Kenny Rogers, beer, and belligerence...
This is the story of how I met Kenny Rogers illegitimate son and got serenaded. Sit back, son, and enjoy.
I was sitting outside my favorite taproom this afternoon, enjoying a beer and a cigar with my brother. I had pulled out my 5 red dice and 1 black, in preparation for a rousing game of 10,000, which my brother had never played before and which I was looking forward to winning. It was a chilly afternoon, cloudy and promising rain but never delivering.
A man walked up to us, and I'm going to be honest, at first I assumed he was homeless and panhandling. But, upon closer inspection, I realized he may well have been homeless, but he wasn't panhandling. Instead, he was leering. I felt like asking him for a dollar. I caught his eye, and he gave me an unabashed, completely shameless grin and a wink. There is something timelessly charming about a white haired, scruffy white bearded homeless looking guy being shameless. Or is that just me?
So, being charmed, when he asked to sit down and play a game of dice with us, I waved him down.
We proceeded to play the most competitive game of 10,000 ever. No money was at stake, but pride most certainly was. He asked me my birthday, and upon finding out I was an aries, pigeonholed me. He was a leo. Shit, as they say, WAS ON. He blew on the dice with every role, and regaled us with the story of his life in between turns.
His mother met Kenny Rogers in spring of 58, and he was born 9 months later. After a childhood in Montana, 100 miles from the Canadian border, he joined the Army and, eventually, became a Ranger. When he was discharged, he became a long haul trucker, traveling the US. He tipped his rig one fateful day, and lost his truck, his job, and sensation to three fingers on each hand. He found, however, a lady. She lived in Oregon, so he said fuck it*, and moved to Oregon. Oregon does what it normally does to those not meant to be here, and turned him into an alcoholic. It's the clouds.
His life went downhill from there. The long, downward skid culminated in a fateful blowjob behind a seedy tavern in downtown Portland.
His lady friend, who he'd been seeing for about 6 weeks, and who he didn't love but was quite fond of because she was so affectionate, was giving him a less than stellar sign of affection. This, combined with the fact that she had knocked over his very last bottle of Old English, caused him to lose his shit*. He scared his lady friend off with a rousing diatrabe which included a rather lengthy review of her less than stellar signs of affection, and she found her way to the nearest pay phone. From which she called the cops and said she'd almost been raped behind so and so bar, and to come quickly. They came quickly, and bore our questionable hero off, who was still seething from not having come quickly.
9 1/2 years and a everlasting hatred of public defenders later, he found himself at lose ends, with $4,000 in his pocket. So, being Kenny Rogers son, he did the logical thing and went to Vegas. Were he spent the next month eating free, drinking free-er, and playing the system and BlackJack. He had his mostly white beard already, and used this venerable credit to steal chips as often as he could convince the dealer to look away. His luck ran out, eventually, and he found himself on the streets of Vegas with a couple of old Army buddies keeping him company. One very loud disagreement with a drunk asshole later, he made the acquaintance of the Vegas PD. Who, though they liked him an awful lot, had to give him up after a single night in their jail. Oregon, it turns out, had a prior claim. A very expensive extradition later, he was once again in the not so sweet embrace of Oregon law. He spent 4 months in jail, and did not have $4,000 in his pocket when he got out. So, he stayed put. This was 3 years ago. He's been fighting with SSI ever since, trying to $30,000 in back payments from the trucking accident that set him down this particular path, sitting at our table, playing dice and stealing a sip of beer every now and then.
Both his story and the game had ended by now, and he asked me to ask him to come inside with us to play some more, as it was decidedly more chilly out now. I was waffling. He had serenaded me with a startlingly good version of The Gambler, in an effort to convince us that he was, in fact, Kenny Rogers love child. I'll admit, I shifted back and from watching the reactions of those around us with a very red face to staring at him as he belted out this perfect, perfect song. And his face, while he sang, convinced me beyond a shadow of a doubt that every part of his story was true.
He was fascinating, and charming. But also, really fucking crazy. But, fascinating...
Just then fate took a hand in the form of a belligerent homeless man walking past us, yelling obscenities. Which my newfound friend to extreme exception to. He yelled after the homeless man, and upon getting the inevitable sass back, jumped out of his chair, raised his fists and his voice, and proceeded to act like a crazy, angry, scary man. My brother and I had both grabbed our bags, stood up, and were halfway to the front door of the taproom before he stopped. He looked back at me, realized what we were doing, and got such a rueful, self aware look on his face that I stopped. He held out his rough hand, I took it, and he kissed my hand. And held on to it, saying "You and me, we could go out some time. We would paint this fucking town RED." I laughed, took my hand back, and said "Thank you, but no. I'm taken." (And I am taken, with the thought of not going out with a crazy, scary, if charming, man.) He laughed, said "Of course", and walked away.
And that was that. It shouldn't have been. I kept expecting it to be the kind of story where he crashed into the window of the bar, holding on to another angry man. But that didn't happen.
I was sitting outside my favorite taproom this afternoon, enjoying a beer and a cigar with my brother. I had pulled out my 5 red dice and 1 black, in preparation for a rousing game of 10,000, which my brother had never played before and which I was looking forward to winning. It was a chilly afternoon, cloudy and promising rain but never delivering.
A man walked up to us, and I'm going to be honest, at first I assumed he was homeless and panhandling. But, upon closer inspection, I realized he may well have been homeless, but he wasn't panhandling. Instead, he was leering. I felt like asking him for a dollar. I caught his eye, and he gave me an unabashed, completely shameless grin and a wink. There is something timelessly charming about a white haired, scruffy white bearded homeless looking guy being shameless. Or is that just me?
So, being charmed, when he asked to sit down and play a game of dice with us, I waved him down.
We proceeded to play the most competitive game of 10,000 ever. No money was at stake, but pride most certainly was. He asked me my birthday, and upon finding out I was an aries, pigeonholed me. He was a leo. Shit, as they say, WAS ON. He blew on the dice with every role, and regaled us with the story of his life in between turns.
His mother met Kenny Rogers in spring of 58, and he was born 9 months later. After a childhood in Montana, 100 miles from the Canadian border, he joined the Army and, eventually, became a Ranger. When he was discharged, he became a long haul trucker, traveling the US. He tipped his rig one fateful day, and lost his truck, his job, and sensation to three fingers on each hand. He found, however, a lady. She lived in Oregon, so he said fuck it*, and moved to Oregon. Oregon does what it normally does to those not meant to be here, and turned him into an alcoholic. It's the clouds.
His life went downhill from there. The long, downward skid culminated in a fateful blowjob behind a seedy tavern in downtown Portland.
His lady friend, who he'd been seeing for about 6 weeks, and who he didn't love but was quite fond of because she was so affectionate, was giving him a less than stellar sign of affection. This, combined with the fact that she had knocked over his very last bottle of Old English, caused him to lose his shit*. He scared his lady friend off with a rousing diatrabe which included a rather lengthy review of her less than stellar signs of affection, and she found her way to the nearest pay phone. From which she called the cops and said she'd almost been raped behind so and so bar, and to come quickly. They came quickly, and bore our questionable hero off, who was still seething from not having come quickly.
9 1/2 years and a everlasting hatred of public defenders later, he found himself at lose ends, with $4,000 in his pocket. So, being Kenny Rogers son, he did the logical thing and went to Vegas. Were he spent the next month eating free, drinking free-er, and playing the system and BlackJack. He had his mostly white beard already, and used this venerable credit to steal chips as often as he could convince the dealer to look away. His luck ran out, eventually, and he found himself on the streets of Vegas with a couple of old Army buddies keeping him company. One very loud disagreement with a drunk asshole later, he made the acquaintance of the Vegas PD. Who, though they liked him an awful lot, had to give him up after a single night in their jail. Oregon, it turns out, had a prior claim. A very expensive extradition later, he was once again in the not so sweet embrace of Oregon law. He spent 4 months in jail, and did not have $4,000 in his pocket when he got out. So, he stayed put. This was 3 years ago. He's been fighting with SSI ever since, trying to $30,000 in back payments from the trucking accident that set him down this particular path, sitting at our table, playing dice and stealing a sip of beer every now and then.
Both his story and the game had ended by now, and he asked me to ask him to come inside with us to play some more, as it was decidedly more chilly out now. I was waffling. He had serenaded me with a startlingly good version of The Gambler, in an effort to convince us that he was, in fact, Kenny Rogers love child. I'll admit, I shifted back and from watching the reactions of those around us with a very red face to staring at him as he belted out this perfect, perfect song. And his face, while he sang, convinced me beyond a shadow of a doubt that every part of his story was true.
He was fascinating, and charming. But also, really fucking crazy. But, fascinating...
Just then fate took a hand in the form of a belligerent homeless man walking past us, yelling obscenities. Which my newfound friend to extreme exception to. He yelled after the homeless man, and upon getting the inevitable sass back, jumped out of his chair, raised his fists and his voice, and proceeded to act like a crazy, angry, scary man. My brother and I had both grabbed our bags, stood up, and were halfway to the front door of the taproom before he stopped. He looked back at me, realized what we were doing, and got such a rueful, self aware look on his face that I stopped. He held out his rough hand, I took it, and he kissed my hand. And held on to it, saying "You and me, we could go out some time. We would paint this fucking town RED." I laughed, took my hand back, and said "Thank you, but no. I'm taken." (And I am taken, with the thought of not going out with a crazy, scary, if charming, man.) He laughed, said "Of course", and walked away.
And that was that. It shouldn't have been. I kept expecting it to be the kind of story where he crashed into the window of the bar, holding on to another angry man. But that didn't happen.
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