A Short Story for you!
The Jubilee Hotel was not a hotel at all. In fact, if it were to be anything of that sort, it would be a bed and breakfast, or a charming yet rundown motel with a flashing red vacancy sign. But it wasn’t that either. At the Jubilee Hotel, the only flashing lights were for the Oregon lottery. The sign on the the doorframe read: “OFFICE HOURS: Open most days about 9 or 10. Occasionally as early as 7 but SOME DAYS as late as 12 or 1. WE CLOSE about 5:30 or 6 occasionally about 4 or 5, but sometime as late as 11 or 12. Somedays or afternoons, we aren’t here at all, and lately I’ve been here just about all the time, except when I’m someplace else. But I should be here then, too.”
It was a typical Tuesday night for Jack Carroll when he first strolled into this neighborhood pub with a misrepresenting name. “I’m home,” he thought. Jack looked around, romantically dreaming of chain smoking and fiendishly writing gritty poetry, no unlike his ol’ buddies Ginsburg and Kerouac. He felt being in the Jubilee Hotel, was like living back in a more real, a more magical time, when whiskey’s were a quarter, and the beer backs were free. “Can I get a pint a’ PBR,” Jack asked of the slightly tired, roundish woman behind the counter with the motherly face and permed blonde hair reminiscent of the late 1980’s. While she reached for a frosted glass, filling it at a tilted angle, Jack, in his usual friendly nature introduced himself. “I’m Shelly,” she responded “welcome to the Jubilee, you’re new aren’t you?” New? This struck Jack as peculiar- either that or incredibly homey- he ignored it for now and carried on anyways. “Yeah man, my girlfriend an’ I just moved down the street. We used to live on Mission, it was way too busy and commercial... all the bars made me feel like...”
“That’ll be 75 cents.”
“SEVENTY FIVE CENTS?!”
“Yep, it’s Happy Hour.”
“But...75 cents?!”
“Welcome to the Jubilee..”
“Love!”
After tipping her more than the price of a microbrew at the sports bar he’d previously frequented on Mission Street, he immediately pulled out the sorry chunk of plastic with a cracked face plate that passed as his cellphone and called his incorrigibly argumentative drinking buddy. “Sletcher...dude, you have to get down here..yeah yeah okay okay, but listen to this..it’s called the Jubilee Hotel..yeah right across the street from my new place on Laurel...love, man, love, see ya in a bit.”
While awaiting his friend’s arrival, Jack got the lay of the land. Shelly, he soon learned, seemed to be the mother figure of the bar, caring for the over-worked, withered, and wasted old men who patronized the bar like they were her own children.
The employment was few, however it seemed the regulars had appointed themselves as members of the the Jubilee Union. At this point, Jack had become acquainted with Andy, Shelly’s husband, a clear yin to her yang, speaking at few and far between times, refilling pints while grumbling and overseeing the small but constant crowd behind his thick handle bar mustache. Seth was their youngest employee, Jack noticed, who seemed to spend more time at the bar than behind it, however his driving force appeared to lie in his quick ability to see an unwanted spill before it was coming, and his ever-playing ipod that kept the scene jiving with tunes written well before his time.
“If it’s just you three that work here, then who’s that,” asked Jack. “
Oh that’s Donny, he’s been coming here since he was fifteen.”
“Fifteen?” Jack was wondering why he was not here when he was fifteen!
Shelly explained, “Donny showed up in ’86 back when the drinking age was up to the merchants disgresion. We took him under our wing and he hasn’t left since.”
“I can sure smell it, but I can’t find a thing,” yelled a very frustrated yet fresh faced toe head Donny.
On the opposite side of the bar from where Jack sat, Donny was furiously ripping up wood paneling piece by piece. Apparently they had noticed the distinct aroma of a dying rat underneath the floor boards, and since Donny was not only the Jubilee’s most resourceful character, but also (and probably more importantly) had a hammer in his truck, he was appointed for the job.
Clearly, Jack noticed, this was not just a bar, but a living room for the castaways and the otherwise lonely; an urban island of misfit toys. This didn’t just go for the humans, in fact one of the most beloved characters in the Jubilee introduced himself by bringing his wet snout to Jack’s calf. Riot the dog was a three-legged mascot who was never cut off, never fought with anyone, and despite missing a crucial appendage always managed to walk in a straighter line than most of the regulars by the end of the evening.
In walked Derek Sletcher with his infamous haircut bobbing over his forehead. The aptly named “Mohawkadour” was an uneven excuse for a blonde mohawk which flared out in the front like a pompadour, making Derek look somewhat punk rock, somewhat trendy, but mostly just made him look like a 6 foot tall germanic bird in a dirty wife-beater. After a few pints he squawked like a bird too; in the way that he argued, and more literally in the way that he would exclaim “caw, caw caw”.
“Oh my god Jack, this place is like a homeless shelter on a pirate ship,” Sletcher exclaimed, noting the withered crowd and the slight nautical theme “...it’s fantastic!”
“See, I was thinking more of a ‘post-apcalyptic keggar,” Jack retorted nodding at the plastic cups, the Shelly referred to as “buckets” which helped 2.5 pints and were priced at two dollars.”
Sletcher’s eyes lit up like a little kid on Christmas. Jack saw that look, and suddenly felt impending doom, shrugging it off he turned to Seth “hey man, can we smoke in here?”
“new laws have passed, you can’t smoke inside, but we got a patio outback”
“‘n ya’ll can smoke whatever ya want out there,” chimed in Andy.
Jack turned to Sletcher with a huge uneven grin “welcome to the Jubilee,” he hooted, “woohoo,” and ran outside.
In that moment, Sletcher accepted that she wasn’t the kind of woman he could write home about, but the Jubilee just may in fact be the love of his life. He imagined long nights and late mornings together. Holidays, with friends and family. He imagined wheeling Jacks grill down the street into the patio to celebrate late summer evenings or to watch the game; the Jubilee is the kind of woman that would never stop him from watching football. He imagined how good it would feel to have her always want him, no matter how tattered and how many mistakes he’s made. He imagined the feeling of unconditional love, and for the first time, felt okay, and followed Jack out for a smoke. Sean’s ipod sang Hotel California “ ..you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave...”
Night after night the Jubilee started loosing it’s appeal for Jack, which he hated to admit to himself, because a community beer hall with cheap prices and an unassuming attitude were two things Jack stood for. After deciding to make an effort to stay away from the Jubilee for a few nights, Sletcher, who had become a regular Donny, showed up unexpectedly.
“Why are you suddenly hating on the Jubilee?! Come, man, I’ll buy you a beer.”
Jack, unable to pass up the offer agreed, “but I’m only staying for one.”
While sipping on a pint of sweet bribery, Jack couldn’t help but notice a sign on the wall, which intune to the nautical theme read: “The beatings will continue until the moral improves.” The patrons, Jack thought to himself, have been beating themselves, day in and day out, pint by pint, some for decades, but no ones moral really seems to improve for more than a few hours at a time. The beatings will never stop. “Hey Shelly,”
“Another pint Jack?”
“You know it,” and threw down a buck and headed to the patio for a cigarette.
After staying for far more than one pint, the next night rolled around. Jack was torn, he really wanted an after-work beer, but didn’t feel like walking to the store for a whole six pack. And it was happy hour at the Jubilee... It was a typical Tuesday night for Jack Caroll when he strolled into the Jubilee Hotel. “Im home,” he scowled.
It was a typical Tuesday night for Jack Carroll when he first strolled into this neighborhood pub with a misrepresenting name. “I’m home,” he thought. Jack looked around, romantically dreaming of chain smoking and fiendishly writing gritty poetry, no unlike his ol’ buddies Ginsburg and Kerouac. He felt being in the Jubilee Hotel, was like living back in a more real, a more magical time, when whiskey’s were a quarter, and the beer backs were free. “Can I get a pint a’ PBR,” Jack asked of the slightly tired, roundish woman behind the counter with the motherly face and permed blonde hair reminiscent of the late 1980’s. While she reached for a frosted glass, filling it at a tilted angle, Jack, in his usual friendly nature introduced himself. “I’m Shelly,” she responded “welcome to the Jubilee, you’re new aren’t you?” New? This struck Jack as peculiar- either that or incredibly homey- he ignored it for now and carried on anyways. “Yeah man, my girlfriend an’ I just moved down the street. We used to live on Mission, it was way too busy and commercial... all the bars made me feel like...”
“That’ll be 75 cents.”
“SEVENTY FIVE CENTS?!”
“Yep, it’s Happy Hour.”
“But...75 cents?!”
“Welcome to the Jubilee..”
“Love!”
After tipping her more than the price of a microbrew at the sports bar he’d previously frequented on Mission Street, he immediately pulled out the sorry chunk of plastic with a cracked face plate that passed as his cellphone and called his incorrigibly argumentative drinking buddy. “Sletcher...dude, you have to get down here..yeah yeah okay okay, but listen to this..it’s called the Jubilee Hotel..yeah right across the street from my new place on Laurel...love, man, love, see ya in a bit.”
While awaiting his friend’s arrival, Jack got the lay of the land. Shelly, he soon learned, seemed to be the mother figure of the bar, caring for the over-worked, withered, and wasted old men who patronized the bar like they were her own children.
The employment was few, however it seemed the regulars had appointed themselves as members of the the Jubilee Union. At this point, Jack had become acquainted with Andy, Shelly’s husband, a clear yin to her yang, speaking at few and far between times, refilling pints while grumbling and overseeing the small but constant crowd behind his thick handle bar mustache. Seth was their youngest employee, Jack noticed, who seemed to spend more time at the bar than behind it, however his driving force appeared to lie in his quick ability to see an unwanted spill before it was coming, and his ever-playing ipod that kept the scene jiving with tunes written well before his time.
“If it’s just you three that work here, then who’s that,” asked Jack. “
Oh that’s Donny, he’s been coming here since he was fifteen.”
“Fifteen?” Jack was wondering why he was not here when he was fifteen!
Shelly explained, “Donny showed up in ’86 back when the drinking age was up to the merchants disgresion. We took him under our wing and he hasn’t left since.”
“I can sure smell it, but I can’t find a thing,” yelled a very frustrated yet fresh faced toe head Donny.
On the opposite side of the bar from where Jack sat, Donny was furiously ripping up wood paneling piece by piece. Apparently they had noticed the distinct aroma of a dying rat underneath the floor boards, and since Donny was not only the Jubilee’s most resourceful character, but also (and probably more importantly) had a hammer in his truck, he was appointed for the job.
Clearly, Jack noticed, this was not just a bar, but a living room for the castaways and the otherwise lonely; an urban island of misfit toys. This didn’t just go for the humans, in fact one of the most beloved characters in the Jubilee introduced himself by bringing his wet snout to Jack’s calf. Riot the dog was a three-legged mascot who was never cut off, never fought with anyone, and despite missing a crucial appendage always managed to walk in a straighter line than most of the regulars by the end of the evening.
In walked Derek Sletcher with his infamous haircut bobbing over his forehead. The aptly named “Mohawkadour” was an uneven excuse for a blonde mohawk which flared out in the front like a pompadour, making Derek look somewhat punk rock, somewhat trendy, but mostly just made him look like a 6 foot tall germanic bird in a dirty wife-beater. After a few pints he squawked like a bird too; in the way that he argued, and more literally in the way that he would exclaim “caw, caw caw”.
“Oh my god Jack, this place is like a homeless shelter on a pirate ship,” Sletcher exclaimed, noting the withered crowd and the slight nautical theme “...it’s fantastic!”
“See, I was thinking more of a ‘post-apcalyptic keggar,” Jack retorted nodding at the plastic cups, the Shelly referred to as “buckets” which helped 2.5 pints and were priced at two dollars.”
Sletcher’s eyes lit up like a little kid on Christmas. Jack saw that look, and suddenly felt impending doom, shrugging it off he turned to Seth “hey man, can we smoke in here?”
“new laws have passed, you can’t smoke inside, but we got a patio outback”
“‘n ya’ll can smoke whatever ya want out there,” chimed in Andy.
Jack turned to Sletcher with a huge uneven grin “welcome to the Jubilee,” he hooted, “woohoo,” and ran outside.
In that moment, Sletcher accepted that she wasn’t the kind of woman he could write home about, but the Jubilee just may in fact be the love of his life. He imagined long nights and late mornings together. Holidays, with friends and family. He imagined wheeling Jacks grill down the street into the patio to celebrate late summer evenings or to watch the game; the Jubilee is the kind of woman that would never stop him from watching football. He imagined how good it would feel to have her always want him, no matter how tattered and how many mistakes he’s made. He imagined the feeling of unconditional love, and for the first time, felt okay, and followed Jack out for a smoke. Sean’s ipod sang Hotel California “ ..you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave...”
Night after night the Jubilee started loosing it’s appeal for Jack, which he hated to admit to himself, because a community beer hall with cheap prices and an unassuming attitude were two things Jack stood for. After deciding to make an effort to stay away from the Jubilee for a few nights, Sletcher, who had become a regular Donny, showed up unexpectedly.
“Why are you suddenly hating on the Jubilee?! Come, man, I’ll buy you a beer.”
Jack, unable to pass up the offer agreed, “but I’m only staying for one.”
While sipping on a pint of sweet bribery, Jack couldn’t help but notice a sign on the wall, which intune to the nautical theme read: “The beatings will continue until the moral improves.” The patrons, Jack thought to himself, have been beating themselves, day in and day out, pint by pint, some for decades, but no ones moral really seems to improve for more than a few hours at a time. The beatings will never stop. “Hey Shelly,”
“Another pint Jack?”
“You know it,” and threw down a buck and headed to the patio for a cigarette.
After staying for far more than one pint, the next night rolled around. Jack was torn, he really wanted an after-work beer, but didn’t feel like walking to the store for a whole six pack. And it was happy hour at the Jubilee... It was a typical Tuesday night for Jack Caroll when he strolled into the Jubilee Hotel. “Im home,” he scowled.