Off to Deschutes again, to see if I can make up for the last time. Despite an earlier arrival time, the place is filling up pretty rapidly and I take one of two seats left at the end of the rail.
I have to say, after the past few weeks, I’m really just hoping for some good beer and non-disappointing humans.
The man whose drink I ask about is wearing a blue flannel shirt and has long sliver rings on his fingers in the shape of skulls. I sit down and talk to him anyway. He’s drinking a Cascade ale and is vastly more interested in the NFL draft than anything else. That’s cool; I’ve got a prime view of the cask pumps so and there’s always interesting people watching on the rail.
As for the Cascade; I’m just not that fond of it. I’m a little surprised at this but I’m taking notes and get a fruity nose with what seems like an almost sulfur finish? That can’t be right, can it? Yet as my glass empties I just can’t shake it; something feels off about this beer. It’s crisp enough but there isn’t much body to it and I just don’t seem to appreciate it. Maybe I’ll try making a batch for myself and seeing if I can’t get a better handle on it.
Somewhere over my right shoulder someone is speaking to a group and there is a little bit of laughter but much more cheering and applause. Nothing too abrasive; everyone clearly remembers they’re in a public space so it’s not too loud but they’ve also made everyone aware of their presence.
A couple chairs down, someone asks the bartender what that’s about. He says it is a group with “Clean up the Pearl”, a volunteer group who came together to clean, cover graffiti, and otherwise beautify the neighborhood.
“Better them than me!” he says, the smirk in his tone so rich I don’t even have to see his face.
And you know what? It IS better them than you, you apathetic facedick, sitting on your smugness, with a beer you may have paid for but hardly earned the right to drink.
Jebus. I gotta get out of here.