voice was talking to me. “HEY!” he barked again. “Take your hands out of your pockets” he then stated firmly.
How much does history predetermine the present moment? I’d say a whole hell of a lot. So let me start by clarifying that historically, i am not a fighter. Not for sport, not for thrills. Well, there was that one summer, here in Portland, street boxing my buddies in the middle of SW Jackson street and gambling on that Carlo Rossi stained sidewalk for smokes. That was a hot streak at blackjack to remember, often happy to be the “house” everyone else played against, gathering an assortment of American spirits, Dunhill’s, and Camels from my fellows. All good things end though. Eventually Lady Luck was found courting another when I traded my meager earnings for a series of $20 scratchers, that subsequently had me bumming money for a train ticket back east; a predictable lesson in her fickleness…But that fight club was short lived, as I quickly learned that a hooking left to the ear would completely sober you up. Maybe things would have been different if I were better at dodging or blocking, but alas…In those days, I couldn’t afford boxing lessons, let alone to waste a buzz like that.
A quick overview of the setting. Portlandia, the popular sketch comedy show that ran for 8 seasons leaned into this cities fingerprint like a palm reading gypsy rifling through a purse for divination. Sometimes, the jokes write themselves. Certainly, the Portland experience is vastly different than most other cities. Fist fights being no exception. In fact, the violent crime rate for Portland Oregon is much lower than other US metropolitan areas according to both the FBI data base and the Portland Police Bureau. It’s urban enough that dudes don’t just brawl out of boredom (and eventually out of habit) like they do in smaller towns. Sure, there are bar fights anywhere, but take away the drink and PDX itself isn’t anything like a midwestern cornfield, full of testosterone driven teens living up their own high school dramas of football and fistfights well into their adult lives. While that would be a typical Friday night in Iowa, Pacific NW (amateur) fighters are found in frog costumes, marching in rallies, fighting ideology, having shows of solidarity. My point is that for me to get into a traditional physical altercation in Portland, means it would have to be a surprising, unnatural event. I’d have to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, there would have to be some highly specialized type of antagonist, like say a biker with an abscessed tooth. The Harley riding, leather wearing, Danzig listening type of biker, not to be confused with the many other local options. Portland has an enormous population of fixed geared bicyclists; the hipsters and delivery bikers, dressed in black, who will always be part of the fabric of the city. Then, there is the commuting “spandex mafia”. The spandex mafia is a constant scourge to motorized traffic, often seen yelling at drivers and kicking out parked cars side view mirrors if they are in a bike lane. Or, finally, the infamous waves of naked bike riders the city is semi famous for. The flash mobs of naked bike riders has to be the crown jewel. Not every city boasts of such a smorgasbord of human bodies on display organized at really any hour of the day or night. In fact, nudity is quite a normal slice of life in Portland, which boasts the most strip clubs per capita in the country. Strip clubs here are so common, when I was a local, date night could often include a drink at Sassy’s just like it were any other bar. Of course, there is an art to the single mothers dance and a beauty in the human form, so despite the pedestrian occurrence of skin, some acts would grab attention and become memorable. At a burlesque show, to the sounds of She Wants Revenge, a heavier set, mocha skinned dancer, with holster, plastic cap guns, and cowboy hat captivated patrons while she entertained from the main stage of Devil’s Point. At the Union Jack’s Club, there was a notable dancer who performed in a full rubber mask so that you never even saw any part of her head. The mask was of an aged Richard Nixon, the former 37th president of the United States. It was that sort of shit that put a gleam in your eye to be a part of, when you saw the “Keep Portland Weird” mantra painted on a wall or plastered on a Subaru bumper.
Context established, I do recall finding myself at a strip club off of lower Powell in SE, the Lucky Devil Lounge. It was near the end of the night. My associate, Izzy, was seeing a bar tender there and we had stopped in to say hello. I had gotten cousin Dingus on the horn and he was game to meet up, his shift all wrapped up. He was inside still with the badger, while I stepped out for some fresh air. Badgers girl Tisha had given him a pile of ones and was amused to test his weakness for Asian beauty as she pushed him toward the small side stage, where her friend Jade was wiping the pole to begin her routine. I considered joining and testing my own appreciation, but remembered the rules; no cash, no sitting up at the stage. I didn’t have any one’s, and was looking to make arrangements to get home anyway. So while I was heading outside I heard a woman’s voice flirting after me. “Nice pants”, noticing my one of a kind, bold creased cream on cream almost satiny pants. These puppies were dressy and cosy besides, held up by thin black suspenders, revealing finely booted ankles. I had gotten them second hand recently and endured quite a handful of teasing over them from the lads. My fragile half rimmed glasses and ragged tee shirt probably made me look like a confusing blend of bohemian hipster, scholar, and peter pan lost boy. At least I sure hoped it did. “Thanks Tish” I replied with a thought towards a wink, but after getting the timing wrong, stepped out into the night air with the lingering feeling of a missed opportunity. Winks are damn tricky to pull off until maybe you become an uncle or by some other unknown method. Well, a feeling lingered of that minor defeat mingled with a satisfactory pride for my slacks. When one has an eye for thrifting, the world takes notice.
The parking lot was spacious, and dimly lit. The doormen were inside. A row of choppers lined the front of the building and a few cars beyond that. A sole couple were outside, leaning distance from a car, standing silently, and I went opposite them 15 paces or so. It was breezy. I dug my hands into my pockets and contemplated calling a cab instead of making the lengthy walk home. Thats when my serenity was broken, by a big commanding voice. I leisurely swung around to face it. The man with the raised voice was talking to me. “HEY!” he barked again “Take your hands out of your pockets” he then stated firmly.
I smiled good-naturedly and took a few steps towards them. It was the first time I really got a good look at the pair. This dude was all in black, thick necked with leathered face and matching vest. His thumbs were leisurely hung on his front pockets, his thick fingers adorned with large rings. Metal rings, the shape of skulls and flat bars. He wasn’t smiling back. Neither was his lady friend, who was chewing gum with an air of disgust. It’s not that she avoided eye contact with me, but she looked elsewhere in a way that made her seem both bored and worried at the same time. Or maybe, when she does glance over, it is in the same way someone can’t help but peek at a gruesome train wreck. I stopped my advancement, now half the distance and red flags half mast, and asked the obvious.
“Are you talking to me?” I requested this confirmation with a faltering laugh, nothing like a John Wayne delivery. His grim demeanor was punctuated by fact that he was unflinchingly staring straight at me. I mean, locked in like a rottweiler transfixed at the mouth of a non vacant rabbit hole. His back was straight, he feet were planted. His gal was leaning into him like a prominent extra in a production of Grease. He wasn’t moving a muscle except to repeat “Take your hands out of your pockets.” In a growl that would make Wolverine jealous.
This makes no sense. Why would this guy care if my hands were in my pockets? My hands were quite comfortable there after all. Plus, I’m just over here minding my own business.
“Im sorry, What? Why?” I heard myself reply, feeling strangely intrigued despite the threatening tone and overall bizarreness of the situation.
“Take your hands out of your pockets”
“Hey man, Im just doing my own thing, Why are you telling me to take my hands out of my pockets?”
“Just do as he says” the girl implored laboriously, in a tone reserved for declined credit cards.
He chimed in by making it clear what I should do. “Take your hands out of your pockets”
What is this guys deal? Does he think I have a weapon? Is he trying to pick a fight?
For some stupid reason, I felt righteous indignation well up within me. Why should I do what this meat head tells me to do? There must be some civilized way to get through to this broken record guy who is staring at me unlike I have experienced since maybe a fourth grade contest. His jaw was slightly clenched and his eyes looked relaxed, almost tired. Dead eyes with a muted burning flicker deep within, such as a reanimated pet that some unseen necromancer would puppet.
Inspiration came flooding in, like a solved riddle. I’ve got it!
“Ok, tell you you what.” I paused for dramatic effect. “You put your hands IN your pockets. And then I’ll take my hands OUT of my pockets.”
Surely this man would meet me halfway. This was actually becoming fun.
The door to the club swung open and out hops Izzy with all the luck of the Irish in his step. He’s just in time to hear the bikers response to my proposal.
“Take your fucking hands out of your pockets”
And now I’m quick to assure him that “Ohh, I absolutely will, I will happily take them out just as soon as yours go in.” The escalation of his last repetition was starting to make this feel less fun.
Izz had assessed the situation and immediately crossed in front of the couple to position himself right next to the biker. His plan is obviously to talk some sense into the stranger with all the vigor and tempo of a yipped up youth paster.
“Oh hey man. Lovely night, is this your girlfriend? Hi Im the badger Izzy. Have you guys ever been here before? Is there some sort of problem? Wara, why won’t you take your hands out of your pocket? He can be a little difficult at times” He says turning back to the man who hasn’t so much as flinched, never mind look at the newcomer.
Seeing that the spell had not been broken, I decided to continue locking my eyes with this unreasonable stranger. Neither of us are looking over to the chatty mediator, but I passively restate my bargain, louder, through that third party. “Hey Mick, I’m going to, just as soooon as our new friend puts his hands in his pocket. It ’s a fair trade off.”
A crowd was now beginning to form out of the door, a couple smiling bouncers, some others, and lastly I could hear cousin Dingus was coming through “What are you chuckle heads doing?”
Mick started laughing assuringly and I think he might even have wanted to put his hand on the guys shoulder in camaraderie. “This guy, you see what I mean…”
That’s when the overgrown gargoyle finally moved just like an alligator at the waters edge. It was a roundhouse punch right to Izzys’ face. I tracked the badger falling down into the darkness. By the time I turned my head forward again, I was already in flight, seeing stars and feeling my airborne body ragdoll backwards, hands in pockets, before skidding on the seat of my pants upon the parking lot asphalt. Lying on my back I just knew, my beautiful cream pants were sure to be damaged!
When I finally got up, cousin Dingus had not only joined the chat, but taken it over. Both men were wearing black and one was on top of the other, it was hard to know who was who. “Hit him you morons” Dingus bellowed from the heap, and Izz and I were shaken from our daze. I started throwing haymakers into someones kidneys, but slowed to halfhearted force as I wasn’t sure I had the right combatant. My colleague was applying some vicious heel kicks until finally, we successfully separated them up from their wrestling position on the ground. Back on his feet, Dingus was wild, blood dripping from his face. He was in his element, shit talking through a psychotic smile. There would be no help from the bouncers who seemed to be enjoying the free show after a presumably dull shift.
“Ah, you liked that? huh? You want some more?” Dingus continued. The other guy looked equally wild now and was focused on Dingus, thank god, the only true threat now that it had come to blows. They were circling each other, and Izz and I were awkwardly at the ready, though not so eager to lead a rush. That’s when cousin Dingus yelled, “Well you won’t like this very much” and shuffled over and side kicked a Harley, trying to topple it over. Suddenly the bouncers came to life with “woah, woah, woahs” and ran interference. The whole crowd buzzed to life at the prospect of the damaged motorcycle, like a line had been crossed.
There was an opportunity in the shift of the scene
“Come on, lets get out of here!”
We were all running into the SE neighborhood before the whole MC gang came after us. Dingus was hobbling like a bleeding Eagor in the rear, saying “I live for this shit” and “I’ll kill all you mother lickers”
I felt my crumpled glasses that I had shoved in my pocket. They had the integrity of a mangled grasshopper baked out in the sun. Issy was urging us on, intensely talking. “Did you see his fucking vest man? Gypsy Joker” That’s like the most notorious MC behind the Hells’ Angels and the Bandidos, Shit man, what did you do Wara?!”
“Nothing man, I just innocently had my hands in my pockets.”
