Portland as Fuck

A—

It seems years since last we saw our McMenamins waiter, a bearded willow of a man who called himself by the most-unfortunate moniker of Seth. Asking only a moment’s pause to decide which matter of fried potato to split amongst the boys, we tasked our apparent vagabond of a server with a simple task—retrieve for us a half-dozen frivolously whimsical beers and a share of water to be split amongst those camped here with us (the sun did bake and even the strident effort of our company’s awning offered little relief).

I fear the fate of poor, peregrine Seth. It has been unnatural long since we’ve been attended to and with each craning of my neck I become more and more certain that our simple server has been taken by wolves, or perhaps some other beast of the late afternoon, or perhaps the doldrums have driven him to some madness, able only to ceaselessly refresh his Twitter feed in the walk-in, like some matter of mercury-poisoned loon. I will correspond further. Morale is still high, as is the case when potatoes are the topic of discussion.

Yours, I

_________________________________________________________________________________________

A—

I hope this correspondence finds you in better spirits than it left me. Our table is a menagerie of furrowed brow. Sweet, horrible Seth returned once to our encampment with news most unfortunate. It seems the mechanism through which the beer is procured “totally fucking spazzed the fuck out so we’re going to have to wait for TJ to get back from break before I can get any beer, sorry for the bummers.” Undaunted, several of our men requested a carbonated soda pop with which to refresh and pass the time. When greeted with this request, Seth countered with an offer of Royal Crown soda. Confusion rules the day. I fear that in some small time we will pine for the mere burden of confusion.

Yours, I

_________________________________________________________________________________________

A—

There is no sign of our fried potatoes. One quarter of one hour prior to this letter Seth delivered a paltry amount of ranch dressing, which now congeals under the furious glower of the sun. No effort to collect our requests from the mess hall has been made. One young man in our company was found weeping into his Royal Crown soda. When confronted, another countered, “Let him weep, the salt from his tears is better than any of our own fates.” I laughed, if only to keep from joining in his display of melancholia.

Yours, I

_________________________________________________________________________________________

A—

The food is here. The men snarl. The wilderness has overtaken them. As I set upon my greasy mess of a hamburger, I bit into my tongue. The taste of my own blood proved a comfort.

Yours, I

_________________________________________________________________________________________

A—

No sight of Seth. No sight of the bill. Pray in my name to the Lord.

Yours, I

_________________________________________________________________________________________

A—

Fuck you, Seth.

Yours, I