Northwest US is a trip that is not to be fucked with. Especially Oregon.
I can remember arriving at the LAX airport, vaguely. It was about 9 a.m. and I was already thirsty for a drink. Johnny Walker Black Label, on the rocks.
When I arrived to the Route 66 bar and grill inside the airport, the bartender was hunched over the bar with his face against the counter.
At first I thought he might have passed out, but soon I saw that he was snorting lines of cocaine and talking quickly to himself.
I grabbed a shotglass from the other side of the counter and slid it across the counter, striking him on the head.
He jumped and squealed, then calmed down.
"What can I get you?" he asked.
"Black Label," I said.
"Isnt it a little early to be drinking," he asked with a smile.
"Finish your fucking powder and fix the drink," I yelled, then turned to face the TV.
Some kind of college football recap. Boring stuff, but thats all that was on.
Maybe, I thought, there was another way.