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The Calm Between the Storms
by Gary Charpentier |
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The
time had finally come for me to get my name back. The
serious young Human Resources Associate raised an eyebrow
over my employment application and informed me in his best
Nazi accent, "Your papers are not in order." Rather than
risk 30 days in "the cooler" or whatever the modern
equivalent is, I decided it was time to replace my stolen
credentials. Some weeks ago, I
was playing blackjack at a local casino when I became a
victim of one of the local professional pickpockets. (I
stopped wearing the wallet-with-chain when I parked my last
Harley.) Knowing that I was going to be hired at my new job
soon, I had my license, social insecurity card and birth
certificate nestled in the folds of said wallet ready to
prove to anyone who inquired that, yes, I am a real person
and a taxpaying citizen of these United States. The
pickpocket stole my dwindling assets along with my identity
in one fell swoop. Now, I really hate
dealing with bureaucracy. I break out in a cold sweat every
time the registration on one of my vehicles comes due. There
is really no justification for this in Minnesota, as the DMV
here is relatively efficient. But I have experienced the
vehicular version of Gestapo Headquarters in the DMVs of
Southern California, and those ordeals have left me scarred
for life. But this was an inescapable dilemma: either prove
I am who I am or give up the new job. I took the rest of the
day off to tackle this seemingly insurmountable
task. I have told you
all this to set the stage and to explain why I decided to
cut off my caffeine intake for the day. I could only imagine
what it would be like to stand in lines for hours, vibrating
with excess energy, humming some tuneless melody and waiting
for my number to come up, so I could plead with some
brain-dead 'crat to give me my identity back. So when I
stopped in at the KickStart to prepare myself for the quest,
I ordered a soda instead of my usual "Liquid
Crank." Well, it wasn't
nearly as bad as I had built it up to be. Four hours later,
I had receipts for my license and SSC and a brand new,
certified copy of my very own birth certificate. This left
me with the rest of the afternoon to RIDE! Shift gears
now. Down at the bottom
of Ton-Up Hill flows the mighty Mississippi River. We who
live in the Twin Cities often take it for granted. Here in
the fast-paced urban jungle, the only time we notice this
famous body of water is when we have to slow for traffic
across a bridge. Then we steal a glance right or left and
think, "Wow, that's kinda pretty." We watch the sun rise or
set over the skyline, and our mind begins to drift to
kinder, gentler things...until the idiot ahead of us
suddenly hits his brakes again for no apparent reason, and
we are jerked rudely out of our reverie. That's the price of
city life, I guess. This night I went
out riding solo with no particular destination in mind. The
threat of rain was in the air, but so were the myriad colors
of twilight, and I figured I had at least an hour before
those dark, sullen clouds on the horizon parked themselves
over my head. The only direction I can ride from my driveway
is down, so that's the way I went. Gogo and I found
ourselves burbling along Concord through South St. Paul with
the mixed aromas of refinery and stockyard on the breeze.
Soon we turned towards the river and came to a toll bridge.
This was the first time I have ever paid to ride anywhere in
the state of Minnesota, and I was rather astonished to find
nothing of interest on the other side of this 75 cent
crossing. I had been hoping for some sort of winding,
undulating snake of a road following the bends of the river,
but I just found a storm ravaged residential neighborhood
with lots of debris from the recent harsh weather. Several
children were out on bicycles. Their parents were clearing
fallen trees from their yards. I rode slowly and waved a
lot. On the main drag
through St. Paul Park, I was struck by how small townish
everything looked. Here, right on the verge of the
metropolis, was a small Minnesota town with several bars, a
couple stores, and I think I saw one gas station. You can
find carbon copies of this town several miles in any
direction from the cities, but it was rather strange to
suddenly come upon it without the usual scenic transition.
But I guess St. Paul is mostly made up of a bunch of small
towns just kind of crammed together quite unlike its
cosmopolitan and oh so sophisticated neighbor, Minneapolis,
but let's not go there. After a brief
blast down the freeway, I pulled off on Plato and rode along
the south bank of the river across from the capitol city
itself. I pulled into a kind of cul-de-sac where many cars
were parked and put down the kickstand. I shut down the
motor, doffed my helmet and gloves, and walked out along the
water's edge. Here, in the shadow of the High Bridge, I
found a few people fishing. Mostly couples, they stood along
the bank casting all manner of bait into the water with
similar results--not a single bite. I don't think actually
catching fish was the point. It was to stand there and gaze
out at the city lights, the passing boats and barges, and
simply enjoy a peaceful moment before the coming of the
storm. The rods and reels, worms and minnows were props.
Minnesotans are funny that way; we don't want to appear to
do things without a reason. We saw a flash of
lightning reflected off the windows of the King Plant, and
some began to pick up empty buckets and walk back to their
waiting cars. I looked back over my shoulder, saw the clouds
breaking over the hill, and came to the same conclusion.
Gogo and I cracked the ton on the way home (as is our
habit), and I was warm and dry in front of my computer when
the first raindrops fell. I suppose I should
be disappointed. I didn't find anything to challenge my
skill or courage tonight. I did not cheat death. I didn't
even thumb my nose at him. I went for a ride, nice and easy.
And you know what? It felt good. Maybe I should do this more
often... M.M.M.
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