Bellybuster Part 6: “The Starch Awareness Society”

Sixth in a series of installments documenting my failed political ambitions, my warped sensibilities, and my Portland Trail Blazers.

1.

The Trail Blazers’ road trip started on the wrong foot, with two close losses to two Texas teams. Thankfully, though, there was the Oregon Sports News post-holiday party to look forward to that Saturday night. I had planned on taking full advantage of the free cab vouchers they were promising to give out at the door, and before I left the house I carefully filled my flask with high grade Mexican absinthe and slid it into the back pocket of my grey jeans. Hopefully there was going to be a punch bowl that I could spike, I thought. I’ve always wanted to do that.

Naw, I thought. Might as well try to make a good impression. If my cards fell right, clear heads would prevail. Wouldn’t want to do anything foolish in front of my new colleagues, you dig? I’m trying to make a living, after all. Lala, my attractive girlfriend, was out of town, and so I asked KP to come with me to the party. We arrived at the site of the party – the Portland Airport Sheraton hotel – a bit early, and so we casually smoked a bowl in the car while we waited and watched my fellow sportswriters waddle into the hotel, many of whom I had never seen before.

“We need to talk about something, man,” I said as I handed off his elaborate fake-ruby encrusted pipe. “You’re gonna think this is funny.” I told him that I had been encountering some confusion over the past couple weeks about his name. “People think you are Kevin Pritchard.”

“What!?” he exclaimed with mock outrage as he started to light up.

“I know, I thought it was ridiculous at first, but I guess I understand how people could assume that. Pritchard is still a hot topic around these parts, you know. Especially at the sports desk down at HQ.”

Kevin Pritchard, as you probably well know, is the former general manager of the Portland Trail Blazers. He was hailed as one of the saviors of the franchise, and although his scouting was spotty at times, he shot up the ranks quickly. He was bright, chatty, optimistic, engaging with fans, and polite with members of the media, and he was unceremoniously dumped in a humiliating fashion on draft day in 2010. There was no reason given for his departure.

“He’s like 20 years older than you, though!”

“Yeah, but still. Listen, you’re no longer KP. You are Kenny Poirier, successful businessman and people-person. That’s your name, isn’t it? No reason to beat around the bush.”

“Fine. But if you make any money off this – and I mean real money – I get a cut.”

I nodded and took the pipe back from Kenny.

“Also, I get to play myself in the movie.”

“Agreed!”

We walked into the hotel and I made an immediate scene by banging out Burt Bacharach’s “This Guy’s In Love With You” on the lobby piano. I noticed Kenny saunter off to hit on the bellgirl. Midway through the song, an older woman wearing a fur coat walked by the piano and glared at me. “What, do you not appreciate good songwriting when you hear it, you vacuous pig??” I bellowed. “Do you have no appreciation of a GOOD MELODY?!?”

Kenny heard me yelling and ran over to the piano. “Goddammit Ty!” he said under his breath as he grabbed my arm. “We literally just walked into the building. Control yourself!”

“Sorry, man,” I said as I massaged my temples. “I’m a little edgy these days. Larry Miller’s got me all paranoid.”

“No kidding.” Kenny grabbed my flask out of my back pocket and put it in his jacket. He waved goodbye to the bellgirl and motioned towards the ballroom. “Come on. Let’s go party.”

2.

We walked into the ballroom and sat down in our assigned seats, which were at a table to the left of the front dais. A fellow writer named Damian Oleksiuk was sitting across from us, right next to a blonde woman with orange skin who was intently absorbed in her iPhone. Damian came over to sit by me, and I offered him one of our eight beers we had just ordered at the bar.

We shook hands and chatted for a while about basketball, and he commended me for my work so far with the organization. One thing he didn’t understand, apparently, was how I knew Kevin Pritchard.

I forcibly sighed and started to explain the true identity of my friend KP, and how by pure coincidence everybody kept assuming I was close to the former general manager of the Trail Blazers. Not so, I insisted to Damian, and I was about to introduce him to Kenny Poirier – “The Real KP” – when I noticed Kenny’s tall frame hunched over what looked to be a large punch bowl in the back corner of the ballroom.

My absinthe!

I quickly cut our conversation short and rushed over to the back corner, where Kenny was loitering. He was grinning as I came up to him.

“What are you doing?”

“Check it out – I spiked the punch bowl!” He seemed very pleased with himself.

“Dammit, that’s my good absinthe!” I yelled at him. “Besides, we have more important matters to discuss.”

We returned to the table with a few glasses of the punch/absinthe mix, which now was the color of rotten seaweed. It looked like some sort of gnarly health drink. The party was now in full effect, and I saw my editor slowly waltz up to the dais, prepared to officially start the proceedings. Per tradition, he had some awards he said he’d like to distribute among the writers gathered in the room for outstanding contribution over the past year.

“Welcome to the sixth annual Oregon Sports News post-holiday party. First of all, many thanks to our sponsor, Franz Bakery – your neighborhood bakery! You know, there’s nothing better than the aroma of freshly-baked bread just out of the oven. That’s why Portlanders have been drawn to Franz Bakery for the past 100 years.”

Polite applause. I clapped too.

“And I think that everybody should understand the role Franz bread has played in our lives. In addition to the nutritional value, Franz bread has played an important role in our agriculture, science, religion, politics-

“Listen, I’ve been thinking,” Kenny muttered under his breath as my editor continued to ramble about the sponsor. “Let me help you get to the bottom of this thing. Let’s rip it open, brother.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“Sure. You mentioned a few weeks ago that you went to a neighborhood watch meeting, and somebody was talking about their friendship with Larry Miller, right?”

“Yep. His name’s Bruce Feathers. I don’t know him, but he lives right around the corner from me. He was shilling for Larry Miller’s charity at the time, but I think he was just bringing it up to name-drop.” I finished my glass of punch. “I don’t know. He seems like a nice guy. A bit star-struck. Maybe we could talk to him and get the scoop.”

We were sitting far too close to the dais if we had any chance of ignoring my editor, who was still prattling on enthusiastically about bread. We grabbed our drinks and moved to the back wall.

“Larry Miller has a charity?” Kenny asked.

“Technically, yes, although he is never willing to talk about it in public. I think it’s called ‘Helping Hands’.”

“Clever name,” Kenny deadpanned. “I should have known. All these guys have charities. Most of ‘em aren’t even real. It’s just backwoods theivery, redirected through Caribbean banks. Plus, they can write everything off on their taxes. It’s something rich people have to do now in order to save face. If you don’t have a charity in your name, you’re viewed as a selfish bastard.”

“What’ll our charity be called, Kenny?”

“The Starch Awareness Society.”

3.

The awards show was now in full effect, as Kenny and I ignored the circus, using the evening instead as an opportunity to drunkenly brainstorm a way to get close to Larry Miller through my neighbor Bruce Feathers. I noticed that Damian, our ex-tablemate, won the award for “Best Under-2,000-Word Post Game Analysis”, and he graciously accepted the award and thanked, most of all, his lovely wife Nadia, who was still busy texting at the table.

More polite applause. My editor sent Damian back down to his table and took the microphone back. “All right folks, we’ve got one more award to give out tonight. This last award is for ‘Best Newcomer’ – our ‘Rookie of the Year’, as it were.”

No, I thought. Please, no.

“Anyways, he’s only been with us a couple months, but we really enjoy his style. He’s got a real way with words. Ladies and gentlemen, the eloquent and effervescent Tyler J Hinds!”

Even more polite applause. I froze. I was definitely not prepared for this. I wanted to squeeze out the emergency exit, but Kenny pushed me towards the stage. I walked up to the dais, shook my editor’s hand, and stepped in front of the microphone. I looked out at the audience and realized that the absinthe was finally kicking in. Damian’s wife’s dress was pulsing like a quasar. I tried to speak but nothing came out. I adjusted my non-existent necktie. I scanned the room and I saw the woman in the fur coat who had earlier glared at me for playing a Burt Bacharach song badly on the piano. This time, though, she had the head of a chihuahua.

“Um,” I said, giggling. The audience quietly murmured to each other. Kenny cackled maniacally in the back.

“Do I seriously have to say something?” I asked into the microphone. My editor nodded with a stern look on his face.

“Um… hi. Um… so, I came up with a cocktail just now. In my… head. My own head. What if you mixed gin… with Gatorade! It’s probably gross, right? But I guess it depends on the flavor. I don’t like the blue kind. Gatorade, not gin. Bombay Sapphire looks blue, but it’s just the bottle.”

Silence. A quiet cough from somewhere in the middle of the crowd.

“Anyways, I was thinking, what should I call it? So, I figured, it should be something to do with sports, because of the Gatorade, right? Okay, so what athletes are alcoholics? I’m sure Gregg Popovich is a drunk, and a violent one at that, but… then I thought, Vin Baker was a drunk. Vin Baker. Gin Baker. The Gin Baker!”

Dead silence. Even Kenny.

“You drink it! It’s a drink!” I shouted.

Somebody yelled: “Get off the stage!” I just stood there. Somebody else yelled: “He called my wife a vacuous pig!”

I heard a smattering of boos, and I saw my editor walk up to the dais. I waved to everybody as I left the stage, and I motioned to Kenny to follow me out through the emergency exit at the side of the ballroom.

Later, we went bowling.