The World Famous Kenton Club is one of the few comfortably seedy bars left standing. When I see that they’re hosting a country music night, I impulsively hop on the train to North Portland. The day before was the third anniversary of Jasmine's death, and this seems like a nice way to honor her memory. She had loved going to the Golden Key, a little dive outside of Allentown, where we saw a bunch of great shows by rockabilly legends such as Sleepy LaBeef and Wanda Jackson. We both loved that place. We were both at our happiest then.
The sun is still high and blinding when the second act starts. I've missed the first act, which is fine; I don't know any of these musicians. I order a Tecate and the bartender says they’ve run out, and gives me a Modelo Especial instead. I head out to the patio as the singer is setting up. She’s a solo artist who sings a combination of classic country tunes and originals, all of them skewering raunchy or dark or both. There’s a nice crowd, and in the middle of the patio they’ve placed a sheet of wood paneling down for people to dance on. There are some really good dancers. One couple in particular is amazing; one of them is some kind of classically trained dancer -she keeps working ballerina steps into her routine. Her partner looks like your typical baseball-wearing pickup--driving redneck dude, but when I get a clearer look I realize that they’re also a woman. They both seem to be having a blast, beaming with delight every time the other executes a particularly fancy or surprising move. I smile too, but a little sadly as I remember stomping across the boards with Jasmine. She loved to dance. Other couples join in, including a woman who must be close to seven feet tall, a glamorous giantess stooping to dance with a rotating cast of partners. Twirling skirts and cowgirl boots are everywhere.
The sun is sinking rapidly when the second act comes on, a hipster band playing a surprisingly earnest set of country and southern rock. I order another Modelo and watch the dancers and feel the evening breeze on my face. I think about the good times I've had at this bar over the years, the fun shows I've seen, the friends I've hung out with. I look around and realize that everyone else there is partnered up, or attached to some tight group. I’m the only one in the entire place sitting alone. Sometimes I don't mind being the sole weirdo sitting with my sketchbook, observing the world. Sometimes I even like it. But nights like this it feels horrible, that there is something deeply wrong with me. I know that plenty of other people are alone, but I never see them. I guess they just stay at home, while I venture out to let everyone see how unlovable I am.
A third Modelo chases the loneliness away for a short while. I leave before it can creep back. The third band had started, and while they were good musicians, they played music that didn’t have much personality to it. They seem like background actors in a low budget movie set in a honky tonk. Which is appropriate: a 1972 Raquel Welch roller derby movie featured scenes shot at the Kenton.
The music echoes between the buildings of the little strip of downtown Kenton. A figure dressed in a black hoodie sways back and forth in a bus shelter, arms paddling the air. On the train, a woman is laughing and babbling to herself. I can’t understand most of what she’s saying but she keeps repeating "Honey I found your shirt. I found your shirt. It it it was so dirty. It it it it was so fucking fucking dirty."
A man gets on, screaming on his phone. “Drop off your keys, bitch. You come over and drop off your fucking keys right now or I will kill you. I will fucking kill you. As Jesus Christ on the throne is my lord and savior I will fucking kill you.” Across the row of seats that run the length of the car, a pair of feet in socks stick out from under a blanket. Further down, a man in pyjamas crawls on his hands and knees on the floor beside a wheelchair. He looks younger than me, clean-shaven and bony. He hauls himself onto the train seat and I see that he appears to me missing one of his feet. Sure enough his pyjamas ride up to reveal that his right leg ends in a flap of flesh about hallway down his shin. As he sits there, the flap twitches and jerks as if trying to detach itself from his knee. He slips back down to the floor and starts crawling around again. He starts an elaborate process of rearranging some cushions and bags. I think of asking if he needs help but he seems completely focused. He places the cushion on the seat then takes it off and flips it over and puts it on the floor and spins it around. When the doors open next, he suddenly drags himself onto his wheelchair and rolls off without activating the ramp. He pulls himself along in the middle of the street with his one good leg as cars speed past.
When I reach my stop, I step off the train just as a woman is trying to get on. She is slight and dressed in an extremely tight black dress with fishnets and a greasy-looking wig. She looks like a prostitute who has had a very long day. We both step aside for one another and therefore get right in each other’s way. We repeat this a few times, and we both laugh. Despite how tired she looks, her laugh is fresh and bright and lovely, and I find myself hearing it long after we've finally stopped dancing and each continued on with our night.
