Memorable drinks with Dick

In our 40 years of close friendship, Dick and I threw down enough drinks to sink a submarine but what's memorable about those times are the conversations. This is the point of the ritual, after all. I especially remember certain special settings in which these good talks took place:

• When Dick was rolling in bucks, and I was a starving writer, he'd sometimes come to Portland and we'd go out drinking on him. He liked to show off, as many who came to wealth from childhood poverty do, so often we'd go to the bar at a French restaurant in NW where the Trailblazers (this was before they became the Jailblazers through chronic mismanagement) hung out, sit in a corner and watch the stars and catch up on our lives. Our drink was a 12-year-old Jamison's Irish at $8 a shot, $16 a round, and Dick's rule was we couldn't leave until the $100 bill he set on the table was gone.
• In the Army, when we had the same day off, which wasn't often, we'd grab some good German white wine and head for the hills, finding a scenic view to park at.
• After Dick went bankrupt, he lived for a time in a room in a boarding house in NW Portland, and it was my time to buy the drinks. I quickly brought him into my circle of writer/artist friends at Nobby's, where we had many a marathon time solving the aesthetic problems of the world.
• I loved visiting Dick in Orofino, his home town, and making the rounds at the local bars along and off Main Street. One winter visit in particular stands in memory. In Idaho, bartenders can drink -- at least they could then -- and ours was passed out, so a crowded bar was drinking on the honor system. It was something to behold. In this same bar, on another occasion, I saw a wonderful winter act of kindness. One poor gent slipped off the barstool and fell flat on the floor, out like a light. The bartender came around and threw a jacket over him. Over an hour later, when the guy came back to life, the bartender said, "You're cut off," and helped him out the door. He even loaned the guy the jacket.
• Dick's home was the scene of many, many parties. His two sons grew up in a party, which may account for certain attitudes they have today.
  
• Very early morning breakfasts, drinking coffee. It was never too early to go out for breakfast for Dick. We shared this preference. We had as many good talks over coffee at six in the morning as over drinks in the day or night.

We talked about everything, which is what close friends do. Sometimes we didn't talk much at all. We people-watched and cracked up together. Dick thought folks who act like they're special were the funniest amusement on the planet. Those blue-collar logging camp roots again. Dick, needless to say, has informed a good deal of my writing. It was difficult to write Kerouac's Scroll because I recreated a lot of our conversations together but in a contrived (fictional) context. I'm really glad his mother and sons got to read the book.