I suited up and spent the better part of twenty minutes trying to get my tie right and then to take a satisfactory photograph of myself. I downloaded a timer app to attempt time-delay shots and had no luck with them either. I noticed a few burgeoning zits on the right upper lip of my mouth, and destroyed them. Naturally this would occur right before a photoshoot.
Every picture told the same story. Concern showed heavy on my face. I could stare at a mirror, calm and confident, smiling. Seeing the face I wanted others to see. But once I trained the camera on myself and attempted a frozen frame, I inherited that expression that marks all amateur photography: the look of doubt.
I abandoned the quest shortly thereafter and headed out into the night.
I walked with the iPad tucked under my arm and cycled through a few attempts at reading it before I finally clicked it off walking down the long uneven dark of Ladd Avenue, with its narrow sidewalk and broken pavement. LED devices completely blind you in the darkness, and take away even your most basic sense of balance and navigation; I have on more than one occasion stumbled into the grass before I realized what was happening.
Out in the open light of Hawthorne and 12th I resumed my book, and passed the walk through the quiet streets with the history of ancient Greek philosophers. My hands were cold and I turned them periodically to keep the blood going. Why didn’t I bring gloves?
A few blocks from El Gaucho I got my first iPad catcall of the night from a bum across the street from me, so I put it away and walked the rest of the way in silence and preparation. I pushed through the outer doors and then through a second set into a dark and quiet room. The hostess glanced at me and I explained that I was looking for some folks who were probably already here and that I’d make my way. Being a host, you tend to appreciate the customers who already know where they’re going. I spotted them and thanked her and walked to the bar.
It was a small group and they were drinking some kind of champagne. Since I quit drinking I have been offered booze on several occasions by friends, and I was being offered some now. I thanked them and declined and ordered a Kaliber and a burger from the bar, and sat down. They had already procured a plate of fancy oysters – the name escapes me – and I thought that now was as good a time as any to try this particular dish.
It was clean and fresh and not overly fishy, as I had feared oysters would be. They were quality oysters. I drank my faux-beer and sat on my chair and watched the various groups chat with one another. When people who work together get together socially, it invariably results in shop talk, but I just wanted to sit there and enjoy the ambiance of the place.
Half an hour later it had come the time for the true purpose of the evening: for the men to adjourn to the Cigar Room to properly celebrate Kyle’s birthday. We left the ladies at the bar and made our way into a smaller room, adorned with leather chairs and a few tables and a massive TV screen in one corner playing recaps of various sports games that had taken place that day. We settled at a round table and were brought waters. El Gaucho had a menu of cigars they offered, but Kyle had come prepared with a box of very quality cigars, and he gave us each one. After cutting the tips and making a few remarks, we lit them up and the evening was engaged.
As we smoked I was barely aware of having to try to fit in. The conversation was natural; industry people talking about the industry. I mostly listened but it occurred to me a few times how I felt comfortable enough to speak as a proper member of this group instead of feeling like a child amongst adults. I do not know if it was the cigars and the feel of the place or my familiarity with my companions but I had dressed the part and was smoking at a reasonable pace so I felt pretty at home. I was drinking good ice water; and it was true what they said, that cognac with cigars was good, but there was nothing like ice water when you were smoking a cigar.
It was around two-thirds of the way through my cigar that I began to feel lightheaded and no longer myself. This was to be expected. The smoke in the room was thick and I had started to lose track of the conversation. More and more I was aware only of not being myself and that voice in my gut was telling me I’d had enough and I ought to put the thing down and prepare to make my way home. Really? Was I that much a lightweight that one cigar would do me in? I felt a bit silly to be so unseasoned; then again there were a number of possible factors. Unlike most industry people I had been up since that morning and had spent the day moving furniture around. Circadian rhythm was telling me it was past my bedtime; it stood to reason.
Twenty minutes later I knew it was time, so I finished my ice water and said goodbye to everyone. All this time I could only think that if I could just get outside I would be okay and probably not pass out – the smoke had turned my head light and my guts upside down. I walked out of the restaurant, focusing on moving slowly and calmly and not appearing impaired. I pushed through the double doors onto the streets of downtown Portland; I felt better as the cold night air hit my face, and I started the long trudge home.
There is a point in the film Iron Man where Tony Stark is testing his new device’s capability by flying as high into the atmosphere as he can manage. At the highest point his suit is gripped by ice crystals and he loses most of his power, beginning to fall back to earth. As I walked home that night I felt as if I had reached that point. I was operating at forty percent power; if someone had spoken to me then they’d have been greeted with incoherent mumblings. I knew the road, I didn’t have to think about it. Just go through the motions, go through the motions.
I set my body to autopilot and let it carry me home.
