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Here's a quick peak:
Nothing
says “It’s Saturday in Portland, Oregon” louder than the Portland
Saturday Market. This is our big open air bazaar under the Burnside Bridge, 
and it’s where Northern Oregonian’s shop for holiday gifts, practice
their photography, and bring their kids or out of town guests, and just hang out.
Aaron, the home oxygen provider, had a hidden agenda for our downtown date.
He claimed he was the hugest fan ever of ice cream hand made by the local
company, “Great Northwest Ice Cream.” He swore it was the best he’d
ever had, and the girth beneath his oversize T-shirt clearly said he was an expert in the field.
The usual characters were there at the market: the guy with dreadlocks giving
massages; the Old Danish fellow with the jam samples; and Miss Hannah and her
gourmet popcorn. That particular day there were rows of fresh-cut tulips, and
a guy who painted children’s faces to look like characters from Planet
of the Apes (those were the good days for Charlton Heston, in my
book).
And then, in front of the Skidmore fountain, I saw the guy playing the spoons
to Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere” on his boom box.
“Alright!” I exclaimed.
Aaron apparently felt the need to say something condescending, and asking me
if I was a redneck was the best he could come up with. I just smiled proudly.
Yes, deep down I probably was, but his grasp of who I was would be meager
at best. I was tempted to play hambone to accompany the spooner, but hold myself back. This was definitely my kind of
scene! My favorite Hee Haw episode was when David Holt played the paper bag. I
was a performing fool, but knew that this would be one performance wasted on this
particular date. He would forever be telling the story of “that weirdo”
he bought ice cream for at the Saturday Market.
He pulled me away; the ice cream was calling. And because this was a sunny
day, the line was sure to be long. We rounded the corner and made our way to the
vendor, the line was indeed twenty deep. He didn’t care; all thoughts were
about his calorie-laden, frozen bliss.
We stood for a minute, and then I excused myself. I wandered back to the spoon
player and tossed a few bills into his case while he played along to Bob Wills’s
“Steel Guitar Rag.” I phoned my wonderful carnival worker pal, Mytehawk, on my cell to inform him
of my good hillbilly fortune. Big Frosty could just wait in his own damn line!
The captivating Mytehawk is a Portland legend. He is a former President of
the Northwestern Showmen’s Club, and is a long-time gentleman concessionaire.
When living up in Bellingham, I spent one full day working his “joint”
(midway concession stand) at the Marysville Strawberry Festival. He taught me
about the “lot lice” (locals who arrive early to gawk and stay late
to browse, but don’t spend anything), and to watch out for the “wrangy”
(drunk) people who get off the “chump-twister” (carousel), or come
from the “mitt camp” (fortune telling booth) and trip over the “dead
man” (extra anchor stake for a banner line, buried in especially soft earth). The pleasure was clearly mine!
A few minutes later I popped back in line, grinning ear to ear from the festive
music. Aaron looked miffed that I’d had a moment of fun without him, as
he prattled on about there being too many homeless folks downtown for his taste.
Then, as he began insulting the shirt some passerby was wearing,
I became fixated on the memory of the news report about an elderly man who
drove his car through a crowded open-air market in Los Angeles one afternoon,
killing eight people and injuring forty. I smiled again, much to Aaron’s
annoyance. Was I so evil to fantasize my date with him ends in a bang?
And what a whiner! He complained and moaned about everything the whole
thirty minutes we stood in that damned line for his stupid ice cream cone, which,
by the way, he needed about as much as he needed a more vapid personality. He
certainly didn’t need any tummy expanding treats. Why couldn’t we
just pick up an elephant ear on our way to the car and call it good? I loved the
blaring irony that he was currently reading Stupid White Men, by Michael
Moore.
The redeeming part was I’d discovered that the art of spoon playing in
Portland is alive and well.
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