On top of his Stussy bucket hat sat a stuffed black and white stuffed cow, which wasn’t an unusual sight. Not in Portland during the Rose Festival. Wearing jean shorts, white Reeboks, and a Camel t-shirt, his short almond-colored hair was barely noticeable under the hat. And, unless you got real close, you wouldn’t notice the earrings, a stud, a hoop, right beside the stud, and a helix. Jaz preferred Reeboks to Nike’s. Part of him despised Nike, having lost a job at the factory in Beaverton a few weeks earlier. But the truth was, he didn’t care much for their shoes either.

His two friends walking down the promenade with him weren’t all that remarkable either, especially not for young guys in their twenties. Standing on the right of Jaz was Mike. His unkempt and curly reddish-brown beard was full, matching his overall slovenly appearance. Mike was that guy. He didn’t care much about the way he looked. He wasn’t fat, but he was big, standing taller than Jaz by five inches if Mike wore anything other than his everyday brown leather Birkenstocks with socks. His black-rimmed glasses accented his sizeable nose and his jet-black long hair fell his face, but it wasn’t long enough to pull it back into a ponytail. Elements of Mike made you think Matt Groening saw him walking around downtown before drawing Comic Book Man for the Simpsons. 

Carl walked next to Jaz, a cigarette in his mouth, clenching it between his lips while trying to keep smoke out of his eyes. He managed to do it for a few minutes, then it got the best of him. Carl was the only one of the three wearing button-down Levis and no belt. He was thin but healthy. As an ex-high school football player, Carl was still trim from years of training. Muscular and fit, he would’ve been all the young girl’s first choice of the three guys if not for his crooked nose, broken in a fight after a football game at Glencoe High School. Carl may have broken his nose, but the three guys who jumped him suffered his wrath. Carl managed to break one guy’s jaw, snapped three of another’s ribs, and broke the third guy’s nose. The difference was it was three to one. That’s the kind of person he was – tough and strong and never backed down. Not until the other guy, or guys, were on the ground.

Carl was Jaz’s bodyguard, protecting him at all costs from the hoodlums of downtown. And Carl knew all of them because his Mom was a social worker. She gave Carl names, pictures, and cash to provide them with. And she knew if he gave each person the money or not. But Carl was honest to a fault, even taking the time to feed the meters on the park blocks downtown just because it was the right thing to do. Unlike his two friends, he wore a clean and pressed plain white t-shirt, accenting the muscles he hadn’t worked on since graduating four years ago. They were still there, perhaps not as defined, but still there. No one would dare mess with him unless they thought they could take him out. It was rare.

“Where to now, Michael?” Jaz joked, poking him in the shoulder. “Perhaps we should ask the scared cow where to go next?” Jaz pulled the cow from its vantage point, seeing over the heads of thousands of people. Jaz smiled, shouting, “Which way, oh sacred cow?” throwing the cow up as high as he could, waiting for it to tumble back down through the many Portlanders vying for their cotton candy, popcorn, corn dogs, and deep-fried Snickers, the snack foods of only the most respectable stoner. Carl didn’t do drugs – anymore. Mike never felt the pull toward any substances, but he was a massive fan of Henry Weinhard’s Private Reserve beer. And Jaz? Jaz preferred the comfort of alcohol, mainly screwdrivers, tequila sunrises, and an occasional fuzzy navel, a mixed drink with peach schnapps, orange juice, and vodka. But when Mike’s beer was available, he would drink it. So it was no surprise that whatever bar the trio visited must include a selection of Henry’s, or else Mike wouldn’t go.

Jaz missed the cow, but it landed on its feet like a cat! Surprisingly it missed a massive puddle to its right and left. Mike laughed. “Dude! How the hell did you do that?”

“It wasn’t me,” Jaz laughed. “It was the sacred cow,” he said, doing his best impression of Apu from the Simpsons. “And the cow? It has spoken,” Jaz said, pointing its face to the bar on their left, a small Italian food spot with outdoor seating and a small fenced-off outside sitting area with umbrellas at each table.

“Only if they serve Henry’s,” Mike said matter-of-factly. “Dude. If they don’t serve Henry’s, we will go somewhere they do. Like back to Beaverton,” he pulled a cigarette from a red box of Winston’s, biting down on the butt and lighting it with his zippo. He grinned, taking a drag from his smoke and looking through the establishment’s doors, which didn’t appear that busy. Mike squinted and noticed Henry’s signage affixed to the wall behind the bar. “We’re good,” he said, still biting the cigarette butt.

Carl smirked. “The cow has spoken.”

“Ah yes,” Jaz said, still imitating Apu. “It is the sacred cow, speaking to all who would listen. Thank you, sacred cow, for pointing out which way we should go.” Jaz put it back atop the Stussy hat. A young girl stood just inside the door at a hostess stand. “How many?” she smiled politely.

Jaz looked at her and then at the cow sitting on his head. “Three and, what would you say, Mike? Carl? Would the scared cow count as a third or as a fourth?”

“Definitely a third,” Mike replied. Carl nodded, a twisted grin on his face. The hostess wasn’t shocked by Jaz’s behavior, having dealt with a lot of pseudo-drunk people already that evening. Carl’s grin made her uneasy, and Mike following behind her didn’t make her feel much better. Only Jaz, with the cow atop the hat, seemed normal. After all, this was Portland.