Banana Yellow does not mess around. When he sees a foxy number, he pulls right up, smooth as theater-pumped margarine. Pamela, Banana later told me, is from Junction City, a medium-sized town inland near I-5. She's a 2003 and enjoys frequent trips to the coast though the salty air can be corrosive and troublesome in the long run. She does not normally hang around with a stranger in the parking lot.
I left them to their business and went to my favorite breakfast spot on the coast, Yachat's Landmark Restaurant. It's old, round dining room sits on stilts over the Yachats River's mouth into the Pacific. Sea gulls swim and fly.
I once saw a salmon swimming up from the ocean. It struggled for fifteen minutes in the inches-deep Yachats flow before finally succumbing. The gulls were on her in seconds. I ate my pancakes and eggs and bacon and drank my coffee just like I do today.
Jazz plays and a lively spirit runs through the place, even with the nighttime lounge behind my table darkened and closed at this morning hour. There's no one else in here. Just me, the tall waitress who's friendly but just barely, and the cook who speaks spanish and makes good bacon.
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