Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

“Chardonnay? Riesling? Pinot Gris?” says the young man behind the bar.

“I’m afraid I really don’t know the difference anymore, dear.”

“Do you like sweet? Dry? Fruity?”

“Sweet sounds nice,” says Harriet, taking note of the boy’s name tag: Rey.

“Here,” he says, pouring out at small portion. “Try the Zin.”

Harriet takes the smallest of sips and, finding it to her liking, empties the glass.

“Oh yes,” she says. “That’s nice.”

Indeed, it’s better than nice, it’s a revelation! So crisp and sweet on the tongue! It’s nothing short of delicious, the way the vapors rise up through her nostrils and tickle her brain. Oh yes, Harriet could get used to this all over again. Obligingly, the young fellow pours her a generous glass. “Enjoy!” he says with a smile.

“Thank you, Rey,” she says, lazily. “I believe I will, dear.”

The last bit sounds a little wobbly, even to Harriet’s confused ear, though surely nothing to be concerned about. Sipping her wine as she turns, she splashes a little on the front of her dress.

“Oh dear,” she says aloud to herself, then laughs without meaning to.

To her further delight, cruisers are proving themselves a considerate breed, allowing her a wide berth (some of them clutching their sleeves and lapels) as Harriet floats past. Indeed, that’s what it feels like, floating. Free at last from the aching, collapsing, structural demolition of her body, swept along in the current of cruisedom. Free from any reservations or inhibitions regarding the present or the future and, mercifully, free of the past. Oh yes, wine is a much better salve than anything the medical profession has ever prescribed. Even the Bible condones it!

Straight ahead, Harriet spots Sinta, the young woman from the terminal. What wonderful fortune!

“Sinta!” she cries, splashing a little wine on the woman’s wrist.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s me, Harriet Chance. From the terminal the other afternoon. I wanted to thank you once more for your help, dear.”

“Have we met?”

“Oh, good heavens,” says Harriet, waving it off and splashing a dab more wine. “My mistake, dear,” she says with a listless tongue.

Harriet is slow to comprehend that the woman is bristling or that her bearded companion is aghast. By the time she stops slurring long enough to notice them, they’re both staring holes in her. Suddenly the heat of embarrassment suffuses Harriet’s face.

“Dear, have I offended you?”

In lieu of a response, the young woman simply turns her back on Harriet, her companion quickly following suit. At a stupefying loss, Harriet stands there, listing ever so slightly from side to side. Steadying herself, she raises her chin and her wineglass and decides to let the matter rest rather than risk exacerbating the misunderstanding. Like everything else, gauzed in a glass of sweet white wine, the situation is easily resolvable. Harriet simply moves on, sloshing her way back in the direction of the music, through the blur of voices.

Down to three and a half bucks in central Oregon. .

Tatum says the reason the department won’t let it go is. .

Really? Limes, too?. .

I heard it on NPR. .

The crowd is threatening to overwhelm Harriet’s senses. All the activity is distracting. The Pinnacle Bar is suddenly losing its fluidity. The thing to do is to get back to the cozy confines of her chair, back to the subtle refrains and welcome familiarity of Powder Blue and the songs of her youth. Perhaps she can conquer those crab legs after all. The exchange with the Asian woman has soured her to the prospect of mixing. Better to enjoy the food and entertainment.

Just as she’d hoped, the music has an immediate and soothing effect upon Harriet. The piano seems to give off warmth. Nested deeply in her oversized chair, wine refreshed, Harriet takes up the cracker once more, spreads her napkin in her lap, and proceeds to conquer the crab legs, at times abandoning the device in favor of a more aggressive and timeworn tactic — namely, that of twisting and coaxing the appendages with her bare hands, while alternately clenching them in the vicelike grip of her determined teeth, only dimly aware that she might be making a spectacle of herself.

Meanwhile, Powder Blue plays an up-tempo number Harriet doesn’t recognize before rendering a positively jaunty version of “Puttin’ on the Ritz.” Harriet will remember “Puttin’ on the Ritz” as the final highpoint of the evening, the last glorious bit of grinning stupidity before Powder Blue begins playing the likes of “It’s Always You” and “Night and Day,” songs about the relentless singularity of a lover’s affection. Always you — ha! Only you ’neath the moon — phooey! All those years “roaming through roses,” all those “early twilights” and “caressing breezes,” the whole time Bernard had Mildred Honeycutt on his mind, and heaven only knew what else. All along there were three ’neath the moon, not two.

Though emptier by the sip, her wineglass only grows heavier at each turn, and her blood seems to thicken as she sinks deeper into her club chair, where a darker inclination again takes hold.

Why Mildred? Her exotic cheeses? Her relentless soapboxing? Her hairy legs?

Certainly Mildred was no beauty, and goodness knows she could test Harriet’s patience with her willful, irrepressible ways. Maybe that was her charm. Maybe it was because Mildred insisted on getting what she wanted. Even if it meant taking it from someone else. She insisted on satisfying her appetites, insisted on having her needs fulfilled. Maybe Harriet should have wanted more all along, maybe she should have demanded more of Bernard — more time, more consideration, more affection, more respect and freedom and dignity.

Harriet will not remember spilling the last of her wine on the carpet, or cracking the stem of the glass on the edge of the table, or losing her pearl earring among the mess of crab shells. Not even dimly will she remember assaulting the ship’s steward with a crab leg when he tries to assist her out of her chair, nor will she recall pitching sideways when, of her own volition, she attempts to extricate herself. No, Harriet will not remember being assisted out of the Pinnacle Bar by two somber crew members, nor being examined in the atrium by the ship’s doctor, nor refusing to cooperate with said doctor. She will have no clue how she arrived back in her cabin.

You’re still calling Deer Park the new cinemas, though they’ve been there for years. Look at that adorable old couple down front, the ones who brought their own popcorn: the little hunchback with the crooked lipstick and the scarecrow in the yellow pants and the marine cap. Look at them, arm in arm, gimping down the aisle, quibbling over where to sit. Why, it’s Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Chance, looking to all the world like a perfectly matched pair. Yes, fifty-four years of cohabitation has the two of you behaving like bookends, perfectly matched opposing supports forced by proximity into cooperation. Really, that’s no small accomplishment, Harriet, so go easy on yourself the rest of the way. The rest could have happened to anybody.

The movie is forgettable. As in, you couldn’t remember it if you had to. Something Irish, or about Ireland, with a guy and a girl. But that’s not the point. The point is, it’s movie night, and the Chances are still making an effort late in life, though neither one of you likes to drive after dark, and my God, it’s nearly ten dollars a ticket, even for seniors. Not to mention, you haven’t seen a good film in two years (not that you can remember that one, either).