Bloodwarm

    I’ve started a tradition of taking the bus to Seaside once a year, during the off-season, which is the only time I can afford it. With all the tourists gone, there’s not much to do, which leaves plenty of time for introspection, which for a melancholic like me can be a little perilous. The weather is unpredictable, which I tell myself I find invigorating.

    It’s dry and clear when we leave Portland, but as we make our way over the mountains, the trees become covered with snow, and soon we find ourselves in the middle of a full-fledged snow storm. We stop for a while as trucks block the narrow two-lane highway to put on their chains. Our driver takes things slowly but the farther we get, the worse the storm, and nothing is plowed. It’s pretty nerve-wracking, but there’s nowhere to turn around, so we keep creeping forward. Finally the snow starts to thin and we speed up a bit. Just then, we pass a tractor trailer whose rear end has slid off the road, kept tumbling down the incline only by the trees. The driver has climbed out of the cab and is standing around with a bunch of other people who have stopped to help. They are all laughing with relief. The bus slows back down to a crawl.

    By the time we reach Seaside, the snow has disappeared. The streets aren’t even wet. Some of the businesses are closed, with handwritten signs on the doors saying they couldn’t make it in on account of the snow. I wonder who hung the signs. 

Happily, the only bagel place in town is open, and they make a surprisingly good bagel with generous slabs of lox. 

    Check in isn’t until 4. I make my usual rounds of the junk shops, of which there aren’t many. I find a few small gifts but not much for myself. I resist buying a working Spiro Agnew watch, which is fascinating but probably too tacky to actually wear. 

    I do find one treasure, a Private Telegraphic Guide for the Youngstown Sheet & Tube Company. It’s a tiny 1919 book of codes used by the company to save money on telegrams, which were charged by the word. They’re mostly phrases used in ordering or paying for steel products. The guide only goes up to the letter E, and some are real words and some are nonsense; the telegraph company didn’t differentiate. Abaft means “accept if you can do no better.” Bloodwarm means “the inquiry is supposed to come from…” Disburdens stands for “we are doing everything possible to hasten the execution of your order.” 

    All the shops are decorated for Christmas, and holiday music is playing everywhere. I find myself not hating it the way I usually do, in fact I feel comforted by it, even when it’s a beloved standard being butchered by some pop-country act. Seaside is a popular place to spend Christmas; I wanted to come closer to my birthday, but room prices were nearly triple. I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that I’m turning fifty.

    It starts to rain and I figure I should spend some time out on the beach before the weather turns sour. As I traipse out toward the water, the sun bursts from behind a cloud and an enormous rainbow seems to sprout from the sand. I turn around and see that it arcs up over the town, disappearing behind the largest of the hotels. It is one of the clearest rainbows I’ve ever seen, and is soon joined by its double. It’s been a difficult year. I back up as far as I can without getting my feet wet and stare at it. 

    The sun is soon swallowed by a huge purple cloud, and for a little while it peeps through a hole until finally winking out. The rainbow vanishes and the rain starts up again, just in time for me for check in. 

    I had been concerned because the Ebb Tide had called the day before to ask if I minded if they changed my room due to construction. I hadn’t really understood what the woman was talking about when she described the room, I just told her as long as it faced the ocean and wasn’t on the ground floor, that I didn’t care. The room turns out to be just what I wanted, except that there’s a whole other bedroom. “Make sure you keep that door closed,” the man at the counter had said. I hadn’t understood why, and found this a little ominous, but after peeking into the extra room I close the door and don’t open it again. 

    After sitting for a while, staring out at the changing clouds above the waves, I take a hot shower and head out to dinner. The promenade runs right beneath my window but there’s no one out. I walk down the main strip, past the arcade and the bumper cars and the weird little shops that serve exotic jerky and beach pails. An animatronic bear running a shooting gallery is wedged between Gandalf’s Smoke and Vape and a store called The Freedom Shop which sells novelty t-shirts. 

    I eat at one of the innumerable seafood joints; the food is decent but not memorable. I’ve been enjoying spending time alone, but eating dinner by myself makes me melancholy, so before I sequester myself for the night I slip into a bar called the Bridge Tender. It’s a roadhouse kind of place, rough but welcoming. Everyone is a regular, and I enjoy listening to them banter and gossip as they shoot pool. I love being a stranger in town. I love being a tourist. 

 

The next morning I wake up early and sit at the window and watch the world emerge from the darkness. I read a bit and half pay attention an old musical about an upholsterer’s assistant who falls in love with Ray Milland. The view out the window is more interesting. The grass covering the dunes is dark ochre and the sky is deep blue, separated by a dark strip of sea. It looks like a Rothko painting. 

When it gets a little lighter, I put my coat on over my pajamas and tramp along the path that cuts through the grass. The tide is out and it takes me a while to reach the water’s edge. I’m the only one out there. When I get too chilly, I turn back and slip into the common area and fill my pockets from the “breakfast to go” counter. They’ve removed all the chairs and tables to keep you from hanging out, but the TV is blasting.

    Fifteen minutes later, warm and full of sausage sandwich and coffee, looking out at the changing clouds over the ocean, I am completely content.

    But eventually eleven arrives like a sneaker wave, and I pack my bag and bundle up and leave my cozy sanctuary. I have seven hours until the bus arrives, with not much to really do. And it is cold. 

I go to the aquarium first. It’s right next door, and one of my favorite places in Seaside. Right up front is a small pool busy with harbor seals. I get there right at feeding time, and watch the frenzy as the seals snatch their fish from the air. One of them slaps himself repeatedly with his flipper. The attendant feeds him last. 

    Many small things have changed since last year. Their solitary ray is gone, presumably dead –I don’t have the heart to ask the guy working there, who is the same adorably awkward  young man who was here last time, shambling between the families hoping for questions to allay his boredom. 

For the first time, I seek out the Seaside Historical Museum. I’m always interested in seeing how a small town talks about itself. I love the way a local history museum presents its stories, and have always been a sucker for a homemade diorama. 

    Seaside was a tourist town from the beginning, and most of its historic homes were built by wealthy Portland businessmen. Through fires and storms and dustups between loggers, the town has remained sustained by its beachfront. After a number of piers were demolished by the waves, the promenade was built a hundred years ago, as much to protect the houses as to provide a way to enjoy the ocean view without soiling one’s clothes. It’s the only paved beachfront in the state, and reminds me of the boardwalks of New Jersey, which is one reason why I like coming here. 

In the middle of town the promenade bulges out to create a ftaffic turnaround, at the end of which stands a statue commemorating the Lewis and Clark Expedition. A plaque at its base reads The End of the Trail. 

    The volunteer at the museum offers to show me the Butterfield Cottage next door. This rather unassuming building served at various times as a millinery and a rooming house until it was moved from across town and filled with period furniture. The guide doesn’t have much to say about any of the rooms. I try to get her to talk about what it’s like to live in a place like Seaside. She tells me over and over that her and her husband don’t own a television. 

    When I leave the museum, I make my way down to the turnaround. A young man with a backpack and a djembe is squatting at the feet of Lewis and Clark and their dog. I think of the old photos I just saw of this very spot, the Model Ts now replaced by SUVs and gigantic pick-ups with booming bass. There are more people out today. 

    As I’m looking out at the beach, a man pulls up in his motorcycle. He parks illegally, dismounts, and lifts off his helmet. After standing there a few minutes he asks, “Are you the guy from McDonald’s?”

I don’t know what he means but I say no. 

    “You’re not from McDonald’s?” he asks.

    “The one here?” 

    “Yeah, I see you there all the time.” He’s smiling, like he knows I’m fucking with him.

    “I’ve never been there,” I say.

    “Come on. Seriously?” He sounds confused.

    “Seriously.”  

    “You’re sure.” I smile, not sure what to say. He chuckles and shakes his head. 

    “There’s a guy who works there looks exactly like you,” he says. “Same glasses and everything.”

    “They say everybody’s got a twin,” I say. He ponders this a moment. 

    “I’d like to meet mine,” he says quietly.

    We both stare out at the waves that seem to be creeping closer even though the tide is going out. I have five hours to kill and it’s starting to rain. I’m getting cold. The man straddles his motorcycle and drives off, and I haul myself up and shoulder my pack and march toward the sea.