A Tired, Spotted Equine Beast, Or Down and Out in Minni-town May 5, 2007
Posted by Phineas in : Irrelevant, Lies, Narrative, Outdoors/Travel , trackbackTrouble in Minni-town was not so easily found. Or I wasn’t really trying hard enough.
I tried to pick a fight with a group of Twins fans headed for the ballpark. I called the pitcher a pussy but they were too polite to take offense. I quoted Noam Chomsky and they said, “Friend, if it’s trouble you want, you’re on the wrong side of the river. It’s the St. Paulers you seek, for some of them are assholes.”
“Some of them are killers,” they went on. “Some of them fight dirty.”
I realized then how mean and weak I was, and how fortunate to have steered clear of that notorious hellhole St. Paul. I thanked the Twins fans and bade them good game.
I affected a false limp and hobbled down to the riverfront. The sun broke through the clouds like a sick joke. The Pillsbury warehouse gleamed insultingly.
A horse and buggy clopped past me. While the driver was unflappably sincere as he smiled and waved at me, the same could not be said of the horse, which attempted to mask its racial epithets under a horsey cough. I knew the epithets were meant for me, which was ironic, since I am not ethnic in the least. The tired, spotted equine beast was one clop away from the glue factory (Duluth). I felt enormous compassion for the beast, so I tossed the driver into the Mississippi quite unceremoniously. His stupid vowels gurgled into foam at the falls two bridges down, as I inhabited what had been his life. I collected numerous fares that evening, taking them up and down the warehouse district and across the river as far as I felt it was safe to go. Happily, the last fare of the evening left his wallet in the back seat, so I dined at the Spoonriver on oysters, lobster, salmon, scallops, mussells, steelhead, and ahi tuna over a bed of wasabi peanut sauce risotto and boiled cabbage, with just a pinch of ice cream. For dessert — key lime struedel with blackberry jam, wrapped in two crepes, burrito style, smothered in honey. For a night cap I asked for a tall glass with a shot of every whiskey in the house tossed in, and a shaker of salt. I charged it all on Mr. Keith’s corporate American Express card, which put me in mind to get Mr. Keith in even more serious trouble.
As a fare, Mr. Keith had seemed a kind enough sort of fellow. But after that tall Minneapolis Iced Tea, as the wait staff coined it, Mr. Keith’s image had distorted considerably in my mind into a typical, self-absorbed, superior, arrogant St. Pauler, deserving of every insult and damage my inebriated ego might concoct. So it was off to Annie’s Topless Dancers with me and Mr. Keith’s corporate American Express card. I handed the card off to the likeliest fool and told him to buy lap dances all around. I pretended to limp back to Roscoe, my tired, spotted equine beast, whom I had parked at the corner of 7th and 9th, two streets which inexplicably intersected after 10 p.m. I assumed this either was some form of Viking efficiency, or had to do with snow escape routes and made perfect sense in winter.
Roscoe was engaged in heated argument with a gang of Somali teenagers. I laughed and explained the nature of their misunderstanding. “This horse speaks to me in just the same way, and as you can plainly see, unlike yourselves I am not ethnic in the least. It’s a harmless form of equine Tourrettes. Some veterinary psychiatrists from the University are studying Roscoe. Look for a peer-reviewed article later this fall.” To which the Somali youths replied, “unvesty” a few times, and ran towards a fireworks display down by the river. Roscoe bolted off in the opposite direction.
Having inhabited the existence of the buggy driver and that of Mr. Keith, I though it prudent to inhabit my own, at least long enough to get back to the hotel. I hired a cab with a distracted Somali driver, who handed me the GPS device and commanded me to enter an address. I selected a random hotel from the recent destination list, and we sped off. We spent the next several hours crossing and recrossing the humble Mississippi. Each time we did I heard those same stupid vowels gurgling out from beneath the bridge. Finally at dawn we pulled into the hotel driveway, which was located exactly where I had hired the taxi in the first place. I handed the driver hundreds of dollars and bade him good game.
Later that morning I caught the first flight home, for I could not return to the arms of my lover soon enough, and apologize for everything I had done.
Comments»
I know how you feel. I always feel sorry for animals who are meeting their ends. I think that we human beings actually identify with them and what is going to happen to them–death–be turned into glue, horsehid, and who know’s what. In the case of we humans, presumbly we somehow have more control over our fate at “the end of the day.” Unfortunately, however, we really don’t even have that according to my readings, research, and listening to news reports. We still are not allowed to have control over our own destinies–either through religiously, ignorance, or by the laws.
That’s about it.
Sincerely, Jan Cole