Off to the Sandy Hut before dance class. Or ‘Handy Slut‘ as Barfly lovers (and probably most Portland bargoers) know the place.
My choices when I approach the bar are: ask one of the couple who are in the process of ordering or a dude with specs and a thin white beard, a lavender drink in front of him.
I go for the lavender drink. The couple next to me orders Guinness in the bottle (man) and two shots of something red (woman) so I feel like I dodged a bullet of some kind there.
When I ask the bespectacled man what he’s having: “Vodka with grape juice, ginger ale, orange juice and god only knows what else.” Well allllllll right.
The men watch Cincy-NY play baseball, talk about their kids. One man’s son has a terrible diet but wants to play football. The general consensus is that he’s not willing to attain the fitness of a football player. I tune that out pretty quickly to take stock of the rest of the place.
The couple is in their own world and I eye the woman’s red drinks with extreme suspicion. My instinct tells me nothing good will come of her combination of red stuff and his Guinness. The bartender has Sanctuary playing on a small TV perched high above the bar. Every so often her pace slows, between asking people if they’d like anything, and she looks up, watches a fantasy world and leavs behind the dingy daytime universe of bringing lunches to people who prefer their bars without windows.
She’s got a quiet hopefulness to her and I like that. I can’t stay to ask her story because class awaits and by the demure way she checks to see if I’d like another, she won’t tell her story to just anyone but sometime, perhaps she might.