The Honda Chronicles 2

January, 2010

Hope none’a y’all mind, but I’ma take it from here. First off, I wouldn’t trust a compact car with a screw driver, let alone to tell a story right.

Hey there, name’s Double Bogey. Lotta folks got to callin’ me “The Blend Bus”, but my formal is “Double Bogey” or “DB”. Was a name given to me by Toussaint and Spencer. We had a rough outing from Sioux Falls back to the Cities, and after all the mechanical work I’d needed, the fellers went with a self-depricating-but-regal title for me. Double Bogey, fits just right.

Aside from sittin’ here in the great hereafter, I served diligently as transportation for the St. Cloud public school system, and then onto my later, and final, years as the bus for the band The Blend.

Yes, I said “hereafter”. My days as a functional vehicle are long done and over. I’ve been passed along to the scrap heap, and- in so many words- am dead. I don’t like to use the word “dead” much, but seems to be a term thrown around us mechanical folk all our lives. “My car died”, “Tried turnin’ the key, but it’s dead”, etc. Either way, I’m gon’ tell it like it is for the next chapter of this here story ‘bout Toussaint, his old lady Dana, and that heap ‘a trouble Honda.

I saw it all. I was around the corner from Dana’s apartment as Toussaint pulled up in Honda to rest it at it’s potential final public parking destination. The hood was tore to shit, got damn bumper almost hangin’ off the damn thing, and a cracked windshield… probably already there, but hell- gotta give’er the full picture here.

A broken man of sorts, less than half the man- if anything at all, Toussaint stepped outta the wreck. Feller could barely pull himself to Dana’s apartment. Think the guy had thoughts of takin’ that car off’a cliff. It ain’t a thang to fix, and definitely wasn’t a life-endin’ situation. From the looks of it, what seemed to be the trouble was a combination of two things: 1. How do you explain a hood dislodgin’ from a car while doin’ 55mph on the highway? Ya can’t. The audience and/or person hearing you out would have to have the rocks and patience to respond, “… welp. Let’s get a hammer and fix’er.” I’m pretty sure Toussaint knew Dana’s parents weren’t the easy-goin’ type when it came to stuff like this. Hell, I’d met Dana, and sure as hell knew right off the bat not even so much as a sneeze could get by her. The woman had cat-like senses, bitched like the dickens, and never forgot. And then 2… welp, I forgot where I was gon’ with that, but however Toussaint stayed up in that apartment for what seemed like a few hours. The man walked out like he’d been to hell and back, but never left it in his head. He and I drove elsewhere for the day… just to return back to Dana’s apartment to meet up with her mother and sister to go over Honda’s damage.

I’ve seen some shit in my day. Winter breakdowns in the midst of nowhere, a trailer almost detach itself from my rear-end on the high way of the bible belt, multiple arrests outside’a clubs betwixt the armpit of rural America and the wrong side’a town- I wanna say I seen it all, but I ain’t the braggin’ type, nor am I the one to claim I know it all. I will declare I’ve seen a lot of what compels people to define this country’s greatness, and I’ve seen potentially just as much that compels a man to kill himself. If the big man upstairs is keepin’ a stat list, I’m purdy damn sure Spencer and Toussaint have eluded the ol’ final note more times than Gaddafi, that being the fact both of’em err still alive at this moment- but that’s aside the point. This situation no where near the means of suicide or greatness, it was most definitely an all time low. It was the final year of my life on the roads of earth, and the final year of Toussaint’s denial. A certain denial, but no means of the last for’em. I can’t say when a man has come to terms with the truth, but the Dead-Man-Walking pace Mr. Morrison drudged at towards Dana’s mother and sister, there was no denyin’ the man had come to terms with his circumstance and lousiness. Like I said, I’ve seen some shit, but to watch a man walk towards the mother of his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend through 20 below zero temperature was damn near the saddest memory of my life. There’d only be settling at this point… no victory.

Seen there mouths movin’, but somehow that f*ckin’ Honda wasn’t startin’. If Toussaint or Dana’s family knew a damn thing about a thing, they’da seen the alternator was older than the 35w bridge that went down, and easily wasn’t the end of the world for the car. Alternators are replaceable- ain’t nuthin’ like an engine, exhaust manifold, intake manifold, blah blah blah- point bein’ the car wasn’t startin’. Toussaint and the ol’ gals left for a moment and returned to try and put engine coolant in the gas line. F*uckin’ hell Jon… First off, you put engine coolant in the engine coolant valve, UNDERNEATH THE HOOD- not the f’n gas line. Sure fire way to mess the damn thing up even better. The lack’a garage know-how will blind a man in this country.

Ol’ gals and Toussaint left the car. He hands over the keys along with his dignity to the women and rolls back to me. He and I head back to campus where critical maneuvers are to be made.  The kid had several options: 1. Give up on the relationship with Dana & tell’er parents to go screw themselves all together, 2. Try and maintain the relationship, & tell’er parents to go screw themselves all together, 3. Give up on the relationship and take every last financial responsibility for the car, and lastly 4. Try and maintain the relationship while take every last financial responsibility for the car.

Dana’s father was quick with the altercation. The man was the 2^nd coming in his small hometown, owner of several properties throughout it, and had a cadence that’d rob you of your self-confidence the second he shook your hand. The next day, he’d sent Toussaint an email that laid out two options. I understand you’re asking yourself how I know this- I’m a bus, I get it. If you’da taken a picture of the inside of me around this time, you’d hear just about every phone conversation between Toussaint and his trust-worthies and nabbed every paper of reported student loan debt and/or writing the man had ever came about. People talk about privacy… I was the lock & key of it to The Blend, and unfortunately to Toussaint. The two options can be summed up as such: Either pay me 2200 dollars and you can have the title to Honda- yes, the broken down Honda, or 2. You can pay me 1900 dollars for what the Honda is worth in scrap metal, and it gets trashed. If you haven’t smelled the bullshit yet, then clearly you don’t know the worth of an alternator and/or a junker car… and it ain’t above 1800, let alone 800. Sweet Christ on a Baptist- I nearly dropped my lugnuts and lost ma belts when I heard the likes of this!

Read back, think about it. You have a shitty hand, none but your fault… and now, you’ve just received word from the asshole lookin’ over your shoulder that you have a shittier hand than you thought. Where Honda could’ve just laid in peace, died a diligent death- Where Toussaint could have simply walked away from Dana and Honda, left it all in the past and chalked it up as a lesson learned- neither was an option. Of all things to retain when departing a debacle, I believe it’s a human’s natural instinct to salvage one thing in that tenure of heat and trial… that one thing being self-respect. Fortunately, Toussaint had become a kin to clinging to self-respect, and pride, and self-righteousness, in any situation that threatened it (If you’re saying “idiot” in your head, then we’re on the same page).

Toussaint had planned to spit in the eye of the asshole whispering over his shoulder- the guy that negated a civil discussion, the guy that was telling him and not asking, the guy that was trying to sell him a broke-down car for 2000 dollars. This would be difficult, just like anything involving a break-up and a car.

Sid Did It #4

“I don’t wanna hold your hand! I’m mad at you- gah!” Sid said marching down the stairs to the bus. It’s partially policy we hold the kids’ hands when they walk down the stairs, for balance, safety, etc. At this point in the day, Sid’s had enough coddling and doesn’t want the help. Barely at 5 years old, you’d think he’d need it, but trust him- he doesn’t. Sid has a core body strength that would put Pacquiao in jeopardy, let alone an innocent teacher trying to hold his hand. I’m not a teacher though. I’m a paraprofessional.

Last year went swimmingly. I was introduced to Sid, who’s been diagnosed with Emotionally Behavior Disorder (EBD), as a one-on-one paraprofessional. We worked well in the beginning of the tenure; the road got expectantly rocky, but soon found a balance throughout the year. Back to the school with the kids and a cast of new characters as well, I had long found my niche and repoire with the new school year of Pre-K students. On the brink of leaning towards shows and modeling for spending & saving money, I received a call from Sid’s school saying they would need a paraprofessional for the school year up to December. “Perfect!” I thought. A woman left on maternity leave, and the shuffle of staff wound up leaving a paraprofessional position open. I immediately agreed to the position. No hesitation, I had two days notice before I was back in the classroom chasing down 3 year-old escape artists, and tending to young genius minds. Truly loved the job… but, as they say “all good things must come to an end”.

What Sid doesn’t know, is that I won’t be coming back after today. Last school year’s last day of school had an appropriate goodbye, adieu, and hug at the end. However, for this- the end is so impromptu, I don’t even know how to say goodbye to the kid. Hired as a general para for the entire classroom, Sid and I still had a connect that fostered from last year. So, when he doesn’t want his hand held, I simply do not pursue it and keep the conversation going. Since Sid had been doing so well from his entrance to the school, his willingness to be vulnerable had gone up. That vulnerability lived in the listening, the cooperating, building some kind of relationship and accountability with the teachers.

Stepping on the bus, looking out from the dim tint of the window, he frantically waved his hand to me. The end of the school day. I waved back, pressed my hand against the window… and there it is. It’s over. Somehow the shuffle of the woman on maternity-leave got derailed. A series of staff shifts later… and I’m out. Not ideal and anything but what I expected.

After a series of VH1 behind-the-music moments on tour the past weekend, I received a call from my boss’ boss late Sunday night. She informed me of the staff shuffle, asked me to come in on Monday, but that it’d probably be my last day at the school. I haven’t even digested the magnitude of my exit until now. What the hell are those kids going to think? Where’s the accountability in the equation? What’ll they say to Sid and the rest when they ask about me? I’m at a loss. Money is always replaceable, but time is an impossibility. I’ll be gone by January, and in no spirit to think about this until maybe my return to Minneapolis. I’d assume at some point I’ll get a call from the school to cover for someone, but what of it…

When we ruled the schoolyard, the hallways of elementary school- we absolutely loathed substitute teachers, part-time youth workers in and out of the building like a restaurant, and above all held no respect for any adult that wasn’t willing to stick around. It was the ones that stood like monoliths that impacted us the most. Given the kid’s only 5, it wouldn’t be right to waltz back in there on a substitute shift. I’d like to think the time is much greater than that.

No job, several songs into a mixtape, The Blend soon to release a new album next month… I know where this is headed. I had a regiment going, a sleep plan, a schedule if you will- but now, I absolutely know where this is headed. The first thing to go will be the sleep schedule. I’ll be up ‘til 2am or later every night writing, typing, and emailing. Next, I’ll be of no use to anyone or anything other than my notebook, backpack, Jake, and the handful of people I tour with. I’ll keep in touch with people out of town more than anyone in Minneapolis, the track of time will begin to slip… and then it’ll happen: road trip. I’ll just pile into the car and take the f off. Nothing wrong with it, but when I have no reason to stay in one place, I begin to slip into everywhere else but home.

Sucks to be out of work in less than 24 hours notice, but I don’t think there’s a better candidate than myself to handle it. However, I have gathered that when working with kids either I’m there on part-time duty or I’m all in. I don’t wanna hop in and out of a kid’s life like that. Most the students have situations where police, parents, and/or professionals are rotating in & out of there life like a broken record. My long term goal is to develop a foundation of trust and responsibility between myself and the students. This past process has been anything but. Sadly as well, the trust between me and the employer has been frayed to suspect. When anyone can drop you within less than a day’s notice… there is no room for promise afterwards.

Sid buckles into his seat. The bus pulls away… There they go. The young genius’ and future of the city all in one bus headed to their respective homes and daycares. Easily I’ve learned more from them than any school that’s fostered my attention.

Kick ass and take names, Sid. The world is yours, don’t let’em tell ya any different.

Return Of The Street Fighter

Now…

I’d been working with the book(s) for some time, and for some strange reason… I lost it. Waking the next morning, realizing the black binder book was missing, I checked back to the last place I remember using it, the Spyhouse coffee house. The value of the book is a long time coming, and is currently happening. Future mixtapes are in it, and I can’t remember a time in the past two years that I haven’t jotted some kind of important work within its pages.

There is something special about the book as well, it has a tattoo. Whenever someone takes it upon themselves to write in a book of mine, make a lewd drawing, or stick a sticker to its cover- I call that a tattoo. This one had been tattooed before I’d even written in it. It’s dated to 4/21/03 “Hope you have a wonderful birthday. Thought you’d appreciate a place to write down your memories of tonight + thoughts of tomorrow. Happy 21^st! <3 Gwen”.

Gwen and I dated for the span of 2 weeks, but cascaded a cold war that still hasn’t died (check the date of the book, then check your calendar… do the math). However low the temp has reached between the two of us, we can survive in the same bar together. Meh, Gwen’s not the point of importance here, the weight of this book is relative to the f’ng Book of Eli. I’d memorize the damn thing and walk the world with an AR-15 to protect its content if I had to… but I don’t, thankfully.

Rewinding my tracks back to the Spyhouse on Nicollet Ave, the barista directed me to the lost & found… and fortunately it was the latter. Found the book, tossed it into the foot rest of the passenger side of my car, Honda. Zoomed to work, parked the car in the garage section at the Old Spaghetti Factory, and leapt into action. My shift lasted for two hours, made all of 6 bucks in tips after serving one table- worthless. I returned to the car.

Upon jumping into the driver side, I noticed a mound of large magical dust in the front passenger seat- large magical dust in the shape of shattered shards of window. The gravity departed my rib cage, breath flown from me, and emptiness subsides the next seconds. Seconds to feel like minutes, to feel like an eternity stripped away from my private universe: my car. Broken glass scattered all throughout the seat and car where someone had smashed in the passenger side window.

Months ago…

A gal and I just split. Truly a horrible break, it was. Having just left the break, I couldn’t think of anything more cliché than to go to Barnes & Nobles and enjoy my new found free time. Once you’re out of a relationship, and it was clearly the right decision to be out of the relationship; you find yourself breathing with a smile, walking with a lil’ pep in your step, and responding to women after shows differently than you would while in a monogamous situation. Well, strutting into Barnes & Noble, the cover of a book caught my eye. I delved into it, vamping through page after page after page, always flipping back to the “Table of Contents”. “Several Women To Never Date” read the chapter. I laughed out loud, the way you laugh out loud with your good friends in company- nothing holding your lungs back, or volume from concern of bothering others around you. Barnes & Noble has that comfort to it. I feel everyone is legally contracted to laugh out loud as they would at a dinner party with several glasses of wine in them.

Back to the book, I dared read further into the chapter of “women to never date”. The titles were brash, offensive, misogynistic and a bit off-the-wall… except for one: The Street Fighter. The chapter describes the Street Fighter as continuance of negating anything and everything you bring to the table. Past, present, and future problems are your fault, even agreeing to disagree will do no good, the Street Fighter feeds off the moment of conflict. Their lives are in constant disarray, argument, and personal matter-of-fact opinion. The Street Fighter has life advice for everyone, instant critique of those they’ve just met, and a thirst for the- well, the fight. My jaw lay open by the end of the read. I’d just evaded the Street Fighter, the woman I’d just dated. I fashion myself a good street fight every now and then, but this past situation was war day-in, day-out. It was destined to break, weathered the very awning of my happiness, and find a daily shit storm to throw in the face of any positive outlook I’d tried to keep on the relationship. In the end, it ended the worst way. Voluminous yelling, doors slamming, after 2am texting/calling, beyond the personal and into the malicious… twas ugly. One way or another, I was happy to be out of it.

“Whatever you can do, stay away from the Street Fighter. Do not engage with this one, for even when you’ve parted ways, the Street Fighter will always find a way to partition the ongoing battle.” I laughed aloud again. “No way!” I thought to myself… “no way”, my grin & laugh dying to a slow realization and fear for the return of the Street Fighter.

Now…

Staring at the pieces of broken glass bouncing sunlight in all direction of the car like crippled disco ball… there lay my laptop beneath the rubble. “But why not take the laptop? The damn thing would have been in clear sight of the robber” I murmured like a schizophrenic in a coffeeshop. “Sweet Lucifer, thank the Gods I left the most important notebook in the foot rest”, murmuring still. All that was taken was my backpack- the backpack with the past decade of my writing in it. The iphone, the camera, the mini HD recorder in the glove left unaccosted in the same condition they were when I left them. So strange. The thief had to have been in a hurry to smash, grab, and run with just a backpack… or was it exactly as they’d planned. Was the backpack all they came for? Perhaps they knew the backpack was worthless to anyone in the world except for me and somehow knew it’d be the most sensitive vein to strike. Perhaps someone who knew I only work Sundays at the Old Spaghetti Factory, came for my most prized possession- to snatch it from my life- to hit me where it would hurt most. Who would do such a thing?

I remembered how bad things had gotten with Gwen, the sophomoric fights, the mind games, the bullshit our young voices would spear into the air to outwit the other. Again, perhaps the stolen backpack was a blessing to help me focus on the book that counted the most… the one from Gwen. But then again, what if this was the Street Fighter’s doing… and I’d truly learned nothing from any of the defunct dating I’d accumulated to now? Perhaps I should’ve seen this coming and not left a fricking prized possession in the front seat. Gah- it’s all in the past. All I have is the notebook from Gwen. That’s all.

Gwen, older now, has calmed her fangs to simple wit. Notice I said “calmed her fangs”, not “filed her fangs”. The woman will still cut a bitch. Full knowledge of her limitations and potential to murder feelings, Gwen and I pace down Lyndale Ave. She’s just moved back to Minneapolis after completing her MBA in Indiana. New job, fat paycheck, high maintenance condo, it’s fair to say Gwen’s living in the lap of luxury. It’s also fair to say her & I have barely grown beyond are spite & rivalry for each other, but still able to share a walk with each other.

I tell her about the book, we laugh. However, glancing back at the car, I couldn’t help but think if the Street Fighter had put an end to my car’s window or if I was developing paranoia for the past. Whether or not it was the Fighter’s doing, there was a larger lesson to be learned from all of this.

Walking around the city with the eldest of ex-girlfriends, perhaps my most useful work wouldn’t exist had Gwen never handed me the notebook ten years ago. Perhaps, if I’d learned my lesson from dating in the name of spite, resentment, and cold war… I would still have a passenger side window as well.

Ready As We Will Ever Be

“Yeahaaaaah… it’s your father. I’ll be in town tomorrow- wait, what’s the name of that sushi joint we went to last time I was in town?- I need you to google map the joint, k?- I wanna get down there again”, not even a single exchange yet, and our phone conversation has turned into a machine gun of thought provided by Ricky. Me, the target of the question barrage, haven’t a intelligible word to give back to the man. I’m on the ropes; subdued from 7.5 hours on the road to Iowa and back in the same day, sleep deprived with the new job that shoulder splashed the consciousness out of my schedule (a lady went on early maternity leave, and somehow in the chain of suburban school circumstance, my name was brought up as the first man for the job to take care of Sid and the pre-K battalion once again), and discombobulated from a constant cold wind whipping thru the broken passenger window of my car whilst we made the quick trip to Ames, IA and back.

Wait a hot fuckin’ minute… “Ricky’s coming to town?” I murmur to myself. The reality unveils the date, the time, the circumstance, the alignment of the stars where everyone lands in the same city within the same moment to witness one thing… my sister’s wedding. Good gawd it’s happening.

Now, I can’t say this snuck up on me. I’ve been ready. Hella ready. Annie’s friends could drink a rugby team under the table… matter of fact, they just might do it this Saturday. Rockmen, the man my sister is to wed, plays for the St. Paul Pigs Rugby Team. I couldn’t keep up a lick at the bachelor party, going shot for shot, beer for beer with the broad shoulders of Midwest rugby elite. Rockmen’s friends put it down like Hurricane parties- NYE- end of the world type situations. In short, this wedding is going to be a drinking one, and somewhere in the back of my mind has fully accepted that… and taken the date into mind. However, after being asked to make a speech, cut my hair, and not embarrass the bride, I really don’t think I’ve absorbed the gravity of the situation here. My. Sister. Is. Getting. Married!

This doesn’t happen often. Matter fact, in my family, this has only happened once amongst the set of cousins. There are 10 of us on my mother’s side of the fence, and only one cousin has gotten married within that set. My dumbass decided to tour to Pittsburgh during it, and not show up. Dishonorable, at a loss of a good time in California, and most of all at a loss to see my cousin Nick get married. I want to preface it with “In a way”, but I’ll just say it: I look up to Nick. The kid’s turned over more than just rocks in his life and has a beautiful family to show for it. Kid’s an extraordinary paraprofessional, father, husband, etc. Can’t say I’m ready for the same responsibilities, but I’ll call’em for advice when the time comes. Either way, missed his wedding, wouldn’t/couldn’t miss my sister’s for the world… and won’t miss any of the other cousins as well when the time comes. These moments are rare, swift, and should be taken by the horns whenever the opportunity presents itself.

I feel pressured because this event is the type you really can’t let a fiber of a second pass without indulging the time of it. This will never happen again, unless for some freak reason Rockmen and Annie decide to split (which btw, I personally can’t see happening. I’m not jinxing anything, but the relationship they’ve thus far has sustained, survived, and most of all… been stable. I don’t know the specifics, but my sister’s 1 for 1 when it comes to inviting significant others to the family dinner table. I’m 0 for 4;) Again, this Saturday will never happen again; an amalgam of Ricky, family from Detroit, family from California, and the rest of Jane’s side of the family from the deep suburbs of the Twin Cities’ Metro area we only see once in a red moon.

Still haven’t thought of what I’m going to say for the speech, let alone when I have time to get a haircut… No time to think this one out. I better make a move before my nerves get the best of me. 

Benny

Even if I turned my torso entirely around, it would still make for a difficult time to spot her. She’s somewhere on the balcony amongst a crowd dawning the exact same colors as her wardrobe. Not a chance, I turn back around- don’t wanna be caught as the guy who keeps looking back into an onlooking audience. Hundreds of people staring at you isn't the most comforting sight- To tell the truth, I don’t think I ever came close to seeing her. I made out a silhouette- most likely wasn’t her, but to appease my peace of mind I’ll tell myself it was her.

Wherever she is...
she’s singing.

Back to facing forward, I could feel the room swelling. The moment turning thick- we’d all been waiting for it, not a single person in the room came for anything else.

A thread of sound, just a single thread- shrilling, leaking from one of the hundreds of pipes stretching the ceiling, holds for the moment. Its thick enough now to breathe, taste, roll around the roof of your mouth and press with your tongue. The thread still holds… and holds… and holds…

… and holds

                …             and        holds…

And breaks- to what feels like a piano being dropped onto your chest. The organ manipulates the air to palpable perfect storm, which would otherwise be hibernating ‘til the next Sunday morn. The musician resuscitating the mad instrument from its slumber and thrust into the stone ceiling of the church, the weight of the room brims upon heavy- brims upon a disheartening sense of “too much”- brims upon a reality we came to confront here.

Chords, scales, chromatics rip about the old walls of the building, slanting sharps and flats from the pipes of the organ, continuing an anthem you swear you’d heard before.  You won’t forget this. Your memory won’t dismember it, your blood will never coarse the way it does for times like these.

The woman on the balcony, again, begins singing in succession with the rest of the quire. Loud and ominous, the sound uniforms with the moment. Time whips by like a film montage, notes slowly descend from the ceiling, all of it spinning at some irregularity than its normal life’s pace… stops.

A casket draped with a white sheet makes its way down the church’s aisle. The inconsolable truth crash lands every heart in the room: Benjamin Gidmark has passed away, and what tangibly remains of him on earth is in that casket.

There is something disturbingly beautiful in the organization of mourning someone’s absence, swiftly followed by an overwhelming, desolate sadness. To pay witness to his casket, struck harder than the initial news of his death.

The Honda Chronicles 1

Jan. 1, 2010

I’m hiding. I’m frozen.

Like the rest of the world, I’ve just about had it with Toussaint. Although I could tell you where I am, I won’t. Although I could tell you what happened last night, I won’t. In episodes such as the one that’s about to detonate, people seem to focus on the least important details- kinda like the Usual Suspects. The detective questions Kevin Spacey about everything that would be/should be important, meanwhile neglecting the most pertinent issue that the criminal is right in front of him, Kaiser Sose (Kevin Spacey). Again, what happened last night is a f-----ng tragedy and as much immediate gratification it would give everyone for me to divulge… I won’t. I’m a car, I don’t give a hot damn for human emotions. People shit all over me all day everyday, disrespect my entire existence, and run me like an Egyptian slave, circa any year B.C.

Why am I telling you this story, you ask… because it’s a good one. I am a sucker for the goodness in life. There is much of it to be had, and one must be careful in reaching to have it for in the reaching there is pain. I don’t reach, I park. I park and let it come to me, baby. All good things come to those who wait, and I've been waiting since 1997 for something like this. I was born in Lacrosse, WI to a family that had more use for selling me than having me around. From there, I was sold to the Foster’s (no that’s not the real family name, but I’m not outing anybody except for Toussaint’s dumbass… why? Cos f--- Toussaint, that’s why.) The Foster’s resided in a remote corner of Wisconsin, although I still longed for the city street life, a m----f----r can’t always get what he wants… especially when his life is destitute as a mechanical deathtrap on wheels.

I’m not going to get into the Foster’s, just as much as what happened last night. All you need to know is my present circumstance is colder than an ice cap that hasn’t melted yet. Little does anyone know, my alternator has one more trip left in it. I’ll credit the Foster’s and Toussaint for not noticing the head lights are fading in and out. When that’s happening, it means your electrical is at severe risk to shut down. Personally, my electrical is like a human’s ability to avoid old age, cancer, or a cold. If that shit is meant to be, and one of’em always is (pending on your genetics which comes first), the laws of nature give no f--- for when it goes down. If a semi is trailing you at blinding speed and my electrical or alternator shuts down… guess what Cochese? You’re family’s gonna have to hold a closed casket. No matter where you are, make sure the alternator, serpentine belt, and electrical is tip-top. Bold, rich or beautiful, doesn’t matter how fresh the oil is, I’ll shut this sh*t down faster than you can say “funeral party” if what’s under the hood isn’t tended to like a pacemaker. Consider this your final warning.

Somehow, someway, Toussaint defies this type of sh*t. Yes, I have one trip left in me, but it will be the last trip in the Foster’s name. Aside from the alternator, there is something else deadly wrong with me… my hood is unhinged. If Toussaint doesn’t notice it flappin’ like Ron Jeremy’s tongue, there ain’t much I can do for the guy. Either duct tape the damn thing down, or have it relentlessly flip into the windshield. I can’t blame him. Guy’s a liability, high risk, walking the line like an underfunded Russian circus with no safety nets.

There he is, dumbfound and all, gawking at the shiner on my hood as if it makes me look any less of a Civic. How this large ding got on my hood, again that was last night... I’m not going to dignify it with any background on it. However, Toussaint is genuinely surprised at the dent, I can see him thinking. What’s his next move, how’s he gonna explain this to the Foster’s… he doesn’t have a clue. Kid couldn’t talk his way out of a convertible, the hell he’s gonna explain this. He’s screwed, he knows it, however it won’t stop that m----f---r from enjoying the ride to park it back to Dana’s (daughter to the Foster’s, didn’t necessarily let him borrow the car, but left it in his hands while she’s on vacation).

Happy New Year’s to you too buddy. Toussaint hops in me as usual and cranks up the NPR. He loves that sh*t, what a poindexter.

And here we are, just as I suspected, pushing  50 on 94W… hood bouncing ever so slightly up and down, up and down, up and down, WHAM! I TOLD YA!!! HAHAAAAAAA, my hood smashes back into the front windshield, kicking the rearview mirror off that m---f----r inside the car. The rearview whizzes by Toussaint’s dodging big-ass dome and into the backseat. My hood’s still pressed firm against the windshield, Silly McGillicuddy Toussaint still pressing 50, but slowing down, goes into panic screamin’ like a little girl.

Fave moment: Toussaint looks to his right to find a sports car whose hit the brakes as to not get caught in the ball of flames I’m 10 seconds from turning into- panics, then looks to his left to see a mother driving her kid in the car in the next door lane. Toussaint puts on a “Oh my God, I think I sh*t my pants” look on his face as the mom shakes her head like “Can’t help you, good luck in the next one” and speeds off! BWAHAHAHAHAH! Love it. That m----f----r hits the brakes and some how gets a view of the road from just underneath the crest of my hood.

Damn, I was hopin’ to go out like a stock car, y’know? Somethin’ big. Lot of us go down without a whisper, without a single day of excitement… we just stop. Not sayin’ I wanted to hurt anyone, even Toussaint, but I always looked up to the Dukes of Hazard- always wanted the fast life, the crazy cross-country life, the life a compact city-car like myself can only park and dream of. Most I’ve ever seen is the backside of Wisconsin and maybe a skyline or two whilst parked at the top of a parking ramp… nothing more. Most a compact like myself could ask for is to go down like a champ. Not in the cards… this day, at least.

Well, Mr. Morrison maneuvers us off the road to the 94W exit. Safe and sound, we park on the side of a residential road. We stop. He doesn’t leave the car, just sits there, holding the steering wheel as if it’s the only thinking still working in his life and fears it might be the last thing he touches that’s not broken. I can feel the kid’s chest hollowing out, his breath deepening, the pressure on the inside of the car outweighing any other circumstance outside of it. Toussaint unbuckles, opens the door, slowly scoots his body out of the car, and folds my hood back down. You thought the ding he found this morning was shitty, the hood now looks like the Incredible Hulk held a picnic on top of it. The entire thing is caved in and not a tool in Mr. Morrison’s little world can fix it. He’s screwed in every way possible. Aside from being alive and outside of prison, this guy is as emotionally fucked as one could stretch their imagination.

Toussaint’s next move would have to be quick… and smart. Mama Foster is on her way to pick up the car… today.

to be continued…

She Schaumburg Hot

Friday, August 8, 2011

Wicker Park, Chicago, IL

Dan is talking. I can hear him. I was listening. Something’s tuning me out- bah, be responsible man- I’m tuning out to something… someone, across the bar. A woman is staring me down like she means to jump me in the alley. I revert back to Dan. What he’s saying is important. He works for Be The Match, a bone marrow donor non-profit, and is debriefing me on exactly how it works. All they do is swab your cheek and- dammit, there she goes again. It’s not that I want to engage with this gal, it’s the look she’s giving me- it’s not sexual, it’s not interested… it’s conspiring. Perhaps I’m paranoid. After watching the Lincoln Lawyer- which is not your typical Matthew McConahay movie and if you say different, I will shave off your eyebrow- I’ve began to read into gesture a little more than the average cop. Sidenote: I’m not a cop, however this woman is still seeing to it that she either murders me with her eyes or sizes me up long enough to shank me outside of this bar.

Back to Dan, back to the conversation, back to the fact I’m in Chicago in lieu of my future-brother-in-law’s bachelor party and having the time of my life with an old college friend. Dan fills me in on his promotion from the Minneapolis branch of Be The Match, to h.m.i.c. of Chicago’s branch. 2 of his 3 things to follow in life are to be on time, and have fun. I forgot the 3^rd, but I’ll ask’em later for it.

“Excuse me, are you Toussaint Morrison”, murmurs a voice from the crowd. I can’t find it for a split second, which sends me into a frayed confusion of “what the fuck is going on here, am I going schizophrenic this late in the game- ugh, I really am a late bloomer”. Quick, I turn nonchalantly towards the voice… it’s the woman from across the bar. The woman who wants to kill me... with her eyes, at least. She has vamped from across the bar to right-next-to-me town. Dan and I look at each other… take a moment… and laugh. “No, nooo, is that really a name? Or is that some kind of French word for “toilet”? I boast. She doesn’t look humored by this at all. Her friend to the left, is laughing and smiling, whilst her friend to the right is deadly not amused. People that aren’t amused… well, aren’t amused, but I always make the effort to test it- do my damndest to see how unamused they can look.

“You must be the mom of the group”, I tell the friend to the right. The other two girls laugh aloud. The friend to the right leans in, smiles, “I’m the crazy one”. And that’s when I realized I have a predisposition to be attracted to the craziest woman in the building. Aside from the obvious- Back to the woman with killer eyes- less “how the hell does”, but I’m more intrigued how would she know my full name? Is she making sure she has the right person before she pulls the shank from her purse to gut me? Who the hell knows me in Chicago?

“I work with Jake… He does the mixtapes with you…” Ahhhhh yes, an affiliate of Dr. Wylie. I can’t really put the guy in anonymous for this stuff, but Dr. Wylie’s name is  Jake Wylie. We met in ’01 at the dorms in Hamline before I dropped out after two weeks. However, during those two weeks we put together beats and recorded two or three songs that immediately became cult classics amongst our peers. Now, piecing together mixtapes for DJs and the general public, we’ve easily graduated, 7 years later, to a game of national draw and online numbers.

I introduce Dan, the gal and her friends chat with us, moments pass, we bid adieu. After their departure, Dan & I pause… look at each other and begin laughing, again. It wasn’t the odds of the encounter, it was the fashion in which it was designed. Women don’t usually approach guys, hence the reversal of it all is humor in itself. Culturally we’ve been prepared as men to hunt down the date, initiate the verbal communication, and walk the tight rope of social interaction. Given this woman had an outright reason to approach me, but it still doesn’t take away from the fact it was her initiative. Bet your ass people see people they recognize all the time and do their damndest to not initiate a thing. Either way, it would happen to me the next day at a bar called Burton’s after Rockmen’s bachelor party… still just as humorous.

Dan and I trek into the thick of Wicker Park; hipster hangouts, hole-in-the-wall bars, danceterias, etc. It is fortunate; to converse with an old friend now in the midst of a new chapter. Although having just lived in the Chi for a few months, Dan moves quick: allied with a small group of young professionals meeting once every few weeks to network, swift with bus & L directions across the city, and on top of damn near every facet of his job before he even landed.

Not before I wonder aloud, “It’s like 2 out of every 3 women here are hot fire”, Dan gives me the run down on his experience in Chicago. I give him the run down of me finding the craziest gal in her circle to be the most attractive. “Yeah, she was Schaumburg”, replied Dan. “Excuse me”, I said. “Schaumburg… like the suburb outside of Chicago. It’s close enough to commute, but far enough to make it a pain in the ass to drive. If you meet a woman in Chicago, have a connection, but then find out she lives in Schaumburg… she’d have to be hot enough for you to make the commute. Schaumburg hot.”

I revisit several past relationships. I won’t tell you how many were worth it of commuting the distance to Schaumburg, if any at all. I’m assuming Schaumbeug Hot is transformative over time, whereas the “crazy” girl, from the group that approached us, was damn well Schaumburg Hot… but give it a week or two, and I might’ve been less likely to commute a block rather than a 3^rd ring suburb. I don’t know… and most likely never will. The mystery is more attractive than the actual knowing, sometimes.