I Hate Eugene

It is four in the afternoon and all I want is a cup of coffee. Specifically, I want a grande caramel machiatto from the Starbucks on the corner of 13th and Alder. As I enter the store, prepared to exchange my $3.35 for a warm and fuzzy cup of corporate goodness, a voice bellows from behind me: “DO NOT ENTER, MORTAL! THE CORPORATE STORE FROM WHICH YOU WISH TO PURCHASE A CUP OF STEAMING GOODNESS IS EVIL! IT SHALL RAVAGE YOUR WEAK AND PATHETIC SOUL!” I look around, scanning the area for a hippie with a megaphone, or, failing that, an extremely motivated advertiser from Espresso Roma. Then I realize the horrible truth: I am alone on the street; there is no hippie; the voice was coming from Eugene — from the city itself.

The sidewalk begins to shake as I dart into the doorway; my foot barely escapes a massive expanse opening in the ground behind me. Safely inside, my $3.35 still clutched in hand, I watch as the street forms into a large and roughly humanoid form. Pieces of asphalt and cement fly from their proper places along the ground, becoming gangly appendages. After seconds, seemingly hours, the golem stands complete. Its limbs and body are massive, and its face, oh God, its face. I have never seen anything so hideous; its face was that of Ralph Nader and Bob Marley’s illegitimate love-child.

Quickly, I move deeper into the store. The cute girl behind the counter takes my order. As she notices Eugene’s incarnate avenger just outside the window of her store, she begins to scream. Apparently, the girl working the espresso machine doesn’t notice; my order is up in no time at all. I grab the cup, just as the roof is coming off the building. “Fuck me!” I exclaim, hoping one of the girls behind the counter will take me up on the offer. The creature looks down on me with an expression that only the face of Nader and Marley’s illegitimate love-child can make, and growls. Seeing no other escape, I dive through the plate glass window onto what remains of 13th. Damn.

Note to self: diving through plate glass hurts.

I take off down the street at full speed, coffee in hand. I can hear the creature behind me — its lumbering footsteps, its breathing that sounds eerily like the phrases “foster diversity” and “Free Mumia!” Frog is on the corner hawking his joke books. He offers me one just as I slam my coffee cup into the side of his head; he screams from the scalding and is distracted just long enough for me to throw him into the creature’s path. I look back over my shoulder to see him being devoured by my pursuer. It’s nice to see that moron gone. After my second’s pause, the creature is back on the chase. Shit.

In the EMU Amphitheater, a large group of PETA activists has gathered. “Good,” I say to myself, “more fodder.” I run past, screaming, “Down the block, somebody is bludgeoning a baby harbor seal!” The feign works; the group rushes toward where I was only moments earlier, like a herd of very fast and only slightly smarter cattle. I stop in the EMU breezeway to catch my breath and admire my handiwork. The creature, that hideous beast, is doing something beautiful… the crowd of PETA members is being torn limb from limb. Blood is everywhere — on the street, in the trees, on the walls of nearby buildings. I smile to myself. Eugene is devouring its own because of me, but my joy is short-lived. The creature has decimated the protesters, and is staring at me coldly. Bloody hell!

It sees me standing in the breezeway, dammit. I take three quick steps sideways into The Buzz and its always open-mic. I laugh maniacally. Wild-eyed I shout: “Eugene is after me! It’s going to eat me!”

The guy at the microphone looks up and says, “As you’re probly [sic] aware.” No introduction, no statement, just: “As you’re probly [sic] aware.” I move up to the counter and order another cup of coffee — bad organic coffee. I hand over $2.75 for an inferior 16 oz. mocha. With coffee in hand, I run up to the guy at the microphone. I remove the lid from the cup and toss boiling hot swill into his eyes. For good measure, I give him a foot square to the groin and drag him toward the door. As I pull, the only noise he makes is: “As you’re probly [sic] aware.”

I shoulder my way out the door and find myself right at the creature’s feet. Oops. With a heave and a shove, I manage to feed the open mic guy to the creature. A low groan comes from deep within the creature’s bowels. As it crushes the open mic guy’s skull in its huge concrete maw, I run.

My car — I have to get to my car. My car is parked behind Bean — shit. I’m barely past Straub when the creature is upon me again. Jeezum, won’t this town just leave me alone? I need to find it something to consume. Luckily for me there are a bunch of kids playing with sticks in front of Carson. I make a break for the complex at full speed. As I come up upon the group, I point behind me and shout, “Umm…dudes, there’s some really killer band doing Phish covers in the Amphitheater!” They drop their sticks and bolt toward the EMU. Unsuspecting, they run right into the waiting maw of Eugene’s dead soul. I stop to laugh for a brief moment, appreciating the carnage, before hastening to my car. I open the door, hop into the driver’s seat and take a brief look back over my shoulder. Damn; it’s still behind me. Quick. Think man, think….

Downtown! I throw the car into reverse and manage to skid between the creature’s legs. Too close for comfort, I put the car in gear and squeal out of the parking lot with Eugene in fast pursuit. Every step that this monstrosity takes rips up a part of the road; the city is cutting off any possible retreat. Just what I need. I hurtle down the road and take a right on 18th. I push the gas pedal all the way to the floor and begin to accelerate 65... 70... 75 mph towards Willamette. I make the corner onto Willamette doing around 80 mph. “GO GERBILS, GO!” I scream at the tiny engine under my car’s hood. A quick glance into the rear-view and I notice that Eugene’s Defender is still hot on my tail. Shit. Where can I hide? Where can I run?

The bus station! I don’t know why, but the bus station seems like a logical place to go. I slam the breaks and turn as I reach the entrance. My car comes to a screeching halt just in front of the 11 bus. Hmmmm, Thurston…Where’s a kid with a gun when I need one? As I leap from the car, an old hippie at the bus station notices the button I am wearing on my lapel. “What, do you not like OSPIRG?” he inquires. “No, I don’t,” is my reply. Because I have no self-control, I launch into the entire reasoning behind my feelings. I finish, just in time to feel a large, cold, stony hand wrapping itself around me. Fuck! Damn you, hippie man, damn you! I curse him at the top of my lungs as Eugene’s golem devours me.

I awaken screaming in my bed at 11 a.m. Oh God, that was awful. It ate me; the city actually ate me. This town is finally getting to me, finally starting to crack me up. I rouse myself from bed, get dressed, grab my keys and head out of the house. Maybe I’ll feel a little better if I just drive around for a while. That’ll help; driving will definitely help.

I start the car and pull out from my parking space, hit Centennial and head over to the bridge toward campus. The drive is uneventful and I find a place to park on 13th. I get out of the car and head to my local capitalist coffee installation for a nice cup of corporate goodness.

As I pull the door open, I begin to shake uncontrollably. My hands rattle, my body convulses and I drop to the floor. Just as my eyes roll back in my head, . A few seconds later I awaken to my face being slapped by an employee in a green apron. She tells me that I’ve had a seizure upon entering the store and offers me free coffee, which I gladly accept. I take a few sips on my way out of the store and immediately vomit them back up. Great, now coffee from Starbucks is making me sick. I still want coffee, so I begrudgingly walk into Espresso Roma next door for some “liquid culture.” The coffee tastes terrible. It isn’t hot enough and is generally bad. With my new affliction, being made to vomit by Starbucks coffee, I am going to be drinking a lot of swill from places like Espresso Roma. Good Lord, I hate this town.