An Oregonian Too Long

I’ve lived in Oregon too long. I’ve started to think like an Oregonian. I’ve started to act like one, too.

Yikes!

A few weeks ago, I crossed the international border into Washington state and immediately lapsed into culture shock. I was having a business breakfast in a restaurant, and was checking the bill.

“Wait just a @#$% minute here,” I said. “What’s this?”

As an Oregonian, I went into full vapor lock at the thought of paying a sales tax on anything.

“Why, this is un-American,” I told my breakfast companion, who happened to be a resident of communist Washington. “How can the government do that to its citizens?”

My companion was unfazed.

“Listen,” he pointed out. “We don’t pay any income tax. I’d much rather pay a little more now than lay out a big chunk of my paycheck for an income tax.”

I thought for a bit. Because I had just done my state and federal income tax returns, I did notice that what I got back from Uncle Sam went straight to Uncle Ted.

“Besides,” he said. “Think of all of the tourists and others who pass through Oregon for free. They use your roads and your public facilities and don’t pay a dime unless they buy gas.”

He was right. Those foreigners from Washington, California and — heaven forbid — Idaho are getting a free ride. Why, we ought to charge them double for the privilege of visiting Oregon. Triple, even!

“You know, I think you have a point,” I said. “I think maybe we should put in a sales t-t-t-t….”

I couldn’t get the T-word out of my mouth.  As an Oregonian, I had lost the ability to say the words “sales” and “tax” together.

“That’s all right,” my friend said. “We just call it a consumption tax.”

“A rose by any other name,” I said. “Didn’t Shakespeare say that?”

“Yes, but Shakespeare didn’t have a state government to pay for,” he said.

Being a good Oregonian, I decided to change the subject. We finished our business and our conversation.

When it came time to head back across the international border, I got into the car. I looked down and saw that the gas gauge was on a quarter of a tank.

I should get some gas, I thought to myself.

And then I remembered: I was in communist Washington, where all citizens are forced to pump their own gas. It’s like the self-criticism camps the Chinese communists have, except everyone’s hands smell like gasoline.

“I’ll never lower myself to do that,” I said as I headed for the border. As I reached cruising speed, I watched the needle on the gauge slide lower and lower. Pretty soon, it was hovering over the “E.”

Just then, I looked ahead, and there ahead of me was the Columbia River. Across it lay Oregon and freedom and a state law that makes gas stations hire teen-agers to pump my gas.

As I rolled into the Oregon gas station, I had tears welling up in my eyes. I stopped the car, turned off the engine, and climbed out.

I gave the gas station attendant a big hug.

“God bless you,” I told her (Hey, I’m not going to hug some guy). “And God bless Oregon.”