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The dark window next to me is lighting up with lightning every so often, a rare sight in Portland.

Earlier tonight, I was wandering around the neighborhood, appreciating the night, trying to give back each 'good evening' I received, when suddenly, it started raining. It was a bit surreal. For the past few weeks, it's been so dry I thought it might never rain again in Portland, but then, I heard the drops hitting the highest leaves in the trees overhead. I knew that it was going to start raining hard, so I ducked into a bar around the corner.

The place was the Rose and Thistle, a quaint little establishment that prides itself on being the only Scottish Pub in Oregon. To use the expression, I bellied up to the bar, and ordered myself a pint and one of those fried happy hour specials that fills you up for a few bucks. As I ate it, and tried to find something to occupy my time, so I decided to tell corny jokes to the waitress.

There was an odd looking gray-haired man, drinking next to me, making demands of the waitress. He stared at me, gave me a hint of a smile, and with a loud Scottish accent said "can I have a french fry." An odd request I thought, but presented one to him all the same. I turned and resumed my lame jokes with the waitress, and he asked me "so what do you do?" and after listening to my reply, went on to say "You should try the sausage, it's fucking tastey. The reason I got these clogged arteries, ya know."

I thought he must be more than just a little bit crazy, but he was a nice fellow all the same. The waitress was running around doing a thousand things, and didn't seem to be in the mood to hear any more of my jokes, so I asked the man, "so what do you do?"

"You fucking serious?" was his reply, "what da ya think I do?" I shrugged. "I'm a fuckin doctor, for chrissakes." I was surprised, because it's not often I talk to a doctor outside of a doctor's office. "Yeah, I'm a mumblingiapathic doctor. Anything you need fixed, I'll fuckin fix it." Okay, I thought, and wondered where to take the conversation from here. At the same time, I knew he was going to take it somewhere else no matter what I said. "Look at me. What do I look like, to you?" I looked him over: nice clean polo shirt, nicely ironed khakis, polished shoes, watch, new belt. He certainly had enough money to be a doctor.

"I don't know, you could be anything, a cab driver for all I know, but now that you've said you're a doctor, I guess you look like a doctor."

"I'm not a doctor," he said, mummbled, sipped his drink, and changed his stance, "I own this fuckin bar!"

Oh, that would explain the accent, and the ordering the waitress around so much. I talked to him awhile, and realized he wasn't bullshitting me this time. He even offered to pay for my meal next time I came into what he described as his "stupid fuckin pub."