A Missing Element To The Rhyme Scheme

Cast deep into the back of the Spyhouse on Hennepin Ave, across the street from Fifth Element, we sat at the room’s center table. His girlfriend checked in and out on her phone while he and I wrote the final 4-bar exchanges for a song. In what felt like two hours, but was only a half, we finished the final verse of our song.

Wrapping up, he asks “So… why are you letting me… even be on this?” This, meaning the mixtape.

It was an obvious question, and should have been a given before we sat down to go to work. I stand absolutely nothing to gain by letting some kid from the burbs feature on a project of mine. I could’ve easily reached out to collaborate with a more staple name and brand, but it might’ve gone redundant in the features already amassed on the past mixtapes.

What it comes down to is the kid's brimming with potential talent. and if I throw my name in the hat of assholes who have limited his opportunities, then I’m no better than the whitewashed hip-hop elitism coursing through Minneapolis already.

“Good question…” I watched my words carefully. This isn’t a question I wanted to answer, because I knew if asked, I’d be cornered into a brutally honest response which I wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear. “After I taught the workshop you participated in, you reached out to me to feature on your song. I turned it down. So, figured to put the offer out there to collaborate on this, because when I was in your position, I emailed, called and reached out to artists in town as well- to maybe open up for them at a show, feature on a track, or something, anything. I’d reach out to a lot of artists for help and support, when I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing… and hardly any of them ever got back to me. Begrudgingly, every single one of them that didn’t get back to me… I never forgot. This city is the exact opposite in regards to what I’ve experienced in other artist communities. In Brooklyn, we’d collaborate, exchange numbers, commiserate, give each other guidance. In Milwaukee, everyone is seemingly down to offer help, or willing to book you for something at the drop of a hat. But here…  it’s this.”

Detail wasn’t necessary at this point. We had an understanding of the “this”. I forwent the racial connotations, did delve into the politics, and left it at a point of “it’s up to you”.

Regardless of another community’s proactivity toward assisting artists, Minneapolis might damn near break your spirit to take another stage. 

If this kid has any sense he’ll either remain in town to make the scene a better place than it already is… or run. If he wasn’t white, I’d advise him to take up the latter.

Fifth Grade Guns

I was in 5^th grade  when my first classmate was shot to death. He was a year younger than me and had the grave misfortune of discovering his parents’ handgun. Playing with it, he mistakenly shot himself in the head and died instantly.

The school response met with a few tears shed from teachers while they thought the students weren’t looking, but none more than that. There was no candle light vigil for the poor Mexican kid from a rock bottom-income& government neglected neighborhood. We, the students simply went on about our lunch.

Benny was his name. I’ll never fucking forget it.

-

Years later, I’m fifteen sitting on a bus bench outside of Riverside Plaza waiting to be taken home by the city bus on a hot summer afternoon. I began recollecting Benny for some strange reason. The moment sufficed it, or rather demanded it. I simply submitted to it. Sometimes I can negate a thought or memory at will, but in this state, it just seemed like the right time to think about him.

A drunk East African kid swung wildly at the air while talking with his friends, emulating a past fight where he had knocked someone out. They passed around a 40 in a brown bag, notoriously intoxicated during the day- if they had been white, this close to campus, you would’ve thought the Gophers had won something. Alas, it was the side of campus the middle-class has begrudgingly titled the “crackstacks” or the “ghetto in the sky” where no Gopher victory would warrant the toss of a single piece of confetti.

An old friend, B, crept from the right side of the bus stop accompanied by an older gentlemen wearing a tank top. I hadn’t seen this friend in about a year, but he had somehow grown several inches within the lapse of time. The older gentlemen next to him looked to be on something and severely agitated to a steaming repressed anger.

“B, I don’t like the way these niggas is lookin’ at me” the older man said to B. He was referencing the drunk East African kids on the bus bench.

“My brotha, my nigga, you got somethin’ for me to drink my nigga?” the braggadocio leader of the drunkards asked B and the older gentleman.

The older gentleman with the tank top postured himself slowly- ever so slightly leaning back like a serpent. He lifts his shirt to reveal a large pistol tucked into his already sagging pants. How this man was able to even walk halfway down the block without grabbing a hold of the damn contraption, is beyond me.

The sun gleamed off of the pistol handle. It seemed to nearly inch past his belly in size, giving evidence that the damn thing could fire off a bullet the size of a bowling ball.

I froze. My head reeling from what would actually happen if this man were to air out these East African kids in broad daylight. Surely, he’d have to kill all the witnesses (me) and make a break for it. The equations and possible scenarios sped through my mind, until… I stood up, held my breath, and sat down on the curb closer to Palmer’s Bar, still in sight of the bus if it came.

I began to cry. My psyche buckled under my own mortality and that of everyone else within shooting range. Wiping my tears from my 15 year-old face, I began to shame myself for emoting such a response. I thought myself into a pep talk of “toughen up you pussy!” and other motivational phrases you’d possibly hear from an alcoholic football coach.

The bus arrived. I hopped on, sat down, and stared out the window ruminating of what I’d do with the rest of my time.

-

Years later, at a party on the south side, I ran into a childhood friend of mine named Carmont. I hadn’t seen him in what felt like four-plus years, although it had most likely been one year, we commiserated on life after high-school over keg beer in a basement.

Chatting for awhile, Carmont divulged that he’d come into a sizeable amount of cash after running drugs over the summer. “Isn’t that dangerous?” I naively asked.

Carmont grinned ear to ear, “Na, nigga. All I’d have to do is post up on said corner and deliver. Simple.”

I immediately began to fathom a summer of drug running, and the potential thousands of dollars I could make. Silly 19 year-old Toussaint.

“But… “ Carmont interrupted my moment, “One night, I saw a nigga get fuckin’ shot in the face”.

My dreamscape faded to reality, “Wait, what?!?!” I replied. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Was on the corner one night. Niggas rolled up with the window down and just pop pop pop! Was all I heard, and this nigga went down…  

… It’s funny though, cos’ when you hear a gun go off that close to you, it dudn’t sound like it does in the movies. Sounds like muffled cannon, you know like the ones at Fort Snelling.”

Whatever small notions or presumptions I’ve had about guns throughout my life have all been grave underestimates. And I accept that I’ll never understand the need to wield one.

Big Math, Bad Numbers 4: The Prick & The Photographer

Metal clanged and squeaked as our bus tumbled downhill to the North Central Avenue of Duluth. Double Bogey (our bus) must have been akin to Keith Richards in that it looked to be knocking on deaths door at every angle of its appearance, but somehow defied reality and all logic by living/driving  on. The Blend, my band, was on their last year of motivation to tour as broke and independent as we had been. The night would prove our final show in Duluth, a cursed and cold town housing the most recent lynching of an African-American in U.S. history.

It wasn’t the lynching or blatant prejudice toward people of color that made this our last run to Duluth. Honestly, the place was just too damn cold.

Arriving to Beaner’s, a warm-lit and well-taken care of coffee shop, the audience of a dozen or so people waited to either leave once we started blaring our amps or to stick around to see just exactly what the hell we were about. Without fail, as in the past several Duluth shows, a young white guy with his hat flipped backwards persisted in snapping shots with a high-powered camera worth as much as our drumkit. I’d met him once or twice, but would only recall his name when seeing it online next to the albums of live-show pictures he would post.

The show mule’d its way to the finish. We took our cut of just enough cash to cover half the gas it took to get there, and drove a lonely path back to Minneapolis in a short bus devoid of heater, full of fading spirits.

…

Back in the city before the night was finished, the fraternity was abuzz with whatever socialites dared conjure past midnight. Doug, fatefully nicknamed as Doug E. Fresh by our fraternity chapter, always held an open door at the house. Seeking anything other than Duluth, and just checking to make sure we didn’t drive through a wormhole on the way back to Minneapolis landing us in an alternative universe where Duluth was the last town on earth, I stopped by Doug’s place to chat.

“So…”, Doug said mid-conversation, a little confused how to even phrase what he was about to say, “Where do you get your money from?” It was an honest question, admirable in a way as Doug isn’t really the type to break etiquette and push an off-the-cliff rude natured assumption. More so, it was understandable. I hadn’t held a full-time job since knowing him, and only ever really talked of touring with music and theater troupes.

“I- uhh, I do music… I just travel to different cities and do shows” I answered. My retort was delivered sheepish as the question was asked. Doug and I were on foreign water. No one had ever asked me how I make a living up until that point, but it forced me into an immediate recognition of my purpose and career. Sadly the two of these don’t fall into the same pot for some people. I know many to have passion for a career outside of their job. The fear of stepping into undisclosed financial waters weighs a Westerner down- down far enough to take on a job & boss they loathe, but a paycheck that would repress rage from setting forth.

Checking the internet later, I saw the pictures from the Duluth show posted on Facebook. They weren’t bad, they looked almost as expensive as the camera that took them. Click, copy, paste- now, one of’em is my Facebook profile picture.

No more than five minutes passed- my inbox rang with a new message. “I appreciate you posting my photo as your new profile pic, but could you please credit me in the description on the pic? Thanks, Cal Carlyle.” Aha! The photographer from the show… Cal Carlyle. A name I had forgotten several times over, but would remember it from now on.

Easy enough, I credited his name in the picture, moved on… but not quite. It tumbled in my mind “Who asks a question like that? Does he seriously think people will look at my profile pic description and say “holy shit I wanna hire that guy”? I guess he’s trying to get his name out there, but what does it matter if I credit him on Facebook (the community enquirer, the local star, the gossip girl of little to no credibility)?” None of it mattered no matter how I phrased it. What lurked in the deeper recesses was far more simple than what I was asking: How did he know I changed my profile pic within five minutes of it happening?

Months later at a Blend show in Minneapolis, there he was again surveying our live performance, snapping shots with an even bigger camera than last. The lens protruded from the camera’s base as if he should be courtside at a Lakers game more so than our show. It was clear, Cal Carlyle wasn’t fucking around. Photography was his game, and he made for damn sure you credited his name. His business grew and flourished online dawning a website of wedding photos & crisp snap shots from live music shows to beautiful cityscapes. Between Cal and The Blend, one was swimming above water.

Cal Carlyle & I would make acquaintance a few times after his move to Minneapolis from Duluth; he helped me buy my first camera and traveled with The Blend on tour to document our life on the road. Time passing, shows accumulating, audiences growing and dissipating at the same time, Cal’s name began to dominate the Twin Cities for live show photography. What remained in the background that most of us musicians didn’t see was his wedding photo work. A hired photographer can charge a minimum of 3000 for a wedding, while a live band might make 1000 performing at a festival. Trust me, I was offered it for a festival on the east coast this year, no flight included. The disparity between the paycheck of a freelance photographer and a blue collar, independent, unsigned musician is Grand Canyon-esque, and was clearly out of my mind’s grasp as Cal & I began to drift apart… in business, and in good standing.

The Blend had finished recording its most recent, and what looked to be final, album “Breathing Without A Pulse”. The project lay unmixed in a northeast studio where I would need at least 2000 more to get it mixed and mastered, and possibly another 800 to get it printed. I couldn’t kid myself anymore, the guitarist had vocally expressed his want to leave the group, the bassist was as elusive as Edward Snowden and the drummer had moved four hours away from Minneapolis. I had to pull the plug.

Biking from the studio on a ratty 18-speed back to my apartment, the conversation with Doug bounced off the walls of my skull. If he had asked me the same question now “Where do you get your money from?”… I would have no answer for him. Something would have to give, otherwise I’d have to find a 9 to 5 and put writing on the back burner. I didn’t want to do it, and me being the stubborn asshole I am, I wouldn’t.

I reached out to Cal for a possible favor to shoot the cover of The Blend’s final album. We lined up a model and a concept, however the restaurant I worked at once-a-week called me in at the last minute detaining me from showing up to the shoot. Cal was pissed, and how could I blame him? I don’t know a soul that wouldn’t find it distasteful that I’d schedule a shoot at the same time I was on-call. I could have skipped, but getting fired and losing the extra hundred bucks a week would’ve pressed me against a wall I had no business being near in the first place. The shoot came out ok. However, when “Breathing Without A Pulse” was finally released, I went with a shot from a different photographer for the cover.

A text shot through the day to twenty some phones… one of which happened to be mine. I can’t recall the words in the text, but I remember the picture associated with it: my sister’s left hand with a giant rock tied around her ring finger. She was engaged… oh, and how we all knew it would be her before me (I look back, wink, drop on the shades and hit the gas to the motorcycle, here). As any good brother should do, I posted my congratulations to her and my future brother-in-law on facebook. In similar fashion to his photo credit inquiry, Cal Carlyle texted me less than 24 hours later “Never knew you had a sister? Sooooo, if she happens to need a photographer for her wedding, let me know.”

Always the business man Cal Carlyle was and still is. When all other options fell off the table, my sister took my advice to check out Cal’s website and covet him as a potential photographer for the wedding. My sister, blown away by his work, decided to go with him. The price tag was 2000 or more, but I knew Cal was worth it. Watching his work evolve over the years was a privilege and special opportunity I’d never had outside of music. To see an artist go from college freshmen to being hired year-round as an entrepreneur was a beautiful thing. Cal relayed a story to me of how he couldn’t even listen to his photography professors at the U of MN – Duluth for the sheer fact he knew more than they did. “If I’m sitting in your class, and I already know more than you about what you’re teaching… what does that say about you?” Cal exclaimed in a moment of humorous braggadocio.

Months passed, the wedding still on the horizon, I had started solo work rapping & singing over mixtapes with an producer/friend of mine Dr. Wylie. The solo project was reaching across the globe and catching online momentum faster than I had expected. In need of photography for the release of the 2^nd mixtape, I decided to call Cal. He responded via facebook message- The bane of distancing yourself from anyone. You want to stay in touch, email. You want to get in touch, text. But if you want to convey “I don’t really have the time or want to expend energy on dealing with your ass… So, what’s up?” go with facebook message. Even without the prompt of facebook messaging, Cal made it clear his fees were above my head at this point in his career. He simply messaged that I most likely wouldn’t be able to afford him. “Christ man. Not even a number- just a “you can’t afford me”. Blasphemy!” I said to myself. I retorted with “try me”. Cal responded with “700”… and then hours later resent the initial number with “Actually, not even 700 pays my bills anymore, we’d be looking somewhere in the 1000 range.” And there it was, the nail in the coffin.

Give a man a week and he can come up with a G. It may not be legal or pretty, but given a week a man can get it. The number he threw out didn’t offend me, it was the condescension. Cal had a natural tone for talking down whilst talking casually, but this was the first time I could tell he was speaking it with intent. I cared nothing for it and wanted only to throw cash in his face like P. Diddy at any club in the late 90’s. To say the least, that shit hurt- it stung because it was a taste of the world passing you by while you do your damndest to keep up.

Cal was a fan from the start. There was no press inquiry or invite for him to take pics at all The Blend shows he did. He was there because he dug the music- now, he was anything but. The flight of a photographer during the plight of a band… it was a beautiful thing to watch both creative trains pass in the night, one crashing into oblivion, the other off to support a lifestyle, a family, a future. However, if I’m to become as much a prick as Cal became with that kind of money & work… then I want nothing of it.

Anyone can grab a mic or a camera and self-proclaim themselves an artist, but it takes talent to be a working photographer or musician. The devil between the two is the photographer is already an efficient entrepreneur only having to depend on him or herself, working jobs with one piece of equipment (a camera), and already at a vantage point for pricing. The photographer can slip in and out of any environment while chalking up their client’s tabs. Cal might’ve mistook the opposing natures of music and photography as something of the same. He could not have been more misinformed. I responded to his final message “I’ll pass on the thousand-dollar photo shoot. Hope my sister’s wedding can pay your bills”.

Months later at my sister’s wedding, carousing a ballroom floor in a tux more expensive than my car, I paced from the bar arm-in-arm with a woman to my right and a whisky-coke on my left. We stopped at a table with a laptop displaying photos from earlier in the day taken by Cal- He was still snapping shots throughout the night. “Ooooh, those are beautiful!” the woman on my arm swooned. She was right. Cal may be a rapscallion son of a bitch, but that man can take a picture.

It's One Thing To Take A Crap, It's Another Thing To Lie About It

The sun blotted out by a hefty overcast, it seemed some kind of cold front was moving in. According to weather.com it should have rained several hours ago, but we didn’t give a huffle puff. We’re PMT (Paco, Morrissey, and Toussaint). Paco and Morrissey are two young men I mentor and work with for the summer. Since our inception last summer, we’ve lead a trail of definitive adventure, argument, and accolade.

Given the option to go to Valley Fair for the day, or wait ‘til better weather and take it up next week, we opted for the former. Trashed on overpriced funnel cake, mini donuts, and a sweltering vertigo from the Power Tower, I am not the man I used to be. There is a time in your life where you will abandon every activity and action from your childhood, and suddenly be wrought back to life with the simplicity of swinging on a swing at a park. Soon after that, your body will revolt with headache, stomach curdling, and questions of how old you really are. At this point, people usually stop, bid adieu to the swingset, and revel in content that they at least went back and tried it once. In hanging out with Paco and Morrissey for my summer job, there is no going back after that point one usually retreats from. I’ve developed caluses on my hands holding on the monkey bars too long, a distinct sense of balance from walking the tops of the swingset to escape during games of Sandman, and a stomach for any ride this carnival can throw at me.

Temperatures dropping to 60-something, we had to depart Soak City. It was just too damn cold to be dawning a bathing suit and inner-tubing down lazy river to not get hypothermia. Retreating to the food stand to eat for a few minutes, our conversation took a sharp turn from the sarcastic-potty-mouth-joke rants we go on to an actual topic.

“Morrissey, what do you think of the hall of fame for baseball. You think they should let those guys in if they used steroids?” I asked across the concrete picnic table.

Morrissey is 11 years old, and is a natural when it comes to baseball. Yeah yeah fn yeah, everybody’s dad says their kid’s a natural at somethin’, but I ain’t this kid’s dad, and I will be the first to tell you that an competing athlete is less than talented if they are. However, in Morrissey’s case, I’ve watched him throw a pool toy ball at a speed that just wasn’t intended for 11-year olds to be able to do. The kid displaces objects with his arm through the air at an accuracy I can’t keep up with. Attending one of his games, a little league style of play with actual pitchers and regional competition, he smacked the ball every time he stood up to bat. He’s the kid that pisses off all the opposing-team parents in the bleachers because no matter what over-hyped suburban talent is pitching to him, there ain’t a damn thing they can do to get the ball by him for a strike. It’s too early to say if he’s a phenom, but for now I differ to him for any baseball inquiries.

“I don’t think they should be let into the hall of fame, because y’know- if a guy walks into a bathroom and takes a small crap, then walks out and tells his team that he took a big crap- y’know- it’s lieng.” Morrissey casually answered.

A few moments pass as Paco and Morrissey still eat, while I all of a sudden froze from the answer Morrissey had just given to my question.

“Caruthers & Christ” I thought to myself, molliwhopped at the mere feat of trying to interpret the dialogue that had just gone down.

I processed what Morrissey had said as: a player on performance enhancing drugs could only exist as a lie. I’d never thought to interpret lying as more than an instance, whereas Morrissey was suggesting that the player, the player’s statistics, the physical movement of the player… was all a lie. There is no part of the player beset in truth long as he is on PEDs…

…

“Hey, let’s go to the Wild Thing one more time before we leave” Morrissey announced.

“I don’t know. The line looks kinda long.” Paco replied.

I finished my meal and affirmed with myself that I had the best job in the world… and woulnd’t trade it for anything.

The Zimmerman Debt

A coffee shop will be whatever you want it to be as long as you’ve paid for something.

He sits with a blue-collar bronzing tan along his arms next to a Mountain Dew and round of chewing tobacco atop the table in front of him. He stares at the table with seemingly nothing going on for the Sabbath, but to partake in being out of the sun for a few hours.

At the cash register, a man chats with the barista about the Zimmerman trial while shuffling about. The chatting man looks stifled and eagerly discontent.

A new customer enters the shop. The barista must bid the chatting man adieu. Turning his prattle toward the sitting bronzed man, “Yeah man, I’m from Florida where that boy got shot” says the chatting man.

“Ya don’t say” replies the sitting man, somewhat endeared he’s made a new friend aside from his Mountain Dew.

“Yeah man, my mom was in a Wal-Mart out there when the verdict went down and people started flippin’ out. They had to take all of the Caucasian customers and line them up in the back storage so they wouldn’t get hurt” continues the chatting man. “Everybody wants to jump to a conclusion y’know.” He looks over to me.

For a moment I expect he expects me to chime in on his rant. Perhaps because he and the sitting man are white, and I am not.

The sitting man leans back from his table, “Yeahhhh… it’s a crazy world we live in” he says.

“Ain’t it the truth” the chatting man replies, and then opens the door to exit the coffee shop.

Unlike him, I don’t need a publicized act of sociologically charged injustice spattered across the headlines of every social media to know America can be whatever you want it to be for the right price. Unfortunately, for the less privileged, that price is our lives.

The Ride Home With Roger

Reception to my T9-embarrassment phone in this basement bar is non-existent as the Vikings’ Super Bowl ring. It’s just not gonna happen right now. In the company of Mack, Francis, and Daniel, making crude comments to each other betwixt talking 90s baseball greats, out of the corner of my eye a man stumbled into a bar stool in the middle of the floor. I know this man, I’ve known this man, he’s visibly drunk. It wasn’t a pedestrian-passing move where it seemed his brain was cognitively avoiding the stool, it was a sliver of a second that his attention disregarded the presence of the chair. Not acknowledging an animate object in front of you is forgiveable when moving at a fast pace and an fng deer jumps out in front of your car, but this was plain-sight action that couldn’t be regarded as a mistake.

His next movements gather his balance, to which he then directs himself toward the nearest female. Whereas his face is smiling, the female’s is not. For a moment, I imagined the two knew each other and just now ran into each other after searching the bar for minutes on end. In reality, not my imagination, this is not to be. This woman clearly doesn’t know this man, and it is now clear that he’s blacked out.

Ahhhh yes, that region of the brain one has gone to upon over-consumption of booze, perhaps just one shot of tequila, or maybe just too little to eat paired with too much to drink.

What is intangible in this equation of 21+ adults, evening wear, peanut shells cracked about the bar floor, and spilled alcohol, is the bond I share with this blacked out gentlemen directing his solar plexus toward the nearest woman in sight- any woman in sight. Him and I were part of a fraternity in college, and aside from learning the cliché dos and don’ts of joining a house, you develop a connection beyond classmate- beyond brougham- beyond a friend… you bond with them as extended family. We can get into my entrance to a fraternity, later. Tis another story for another time, but nonetheless a good story.

So, as any brother to the house, I have to take care of this man and get him the fuck out of the bar ASAP… rocky. The first thing I make sure of is that he doesn’t get into a fight. If it comes to violence, I will undoubtedly throw down for him, but it’s the last thing anybody in here wants. I’ve seen this guy get brazen and it wouldn’t be pretty. Whereas most men talk until the fight comes to them, this man is the type to throw a hook at your buddy next to you, kick your other friend in the nuts, and then come after you. He’s a fighter, and nobody wants the tiger to get out of the cage in a basement bar.

“Roger, buddy, let’s get you outside.” I say to him, tugging on the underside of his elbow. “Hay hay! Let’s talk to these girls. C’mon, let’s-“ he turns his head to look at another girl, breaking his attention mid-sentence.

Now, racing to the bar’s entrance to exit to my car, where I can drive this man to his house, Roger paused at the sight of girl’s cleavage bursting into public eye. The damn things were calling more attention than a fire truck on the move. Roger places his hand on her back and smiles, she turns and giggles at the sight. Any longer, and the situation wouldn’t be funny. It was a novelty. She read the picture of a friend helping a friend to the door of the bar for reasons of belligerence bordering on the problematic.

“Roger, homestyle, we’re almost there. Keep up” I call to him. He paces away from the girl.

I pray now that every woman on our way to this exit is wearing a turtleneck. Any more cleavage and it’ll take more than me to get Roger out of here.

“Vwooosh” goes the entrance door as we barrel into the sidewalk from the bar. “Hahahahahaaaahahaa! You high yet homie?” Roger says. I can’t even understand the subject matter this man is inferring. We’ve now left the black out and are in the Twilight Zone. Beyond drunk, Roger’s mind is in a floating aquarium of random memory and impulse.

“Hey, how do I get to your house?” I ask Ned on the phone. Ned’s a mutual friend, and was hanging out with Roger earlier in the day before they all split up. Plus, Ned lives near uptown and would be an earshot away to drop off Roger and for me to get the f home. “Yeah, we’re near Hopkins” Ned answers. “Sweet Agatha Fng Christie” I thought to myself. “Ok, just text me the address, and I’ll be dropping Roger off in 15”.

Unable to imagine how far Hopkins was from where we were, I just began driving in the general direction. “Hahahahahaaaaa, man we high! You high yet?” Roger bantered. “Could really go for some food. I’m hungry. Hey… hey… Hahahaaaaaaa!”

The sheer ridiculousness of him made me snicker a bit. How can you not laugh at a grown man broken down to sporadic laughter and obscenity.

“Hey… hey…  remember her?” Roger toned down.

“Her who?” I said.

Roger then said a name that I have not heard for a damn long time.

“Yeah, I remember her.” I said.

“You know what… you know what, man?... She fuckin’ loved you… a lot” Roger said.

And right there, every memory, every story, all the colors of the past came rushing alongside my car as Roger and I steam rolled to Hopkins. The recollection of an ex-girlfriend, or someone speaking for them wrought the past up to speed with us on the highway. Along with the memory, came every reason why you had to part, why you had to move on, and why you love your life the way it is now. I could’ve thanked Roger, but he won’t remember this moment.

We coast to Ned’s. I drop him off to where he’ll wake up and wonder how he got there. They’ll tell him Toussaint brought you, but what they won’t tell him is that even in his state of blitzkrieg drunken madness, he was still able to recall a genuine feeling and share that with a friend… making the ride more than worth it.

Good Night Train Outta Crown Heights

I saw him earlier today talking to a brick wall, walking at the pace of a cripple, taking intermissions to turn his speech toward the sidewalk… and now, he’s sleeping on the bench next to where I stand. It’s 2am at the S station in Crown Heights. If you had asked me a month ago that I would make it this far, I would’ve said “not a chance in hell”, however… apparently I have a chance in hell… and as well as here standing next to a man sleeping at the S station at 2:10am. New York is in this man more than anyone I’ve seen thus far, and vice versa.

The weather’s identity crisis wrought a beautiful 70 degree mid-afternoon yesterday, and quickly turned to blustery cold speckles of rain at sundown. This man and I are the only two left awake, it seems, in Crown Heights. He’s also the only stranger I’ve run into twice at different times during my stay in Brooklyn. The scene is a surreal living picture, a moment of calm, you can nearly feel your soul waning from your body and a few centimeters outside of it. He doesn’t know it, but we’re sharing silence, and even with a complete stranger, sharing silence is a means of commiseration.

The S station at Prospect Place is a regal one at night, standing a floor above the street like an urban throne 2^nd in command to some higher decree. The S is late… almost 20 minutes late now. Shit, did I miss it? Corina told me, once the S (southbound) passes you have approximately 10 minutes until the (northbound) S arrives. It’s damn late, or maybe I am.

These episodes throw my entire gravity off. I begin questioning if I’m even at the right station, the time of night- are this man and I stuck in an eternal limbo to wait for a never-to-arrive S train… guess I’d be ok with that. Tour for long enough, and you can feel the dissociative disorder set in- “Where am I?”, “What’s your name again?”, “What day is it?” The details smear to a gosling gray bearing little meaning and priority to your stage time, set length, and pay for the night.

I can still smell Doylestown, Pennsylvania in my hood. Performing at one of the last bars to go under the indoor-smoking ban, the room was a billow of poison with only the clientele to make up for its wrath of invasive nicotine. The people in Doylestown were damned nice. I’d take 2^nd hand for that crowd any day, however later that night I had a dream that I smoked ¾ of a pack of cigarettes and then cried myself to sleep from shame… in the dream, not in real life.  I’ve never smoked in my life, so you can imagine the amount of unreasonable drama this dream took a turn for.

SHHHHOOOOOOM!!!! The southbound S passes, stops, continues on its trail. It’s now a fact, the northbound S to Laguardia is late. Not me, just the train. My flight leaves at 6am, boards at 5:30am, the motto is be there 2 hours early (4am), and it’s now brimming on 2:30am. I’d usually get a fit of anxiety from the sight of a situation like this, but if google maps is right, then I’m easy.

I’m beginning to wonder how this guy is sleeping through it all. The mere mention of living in New York City strikes a chord of intimidation in even the most adventurous of social butterflies, and this man doesn’t seem to be bothered by the slightest danger of sleeping at a station ‘til sunrise… outdoors- SHHHOOOOM! The northbound S arrives. Finally. I board.

There was something eerie about New Jersey. I couldn’t find a single coffee shop during the stay there, just beautiful strip malls of salons, bagel bakeries, and grocery markets. Everyone at the show in Long Branch, NJ was extremely nice to the point of suspicion. Coming from Minnesota Nice, I had to question the authenticity of these people’s generosity and good nature. Horrible, isn’t it. Get raised in a state of kids taught how to smile while attacking, and you hold everyone suspect. Na, they had to be good people. Those kids from the band Climax Race were jolly as you could get for a Tuesday night. Their damn bass player drunkenly fell off the stage during sound check, skidded across the floor on his belly like Mario 3, and popped up like nothing had happened, all in stride to gather something from his bass case and scurry back to the stage. Strangest part is nobody from the band flinched in the slightest. Shit, that was a Tuesday too.  Again, losing track of the days. SKREEEEEEE!!!!- just like that, I’m at my stop for the Q.

It’s cryptic dark in this station, cold too. I drop my bag to the ground just after its strap began cutting into the side of my neck. 3am, not bad timing, but am I on the right side of the station to get to the N? When lost, naturally, I look up. Perhaps to catch a sign or some kind of symbol that’ll assure me what I’m doing is right. I pause at the sight above me. Stars… the moon bouncing light directly off a tall warehouse in the distance. There is no ceiling to this station, hence the dark and cold. Truly geeked by the view, the picture reminded me of a scene from Final Fantasy VII or Chrono Trigger. Feel free to be utterly disgusted by the video game reference, and then kindly go screw yourself;) This is a sight I’ve seen in dreams when I was a kid. The picture would lose its detail as I moved into adulthood, but I could never forget it. Even at night, this view is absolutely resplendent.  If this voyage had ever shed any response to every time I thought “wait, what the f*ck am I doing out here again?” this is it. Entrapped and hypnotized by the sight, like Fievel fresh off the boat from Russia staring at the sight of America, it took a minute to pull away- wait, no “N” on these signs. I would find my way to the N on the other side of the station and ride what I dubbed as the “good night cloud train” atop Queens and Astoria to the bus stop for Laguardia.

This is hard… to say goodbye. Corina and I literally crash coursed the country on an epic journey starting in Austin, TX, trekking all the way to Brooklyn, and now back to Minneapolis for me. The concept of time has left me to a perspective and focus of what’s important: people that support and uphold your greatest interests, and the brief time you have with them on earth. Christ, I gotta visit my grandmother first thing when I get back. I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t the first and last thing I thought before I board a plane. Weird? F*ck that noise, you’re weird if you’re not thinking of the oldest living woman in your life when you board a steel bird to take flight across the country… I digress. Corina, and nearly every damn person I’ve met on this trip, has some kind of purpose in the grand scheme of things. Searching for that meaning is senseless. It’ll work itself out at some point like any mellow drama soap opera, rpg game, or Final Fantasy sequel… I take that last one back. Final Fantasy stories are religiously epic, but sometimes end in fatal and/or absolute disaster. However it ends with this (my) existence on earth, there isn’t a single part of this path I would regret. Riding a train in the sky between dense, urban township and cloud, back to your home- the scenario is too beautiful to leave room for something as menial as a regret.