Boundary Babes

Chapter 26 and the Epilogue: Wish You Were Here…

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe… Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion… I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. 

 …all those moments will be lost in time… like tears in the rain.

 -Blade Runner

 

At the edge of my parent’s porch I sat, watching the last remnants of a purified sky, once bright with light and unscathed from impurities now fading into darkness on the last night of my trip. Pink Floyd played through my headphones, the set of soft lyrics and mild chords leaving me with a myriad of thoughts circling around in my head, as was its intention. Thoughts of the past, thoughts of the present, and thoughts of the future…

 

***

 

It was in July of 2013 when the tradition began. The city of Spokane, Washington along with its neighboring towns had strangely become overrun by a massive yellow jacket infestation, Kanye West had just released his latest album, the highly acclaimed yet controversial “Yeezus,” and the one and only Bill O’Reilly was in town, quite possibly the biggest celebrity ever to step foot in Eastern Washington since Sarah Palin’s speaking engagement with Republic High School. And the best part, my mother had somehow managed to commandeer a few tickets for my dad and I to see him at the Spokane Arena! Thus, I made the venture home for the weekend, for there was no way I was passing this up, not with such high-demand items in our possession, especially when O’Reilly’s in town!

Apart from the weekend’s political punditry, all other affairs had been pushed aside for the time at the expense of a screenplay. Over the course of a year and a half, countless nights had been spent crafting my masterpiece, a well-entrenched story with twists and turns about an eclectic pair of police detectives on a quest to put an end to a cat burglar’s reign of terror—going from house to house around Brown County, Illinois and stealing his victims most treasured possessions… and then using their bathroom… and not flushing (I know what you’re thinking, how in the world did I ever conceive of such an idea?). Like many nights before it, “Turd Burglars” had once again sucked away the majority of my focus, deeming all other matters as insignificant.

My fingers typed ferociously across the keyboard, determined to meet my next self-imposed deadline, foolishly set to be the first of many postponements, a habit I fear I’ll never break as a writer. My mind ran on overdrive, fueled by the Pink Floyd kick I had developed a few months prior as my go-to choice for running music (there’s something about having the ability to explore the city and explore your mind all at the same time that creates stimulating effects…). Every part of me, heart, body and soul was set on it—this one goal, working overtime amidst an immanent bee assault, driven by the waning synthesizer rifts of “Have a Cigar,” and pushed by the answering guitar solos, a proclamation of war between me and my screenplay, that I shall continue to press forward into the late hours of the evening, that I would not stop until one of us was utterly and physically defeated.

It was a climactic and abrupt stop followed by a soft fade into nonsensical chatter. The song ended and my head shot forward, much like a diver would to catch his breath before sending himself back into the murky depths of treasure and discovery. In front of me was a bulge of orange light, the sun’s final stand against the overwhelming forces of night. “Hmm, that’s pretty,” I said with a shrug, ready to delve back into another writing surge.

I took a sip of beer and placed my fingertips back onto the keyboard—something was different this time. Goosebumps suddenly formed all over my body; my forearm hair stood straight like a thousand tiny needles pointed outward. I attempted to strike the keyboard, to input a series of legible keystrokes that would translate into prose; it was impossible. I was completely frozen, struck by the subtle and graceful guitar introduction to “Wish You Were Here,” and gazing into that same bulge of light I had tried to ignore a moment before, lowering itself against the scattered trees of the Dischmann-Mica valley. I sat back on the deck and succumbed to the power of the moment, any more attempts at writing would be useless from this point on.

There was no other sound but the soft melody of the song, no other soul around to break the concord, and no other movement but the slow fade of the red summer sun fighting against a pure sheet of darkness until its very last breath. I watched in peace and silence, and I remembered…

So… so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell
Blue skies from pain,
Can you tell a green field,
From a cold steel rail
A smile from a veil
Do you think you can tell…

 

***

 

Cambray and Lauren watched from a stumped log as I waded knee deep in the water, the sun’s reflection sending an ever-changing fuchsia glaze over the lake’s surface. Soft ripples broke its plane, the last account of a flash rainstorm that had left Lauren’s side of the tent drenched and the raging winds that made paddling through Sawbill Lake nearly impossible, a small sample in a number of mishaps that nearly defined our rookie Boundary Waters trip, including a failed attempt to hang our Duluth Bags out of the reach from bears. But now, nearing the end of our journey, looking out across the lake of which I stood, saturated with an array of purple haze over a stilled marriage of wood and water, we were given a new definition.

Me in the boundary waters

The constant sound of breaking water drew louder with each push, a warm presence closing in on my position—Cambray and Lauren had joined me. Bantered words were exchanged amongst us after a few splashes and missteps had caused a squirm that wetted the tips of my cut-off shorts. I assessed the damage, scanning the areas of clothing I had failed to keep dry after so much care was given, then to the source of my failure. There was something different in the water, an evident aberration—a sudden diversion to my attention. Something had overcome; something had turned.

The water gave off a blood orange tint, a counter image of the sky. A heavy build of clouds moved across it, covering the girth of the setting sun. Not to be outdone, the sun sent out beams of light, pultruding beyond edges and piercing through at any point possible. We watched as the rays widened, bursting through the cloud cover and pushing them aside, revealing a message:

BW night shot

“Welcome to the End of the World.”

In an instant, blood orange turned blood red, and the clouds regrouped, darker, denser, and ready to charge, to eradicate all of the hate, evil, and destructive forces plaguing the world for so long—further proof that God was good on his word. We stood that evening in the middle of the Boundary Waters, amongst a most beautiful sunset placed at the edge of our world…

…And we welcomed it.

Me in Boundary Waters Canoe

***

 

“I wish they were here to see this,” I thought to myself as the song’s chorus progressed. It had been two years since that evening in the Boundary Waters, and it was certainly a travesty that they, or anybody else for that matter weren’t able to see the potential on display, possibly the reason why it was so personal. Fortunately, it would only be a matter of weeks until our next reunion, where we would once again be surrounded by the unspoiled beauty that had been so captivating two years prior. I smiled a simple smile, for we were on the eve of another Boundary Waters trip.

Nearly a year later I found myself in the same position, gazing out at a similar sunset. Nate, one of my best friends from my childhood had just gotten married, following a weekend that consisted of bibulous behavior during a bachelor party (at least on my behalf) and a wedding scenario of which I got suckered into becoming a Star Wars Jedi Knight. With “Wish You Were Here” playing through my headphones, thoughts of the past swirled through my head—our many sleepovers staying up to conquer games from the many iterations of Nintendo consoles, building and destroying our creations in SimCity 2000, devising plans to cheat our way into a win at Monopoly, feasting on Pizza Hut pizza and drowning ourselves in Mountain Dew while drawn to a perfect TGIF lineup, and what kind of sleepover would it be without sneaking in a quick viewing session of the nudey scene from Titanic?

I thought about the present, how much fun it was to reunite with old friends, and wondering how in the world I got snookered into the whole Jedi Knight routine. And then there were thoughts of the future, where I was, where I was headed, and how I was going to get there. “How is my story going to play out?” I sat and wondered, watching the sun dim like a candle on its last cord of wax while listening to the simple, yet elegant progression of chords fade out, attempting to piece together another part of my life. I sat and watched, smiling a simple smile.

And now, here I was, another year passed, sitting in the same place with the same tune in my head after a long journey, with much to ponder…

 

***

 

Upon my arrival to my parent’s house two days prior, I learned that a memorial service was being held for an old friend I had met in college. It had been a while since I had seen Jon; moving away occasionally causes that sort of thing happen. However, you could always expect a hug and a smile from the man, no matter the amount of time spent apart, and as an accomplished, raspy-voiced blues guitarist with a skill set that always left you in awe (and with a hint of jealousy I must admit from time to time), there was a good chance that I, as well as many others would be graced with an original song or two whenever there was a get-together of sorts. Knowing the kind-natured spirit that Jon was, coupled with the fact that I was in the area, attendance to his memorial was mandatory if there was any shred of honor left in me after such a notorious trip.

A man with a heart of gold trapped in the body of a brute, there were very few people in the world that could say they didn’t like Jon at first sight, and those who did (if any) were most likely of the bro-type, envious of his striking resemblance to a Nordic Viking. Much was the case with our first meeting.

In a small apartment in Moscow, Idaho, where an eclectic group of skateboarders and University of Idaho students were gathered, in walked Jon to the spectacle of a strange boy singing the Red Hot Chili Peppers song, “Can’t Stop.” For some reason or another, choosing to heed to the song’s advice instead of affording our newly arrived guest the proper etiquette he deserved, I continued with my obnoxious singing (something that never happens. I mean, c’mon!). Any normal person would’ve countered walking in on such odd behavior with a look of disturbed perplexity, but not Jon. With a stroke of brevity, he immediately stepped up next to me and began beatboxing the bass rhythm of the song. From there and for the next couple of minutes, we performed a near perfect, and well-received number for everyone in attendance, neither one of us skipping a beat, as if we had spent years in preparation for this moment. Within a matter of minutes, we had become friends.

At the young age of 28, Jon had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, one that despite a fierce battle and multiple efforts to fight on, ultimately took his life a few months later. So on that Saturday in mid-July, I traveled to Princeton, Idaho and joined an already large gathering in honor of our late friend.

While some expressed excitement upon my somewhat surprise arrival at the Teeter Manor located on the outskirts of the small Idaho town, Mike Gibson brandished a look of disappointment as I drove passed and motioned his foot as if he were about to perform a curb stomp on my car’s frame with the intention of causing permanent deformation. The violent gesture put a smile on my face like no other person was capable of doing.

Arthur, an old skateboarding friend (and quite possibly the closest living reincarnation to David Bowie) started the memorial alongside Jon’s father with a procession of songs. About a hundred of us, friends and family listened as they played their guitars and sang with passion, songs about life, friends, and memories that emphasized Jon’s influence. The crowd favorite was a song about how you can “drink the beers to make it all go away,” an original written by Jon himself.

After the songs were over, a group of his closest friends, Jaired, Henry, and Destry joined Arthur to share a couple stories and their thoughts about the type of man Jon was—somebody who would never betray your trust; a man who took a promise to heart, who understood the sacred conviction of “your word.” He was quick to forgive, yet not to forget, as to ensure you were held accountable for your actions, for the better of your soul. And most of all, as elegantly reaffirmed by his mother, he was a man who always put others before himself, who would make your wellbeing his number one priority, even as he neared death.

As the evening came to an end, we made our way to the edge of the manor that overlooked the west, home to hundreds of acres of forest, rolling hills, and colorful farmland spread across an area of the Washington/Idaho border called “The Palouse.” Jon’s father led us in one last song, “Que Sera Sera,” a song that Jon would end each set with whenever he performed a show as we watched the sun set over the Palouse, bringing an even more vibrant string of colors to the already unique plot of country.

“To a life… lived without compromise!” They were the last words spoken during the sun’s final descent, a mighty and powerful toast given by Jon’s brother Mike, of which everybody accepted and drank to.

It was a celebration of life, and celebrate we did, well into the wee hours of the morning. As it had become widely known over the years in the Moscow area, there was a certain set of individuals who had developed a somewhat “infamous” reputation for partying during their tenure at the University of Idaho. Although some would view that behavior as nefarious, I contend that it simply amounted to a group of friends who enjoyed each other’s company, and expressed their sincere adulation for each other with an elevated sense of generosity whenever they were in the presence of alcohol. Many of those people happened to be in attendance, and being that Jon was a calm and collected individual, he wasn’t exactly one to participate in such outlandish behavior after a couple drinks. However, he was a friend to all and could tolerate the antics with love, no matter how unorthodox the night’s festivities would get. So the tradition continued on Jon’s behalf. As instructed by the words of his most popular song, “we drank the beers to make it all go away…”

But perhaps the thing that stood out to me that evening after all the haziness had settled were a few thoughts Jaired had shared about his late friend.

“…Jon was such an amazing person; somebody who wasn’t content with just settling. He was somebody who wasn’t afraid to follow his dreams… There were many nights that we spent out here at the manor. Jon would come sit outside for hours with his guitar, and he’d… he’d create some of the most beautiful music I’d ever heard. Music about life… his friends… and about living. We’d sit out with him, and we would just listen…”

 

***

Those words went through my mind as I sat on the edge of the porch that next evening after the memorial. To Create… It’s an integral part of living, almost a duty for being human. The very essence of nature demands that we create in order to survive, the most basic of these being sustenance, shelter, and tools to progress our lives.

But beyond that is a drive; an ambition to go beyond, to do things the world has never seen or even dreamed of, to prove the impossible as possible. It’s a drive that inspires revolution and ideas, ideas that turn into invention and art, the fundamental parts of us that make us human—that separates us from the rest of the animals. It’s a drive that allows us to create life… and a drive that above all, creates memories.

I couldn’t help but look back on the time I had just spent on the road, even if it were in some God forsaken place such as a Motel 6 in Rock Springs, Wyoming. What I would give to be sitting next to Shaun with a 40 in my hand, no matter how disgusting the beer was, or to be taking Saki Bombs with Eric in a new-age sushi bar in Denver. How awesome would it be to sing just one more song at the 1029, or completely drench another dress shirt in sweat by means of dance. It was barely two weeks ago that I had left for my trip, and I was already missing the very moment we had said goodbye to Megan Mills in Boise.

I missed it all; the sharp, snow-capped tips of the Gran Tetons, the comforting feeling of contentment nestled in the cornfields of Kansas, the slew of hotel antics intentionally and unintentionally pulled, the beautiful sights, the glowing stars on the crystal clear nights, and all of the magical places of which we made a solemn vow to someday make our return. Even more so, I missed the people that made those times even more special; Beth, Blake, all of the gatherings of friends and family in America’s dairy land, Cambray and Lauren, aka the Boundary Babes and everything they embody (Oh how I miss the Boundary Babes!), and especially Bill, my partner in crime through the whole thing. I wished they all were here, sitting next to me and sharing the same complication of thoughts rummaging through my head.

But I guess in a funny way, they were. And they always would be…

And only because it wouldn’t have been the same without her, and not to make a big deal out of it or anything but I, uh, I… Oh God, I can’t believe I’m actually going to say this… I kind of, sort of… miss Gretch… I mean, not like a lot or anything, don’t get me wrong! She dragged us through hell and back, almost killed us a few times, said naughty things—look, all I’m saying is that there was a lot we went through, and maybe we grew a little because of the experience. Besides, I don’t think you necessarily have to like somebody to miss them—in fact, you can probably hate em’ and still miss em’ at the same time! I’m sure it happens with people all of the time! And it doesn’t have to mean a lot either, just a thought that you keep in the back of your head every now and then to keep you on your feet, so I wouldn’t say that I exactly miss Gretch, but it’s just—

Ah, who am I kiddin’? I really miss Gretch… big time.

And while we’re at it, I might as well go out and say it. I even miss Ben Wood—

Screw that. Nobody misses that kid.

 

***

 

I think it’s natural to feel a little sad and emotional at the end of a trip, to look back at all you’ve done and created along the way. But it’s memories that remind us why life is worth living, especially through the dark times. Though they can never be recreated, they hold potential, they encourage us to move forward when the opportunity presents itself. Within weeks, I was to return to Wisconsin with the rest of my extended family to celebrate my grandpa living 90 years on the Earth, and a few months later, I would be back again, this time to Green Bay with my mother to watch the Packers finally beat the Shi—I mean, Seahawks (I swear, one of these days I’ll get it right) after years of unjust torment!

Mom and I before and after the game.

There was even another wedding on the books in Bend Oregon, another chance/excuse to drink, dance, hang out with babes, reunite with old friends, and meet new ones, all in the name of celebrating the love between our friends AJ and Lauren, and the years of memories in the making because of it.

“Wish You Were Here” had faded, and the sky was black now, with only the glittering of stars shining through as light, millions of them a million miles away, fragments of a large puzzle that would take an entire lifetime and beyond to solve. I sat and watched, smiling a simple smile, feeling as though I had just solved another piece.

 

***

 

Epilogue:

 

A number of text messages were waiting for me the moment I entered the lodge at Schweitzer Mountain Resort in Northern Idaho, each one setting a more frantic tone than the one before it. I had only a few minutes to check them and make a failed attempt at a call before my phone died, the cold weather preventing the battery from staying charged properly. In walked my friend Brian, having made the unanimous decision to end our day of snowboarding with a mix of beer and college football, giving me time to recharge my phone and wonder what it was that was so important. An hour passed before I was able to make the call.

“Hey Cambray, what’s going on?” I asked.

“Where are you?”

“At a ski resort, what’s wrong?”

“…Call me when you get home. It’s better if you hear this when you’re alone…”

“…I understand. I’ll call as soon as I can…” I didn’t understand, and my imagination further intensified the severity of the situation, a fleeting thought that ran through my head during the 2-hour drive back to Spokane. I kept my composure, playing the urgency off as if everything was all right, hoping for the best, yet furtively planning for the worst.

The thought went through my head as a worst-case scenario—multiple times in fact. However, such a thing just didn’t seem plausible, and surely it wouldn’t be as bad as my mind had built it up to be.

My heart pounded a little faster than normal the moment I shut the door to my room and dialed Cambray’s number, the ongoing dial tone feeding my anticipation. Then, she spoke and my heart stopped. I took the news in shock, barely able to express any emotion whatsoever; nothing could’ve prepared me for what I had just heard. Like millions of others across the world, I too would find myself spending New Year’s Eve in an over-indulgence of alcohol, but not in celebration…

That evening, I learned that Lauren had suffered from a cardiac aneurysm. She had passed away that morning.

 

***

 

It wasn’t until the next day when the reality of her passing fully sunk in. My mind had run itself into an inextricable knot, unable to interpret—even process what had just happened. None of it seemed real—It wasn’t real… So I did the only thing I knew how to do. With Pink Floyd playing in my iPod, I ran, escaped into the forest, away from everybody and everything, looking for answers.

My feet sank with each step through the deep layers of snow, the heavy exertion of force used to trudge through quickly alleviating the chilled effects of a 14-degree New Year’s Day. The eerie introductory tone of “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” converted the convolution of thoughts and frustration into propulsion, pushing me deeper and deeper into the forest. I worked on pure, animal instinct, up and over fallen trees and debris, slipping up and down slopes, breathing, sweating, moving my arms and legs back and forth, furiously and repeatedly; not thinking—just acting… moving, farther and farther away from reality, farther away from sanity.

The music progressed, as did my body, now a robotic being, its purpose pre-programmed, working with mechanical movements that could outlast any and all elements. I ran, inching closer to some unknown destination without an operator to stop the machine, running and waiting for a major breakdown or an expended fuel source, the only two logical events that could stop the madness.

The final hill was a grueling affair, one ignored by the limitations of my legs. Somehow, they kept pushing, finding ways to move passed each obstacle and gather traction through the dense and snow-packed areas of forest. I moved, faster and harder, until I reached the top where a clear opening was exposed.

I stopped and looked out across an immense valley as though the changing of songs on the album had simultaneously flicked my body’s “off” switch. Above me was a bright, cloudless sky of pure blue. In front the air sparkled, thousands of water vapor molecules frozen by the stagnant chill of a winter day, and beyond it laid a fresh blanket of snow covering the Dischmann-Mica valley of Spokane. I let the cold penetrate my skin, bringing about a strange sense of comfort as I gazed out in amazement at a sight filled with pines, firs, spruces and junipers, all buried under the white powder and lining the edges of a valley that spanned for miles, all of it untainted by any human existence except for a set of tracks I had made behind me… and I imagined she was there.

I could imagine her standing right next to me, looking out at a sight of natural beauty that no eyes had ever seen, able to realize the extraordinary view in front of us that so few had that ability to appreciate, just like we did those many years ago when we set foot in the Boundary Waters for the first time. I imagined her beside me with a radiant smile spread across her face, a reflection of a perfect sky shining over an untouched indent of the Earth. I imagined she was there, seeing exactly what I was seeing…

The well-recognized guitar introduction from “Wish You Were Here” started to play through my headphones. Suddenly, I was swallowed by reality…

…I would never have the chance to show her this.

Tears filled my eyes as my neck and face tightened. I let out a whimpered burst, followed by a string of choppy breaths that battled against my body’s natural reaction to weep. The shallow tears accumulated, turning into a steady stream that fell down onto my rosy cheeks, and I cried. Deep in the forest, miles away from the nearest form of civilization, I cried out a series of embarrassing cries—cries of desperation, cries of hopelessness… cries out to God in an attempt to find any sort of reasoning, that maybe I could find him, somewhere in the depths of the valley. “How can a world so beautiful be so unjust?” It was the first of many unanswered questions. “Why?” I simply put. “God, what must her family be thinking?” I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“…What do I do now God…?” I asked, feeling as though my life had lost all purpose, that every piece of the puzzle had been blown apart, unsure of where to start again… unsure if I wanted to start again. “What do I do now…?”

I stayed out in that open area of the forest for several minutes, staring out at the sunny, snow-covered valley, and letting the music repeat itself, waiting patiently for an answer. I remained outside, waiting until the combination of sweat and tears had formed frozen chunks onto my head and beard; my sweat-drenched shirt was only a few minutes behind. I returned home that day, having received no answers; unsure if I ever would…

 

***

 

The night of her passing I stepped out onto the porch as I had done many times before with an old fashioned in hand. It was the third one I’d had that night, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. I stood out in the cold, alone, staring out into a black, lifeless night, letting the crystallized air molecules pierce my lungs like a thousand tiny needles, attacking my body with each breath—jeopardizing my survival in the bleak and frozen world. Every now and then, it takes the threat of mortality to remind us we’re alive.

There was no other sound except the occasional rattle of ice from my alcoholic beverage, no movement anywhere within the spread of the forest but for the precipitation of breath, and absolutely no soul to disturb me in my silent remonstration of justice, the still air doing nothing to untangle the web of thoughts muddling about in my head. In acquiescence to the freezing temperature, my hands dropped into my coat pockets where they clasped around a thin, metal frame. It was my iPod, a possible catalyst for clarity; at that moment, I was desperate for anything.

I pressed the home button and swiped the screen with a potential album in mind, but a song was already playing. I’ll never know quite for sure why that particular song happened to be playing at that time, whether it was by miracle or a malfunction caused by a pair of sports headphones that had been the root of frustration during my most recent runs. I contend that it was a little bit of both.

I placed the headphones in my ear and heard the soft stroke of guitar chords playing behind a familiar, raspy voice, each plucked string from the guitar cutting into my heart unlike it had ever done before. For a brief moment, I was brought back to a simpler time, a time of warmth and love; two friends singing their hearts out, an ode for a fallen friend unto an audience filled with fans, strangers, lovers, and most importantly, Boundary Babes; a complete antipodal from which I stood… a time where two friends unknowingly embraced the true meaning of life and what it meant to live…

…Two friends, simply living in the moment without fear, without apprehension… without compromise. For a brief moment, I stood and stared into the cold night. I listened, and I remembered…

Ain’t it funny how the night moves,
When you just don’t seem to have as much to lose.
Strange how the night moves…

 With autumn closin’ in…

For a brief moment, I stood and stared into the cold night. I listened, and I remembered…

How lucky we are to be alive. How blessed are we to know the people we know in the places we’ve been…?

…What an opportunity we have…


 

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Chapter 20: Out of the Vein, Part 2

You gotta steal the time of a life that’s passing by…

-Third Eye Blind

 

7 AM. The air precipitated as it left my breath. I stood at the edge of a lawn, alone, the last of my kind in a ghost town called suburbia. In front of me stood the Benz, my instrument to achieve the ultimate freedom. A freedom that looked so exhilarating… a freedom that scared the living shit out of me.

I entered the car with caution, a heavy sense of danger looming, with every part of me holding the belief that I was headed towards a catastrophe. My skin formed bumps and opened its passages for easy perspiration. My lungs expanded and contracted rapidly, inadvertently converting oxygen into carbon dioxide at a dangerously abnormal pace. Blood pumped through my vessels at an irregular rate and my mind raced around and around with crowded thoughts, causing a traffic jam inside my head, a combination that led to an indefinite stall.

The infant sun lifted over the streets, a source of life so far way, it looked to be in every way unreachable, its power over me an ostensible reminder of the hopeless nature present when tasked to challenge authority. “What the hell am I doing?” I asked myself while I sat in the car for several minutes, void of any movement. The irony provided a most chilling answer, one that was the least bit pleasing.

My eyes slowly diverted their attention to the center console where a piece of stationary stuck out. First noticeable from my peripheral vision, its unusual placement seduced me, drawing me closer as if it was asking to be plucked. I studied its pose, how and why it was placed the way it was, wondering whether to open it or forever remain ignorant of its contents. I wondered, it’s unique and captivating position sending me deeper and deeper into a dangerous trance, and then I wondered some more…

***

It rained the previous morning when I left Wisconsin. Of course it rained… it had to. It was relentless, and in stereotypical fashion I might add, just like in one of those sappy chick flicks where the hunk has to say goodbye to the babe and everyone’s crying and drenched and the rain is just pouring down all over the place—you know, Nicholas Sparks style, but way cornier. Purely coincidental that every time you have to say goodbye to somebody, the weather turns to crap.

After a hearty lunch with Cousin Brian and one final stop at the Pick n’ Save to stock up on some Old Fashioned mix, I was back on the road, facing the barrage of rain, obstinate in its pursuit to challenge my driving skills. There was no time to feel sad or sorry, or even reflect on life events, my usual routine during a long drive home after vacation. All of my focus went into maneuvering through the thick web of rain punishing the external surfaces of my car as if I was stuck in a never-ending car wash at 60 miles per hour. The windshield wipers thrashed back and forth so fast and so frequently that I questioned the structural integrity of each wiper, whether they were strong enough to withstand the momentous forces acting upon them from each swing. I was almost certain once fatigue stress set in, each one would snap right off of their respective hinges and fly onto the highway, waiting to be crushed by the very structures they are tasked to protect while leaving me blind, sending me towards my inevitable doom.

Even with my wipers on overdrive, each swipe only provided a fraction of a second of limited visibility before the windshield was coated with another wave of rainwater. Despite the fury of water attacking my car, whose goal was to keep me from making it to Minnesota, a set of lights remained in front of me at all times; two, bright red lights coming from a structure whose blurry outline matched that of a truck’s, my guiding light out of the darkness. When it moved, I moved. When its light’s shone brighter, I slowed. I mimicked its every move, without any knowledge of who the man or woman behind the wheel was, whether or not they were a saint or a criminal (like Gretch). Yet, even the thought of a murderer as the operator of the rig wasn’t enough to stop me from putting all of my trust in the two red taillights in front of me; a pair of lights that would either turn my car into a mangled mess on the side of the road or successfully guide me through the three-hour stretch of road from Wausau to Minneapolis.

It was 4:30 in the afternoon when I stepped out of my car, safe and sound at the helm of the State Capital Building in St. Paul, Minnesota, where I was to meet Cambray before heading over to the Tin Whiskers Brewery a few skips away. Believing that my blind faith had been immensely rewarded, I took in a deep breath of relief, only to find that I had arrived in a city filled with smoke. The normally clean volume of air that covers the Twin Cities had been tainted with a thick haze, a result of the many wildfires that Bill and I were lucky enough to evade on our travels, until now.

Luckily for us, the quality of air and beer wasn’t exactly proportional at that time, making the variety of beer at the upstart brewery placed in the heart of downtown St. Paul well received. And although the Tin Whiskers lacked the fanfare and infrastructure of the Surly Brewery with their operation set on the bottom floor of an apartment complex, the brewers were able to deliver a quality product to us at a large quantity (although they did run out of their much touted “PILS-ner,” of which I expressed a small wave of disappointment).

So with an extensive supply of beer in close proximity and time to spare before John met up with us, we caught up on each other’s lives, something we had ceded from during our first gathering as a result of the birthday antics at the Surly Brewery and 1029 Karaoke Bar. I filled her in on the better details of the wedding, from how I ripped my favorite pair of shorts and the debate of whether or not we should be amiable to farm girls, to when we got to watch Beth and Blake get wedded. Of course I couldn’t forget about the excessive dancing that led to excessive perspiration, and I had to touch on the abhorrent behavior put on display by Bill and Gretch. She shared with me the latest updates of her life, and as it usually plays out with all my friends, we diverted our talk to the past, sharing a few laughs and smiles as we recounted the many adventures we had throughout the years.

The conversation became sentimental as the subject of our talk turned to friends, both old and new. I couldn’t help but bring up people like Bill, Mike, and Jay—especially Jay, leading me to share a few memories of him and how his simple presence was so meaningful to the people closest to him. He had a way of retelling a previous night’s adventure with his down to Earth personality and wit that never ceased to put a smile on each of our face, sending us into gut rolling bursts of laughter sooner or later at one point of story. And no matter how fun and wild a night with Jay was, it was always the day after, whether it be sharing a conversation over a lunch sandwich or a group of us sitting in a living room listening to him speak so gregariously that made his friendship worthwhile, that defined him as a great man, brother, and friend.

It was such a simple and meaningful presence in life that went unrealized until his unfortunate passing… a life I’ll always cherish, and a lesson I’ll never forget.

The brief pause of dialogue between us coupled with a stern look strewn across her face sent a shot of anxiety buzzing through my veins. It was a look that needed no explanation, evidence of how much our conversation had turned from colloquial to serious—funny how just a moderate amount of beer consumption can have such drastic effects.

I knew the question would come up sooner or later. It always does, and this time was no different, and just like in its usual, inevitable fashion, it would again catch me off guard. The talk of friends the past and current state of our lives, our dreams, and future aspirations should’ve been a dead give away.

“Are you ever going to move here?” she asked. “We’ve talked about it for years, but it still hasn’t happened…”

She deserved an answer; here at the Tin Whiskers Brewery in St. Paul, Minnesota… she deserved an answer I was ill prepared to give. And so I took another sip of beer and pondered over the question, as I had done, also for several years… “I just want to let you know that I really meant what I said in your birthday card.” Perhaps she knew better than me of where I wanted to be, and where I needed to be… where I belonged…

But I could never seem to provide a straight answer. Only a mush words delivered in equivocating terms was all that was ever forced out, a bare minimum offer for a satisfaction that was rarely attained…

***

Fear drives us in many directions. There’s a reason that stirring feeling swells inside when faced with peril. And for good reason too, at least for the most part, be it a kid staring down a giant bully, or the same young hunk asking a babe out for the very first time. It gives us time to swallow the gravity of the situation, helps us to put a grasp on the risks and rewards involved in such a decision, and in some cases, buys us time to realize the sheer stupidity involved with the thoughts rolling around in our heads (for instance, contemplating whether or not to take Ben Woodward’s advice and go blackface for a Halloween costume). In all facets of life, fear drives us. It also slams on the brakes.

And in that moment of contemplation, sitting in the comfort of the Tin Whiskers Brewery amongst a grand population of Boundary babes and next door to Wisconsin, friends, family, and the world’s greatest football team, it was fear that reemerged inside my head; a fear that provided an excuse, an artificial roadblock to hold me back, to keep me from reaching my ultimate goal.

“I really do think you belong here,” she said, as I was unable to divert from my prolonged moment of silence. “You have Midwest blood. It lives in you. You’d blossom here. You’d thrive here… Give it some consideration, not just for my sake, but for yours as well…”

John walked in a few moments later where he was embraced halfway to the table with the offer of a beer, consolation for letting me off the hook. Soon after we were joined by his coworkers, and being that there was a brew in each of our hands, the conversation turned much more casual. Though I enjoyed the respite, I couldn’t quite shake off the entrapment, the curse of complacency that lingered through my head, a feeling that lasted well past the last sip of beer at the Tin Whiskers.

Later that night we ventured over to the Uptown neighborhood in Minneapolis (near the infamous H&M incident) for a sushi dinner, where we met up with Lauren (the #1 boundary babe herself and potential future wife in 15 years) as well as Claire Brinstagram, always an added pleasure. Truly blessed by their presence and impressed by the restaurants music selection (a number of indie rock hits from bands like the “Yeah Yeah Yeah’s” who played at the 2009 Sasquatch Music Festival mixed with a little Modest Mouse), I offered up a round of Sake Bombs. Only Cambray and John could be convinced to join me for a round of shots, which were set up using a pair of chopsticks that held a shot glass filled with Sake over a cup of Sapporo, similar to what I had learned in Denver a week prior.

“Ok, when I say ‘Sake’ you say ‘BOMB’!” The ritual was met with less excitement than previously encountered with Bill, for John and Cambray, being that their level of sophistication was a bit higher than most, didn’t exactly take to yelling “Sake Bomb,” banging on a table, and spilling beer at a quiet sushi restaurant with much enthusiasm.

At the night’s end, we found ourselves back at Cambray and John’s apartment watching English reality TV. The particular show of interest involved a bunch of people who just go on blind date and talk about it, with some dates ending horribly and others with “happy” endings—and that was it. “Man, no offense to John, but I don’t how you can get into this stuff,” I thought to myself. They seemed to enjoy it however, so I soldiered through it in deference to my hosts, thus giving the show an appropriate chance.

“Hey, have you guys ever seen Baseketball?” Both of them shook their heads, prompting a condensed screening. If they thought that First Date show was funny, they’ll lose their mind over this! “Man, I used to watch this all the time in college. It’s seriously the funniest movie ever!”

Their mouths remained flat throughout the screening, replicating the same look given to me by a group of babes in the college dorms several years back, of whom I was also able to convince that watching the movie would be worthwhile. “Man, I miss English television,” said John. By the tone of his voice, I would’ve guess that he was unimpressed with the humor on display. I, on the other hand, was completely baffled, finding each “psyche out” in the movie beyond hilarious. Well, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.

“Well, we’re going to bed,” said Cambray. “I think we all have a big day ahead of us.” I agreed and made my way to the respective guestroom where I was to prepare myself for a slumber, but not before saying our goodbyes, just in case the opportunity wasn’t there in the morning. Before crawling into bed, I checked my phone for messages. Bill…

I slid my finger across the screen where his name was placed to open the full contents of his text. Many words were used for persuasion, but the message was clear:

Come to Pony. Meet us in Billings tomorrow by 5. A BBQ is waiting for you…

I lay in bed that night, wondering if it were even possible—if that were even a good idea or if I could actually do it. I checked the Google Maps on my phone for the best route. Minneapolis, MN to Billings, MT—12 hours, 840 miles. Billings… Pony… It seemed so blissful, yet at the same time, a distant dream I wasn’t the least bit prepared for.

And so I lay in bed, wondering and dreaming, with a hint of anxiety sunk at the bottom my heart. I wondered and dreamed, until I fell into a slumber, wondering if it were possible, if it were a good idea… if I was actually going to do it…

***

“Cheers” said the front portion of the folded card, accompanied by a drawing of a fizzing can of beer, freshly opened. It was in my hands now; somehow, through the workings of a mysterious force inside the Benz, the card with a picture of the most coveted substance on the face of the Earth had found its way into my hands. A curiosity set in, a deadly curiosity, sending an urge fueled by a feeling of intrigue to open the card, to reveal its contents… to read…

Zack – I’m so delighted and proud to spend this milestone birthday with you in person. You are truly loved here in Minnesota, and treasured by your whole Midwest squad. I’m just going to take this opportunity to again request that you move to Minnesota. Please, just consider it. I hope this new era of your life brings you more happiness, closer to the goals you’ve been working towards throughout your 20’s, and maybe getting published. I’m so proud to call you my friend and thankful to have you in my life.

All my love, Cambray.

I stared out at the open road ahead of me, absent of any movement except for the glowing rays surrounding the sun, slowly rising above the Earth to once again proclaim it’s reign over the world. It stared back, an old western outlaw all too eager for a showdown, punctual as always. “How dare he challenge me,” I felt him say as a thickening film of sweat lubricating the steering wheel the harder I squeezed. I set the card back down on the center console—my ticket out, my ticket back to the Promised Land… my answer. With one last deep breath I turned the key, igniting the engine that sent a loud roar through the air, a message that I was not to be trifled with; that I would not be intimidated. I would not go quietly in the night, as was demanded.

With a flick of a lever that set the car into drive, I left the beloved land held so dearly to my heart, that small glimpse of heaven called the Midwest, taking with me a gallon of Old Fashioned mix and a set of memories that was to remain along my side for the rest of my days on this precious Earth. I pressed on my foot on the gas pedal and cruised into the west, where I would eventually meet the outlaw once again, waiting for him to catch up.

My breaths became heavier and more frequent as I merged onto I-94 West, triggering a cold sweat that bled through the cotton of my Surly crew cut sweatshirt. There was no turning back, and nothing to hold me back as I made my way across a barren tundra of crusted dirt and brush, a nearly 900 mile stretch across the sparsely populated state of North Dakota and into the frontier of Montana, not at this point. The weight of my foot held firmly against the pedal unbeknownst to my consciousness, causing a rapid acceleration that crossed lanes and weaved between cars at an expedited pace, knocking on the door of authoritative confrontation; a pace of which I was in complete control.

Several miles outside of Minneapolis, a line of cars clogged the left lane of the freeway, each one with the foolish idea that their single file presence eased the flow of traffic, a dangerous and corrupting idea that left them much too stubborn to admit the error of their ways. I flicked my turn signal and shifted into the right lane, buzzing past the long line of cars who weren’t the least bit enthralled with a man and his audacity to test their presence on the road, as if I were 2nd grader causing a stink by cutting to the front of the lunch line. My position was gaining quickly, inching closer and closer at a breakneck speed to the vehicle directly in front of me, its steady pace appropriate for the right lane. However, the laws of Physics in its ultimate justice were not in my favor, for no combination of time, velocity, acceleration, and displacement could send me safely in front of the line of cars set so obdurately in the left lane. I flicked my blinker once again to signal my return behind the leader.

It was a cardinal error. By informing the car directly behind me and to my left my plan to merge with ample time, I had given the competition prescient knowledge of my next move, who seized upon the opportunity and acted accordingly. The gap to my left went from wide, to modest, to short, and then to even smaller until it was non-existent, closed by the inconsiderate acceleration of an ego-threatened driver. I threw up my hands in disbelief. The driver lacked the courage to give me any eye contact whatsoever. Accepting the fate for the moment, I slipped in behind him to manage both my progress and position until the next opportunity presented itself.

“No! Thwarted once again!” A red sedan this time, having witnessed the whole scene, repeated the offense of driver in front of me, cutting me off and sending my car into an abrupt and dangerous swerve back into the right lane. This driver held no bones about expressing his attitude and all out rudeness with a few expletives mouthed through the car windshield. Again, my hands subconsciously threw themselves up into the air, accompanied a few choice expletives myself.

It wasn’t the first time I had witnessed extreme anger on a Minnesota highway. Coming back from the Boundary Waters a few lovely summers back, a rather sweet and soft-spoken Cambray had turned hot with psychotic rage when confronted with rush hour traffic near the outskirts of the Twin-Cities. Thus, the action on of the two drivers further cemented my opinion that road rage was an epidemic plaguing the usual and otherwise friendly people of Minnesota, who once again made their point loud and clear. I was not to pass, under any circumstance.

I retreated to the back of the line several cars away, a position I was doomed to stay in as long as they had their say, a long and dreadful line bound by a set of imaginary rules. They were rules that had no registry within me; yet, I was forced into their submission by the others following with blind obedience. We crawled passed the cars on the right, each one with just enough set distance to make a full pass impossible. The scenery, a forest separated from the freeway by two long strips of grass lining it received little acknowledgement from me except for the fact that it simply existed, for I remained in place at the rear, the bulk of my concentration waiting for my chance to strike, not knowing if that chance would ever come, but fully prepared nonetheless.

For several long minutes I lingered, my demeanor smooth and calm, not letting the evil deeds done unto me to deter my focus or keep me my from completing my mission. I stayed back, lurking in the shadows; waiting for my chance, a chance to get off, to show them that despite their best efforts, despite all of their power, I could not—I would not… be… restrained. I sat and waited… just one time…

Inch by inch I crept closer, my mind racing faster, a circulation of air flowing faster, in through my nose and out through my mouth; my heart pounding, faster! Each passing second increasing in its intensity, driving my desire to go faster, for these mobile roadblocks ahead of me to move faster, faster—FASTER! Faster and closer to a decision I was forced to make, a one and a million shot—odds I would take in a heartbeat!

My eyes gleamed passed the last remnants of a passed car, calculating the available distance between it and the one ahead, real estate with a severe diminishing return. Into 5th gear I went, prepping for the moment to move, to turn the impossible to possible, to show the world my unbound potential. 4th gear—the Benz revved and grinded well over 3000 RPMs…. “Any moment now…” I glanced over at the open space to my right, pinpointing the exact moment to release; every inch was precious. I glanced again, looking for evidence of a car, evidence I didn’t see, that wasn’t there—open space—GO!

I swerved to the right. A fierce roar of an engine pierced the atmosphere, sending shocking pulses across the freeway. “80… 85… 90,” the speedometer’s dial rotated, moving across the front dashboard console at a steady rate. Rekindled with a state of intense concentration fed by a psychosis previously felt only once before within the treacherous terrain of Wyoming, I blasted past my opponents with the remaining distance between me and the car in my immediate line of view quickly diminishing.

100 feet. Time slowed. My breaths, the engine, the beat of my heart; every audible sound augmented, forcing an acute concentration into the past and present. Flashes of Idaho and the majesty of the Gran Tetons drove through my mind. Then came a pint of puke from a Sushi bar in Denver, a never-ending cornfield, the sight of pure beauty softly cutting through a delicate plane of water lined with an untouched forest, a representation of all things wonderful and natural in the world. Then there was love… love sealed by two partners, created and confirmed in the company of friends and family, watching with delight over a body of water sparkling with rays of fading sunlight, sunlight that would disappear and allow an amazing sprinkle of stars, both natural and artificial to light the world for the remaining hours of darkness.

This was the end. “But… it can’t be…”

50 feet. “I won’t make it. Stop!” my mind screamed. I had misjudged the distance. There wasn’t enough time. “Go back. It’s not worth it!” Every cell in body pulled at my leg, working in tandem with my mind, begging for the release of the gas, anything to prevent turning a beautifully engineered piece of machinery into a useless mush of metal scattered across a plot of pavement. My eyes darted back and forth throughout the car. Panic set in. Death entered my head—flying, living and dying, a battered body lying next to his heap of steel, the remains of a disfigured frame once recognized as a car, its spilt fluids joining that of its operator’s, until both are fully depleted and marked useless.

My eyes continued to dart back and forth and front to back; then stopped, fixated on an anomaly in between—a miracle. “Cheers,” it said, a piece of stationary sticking out of the center console. My eyes darted back to the road while my body pulled with all of its might to send my stubborn foot onto the brake… but it could not… overpowered by a single force, a beating heart pounding against my chest. Faster… faster… faster—FASTER! It pushed my foot harder on the gas pedal, one entity against an entire army, standing in sheer defiance with one simple message. “No. You’re wrong.”

20 feet. A single instance of life struck through me, sending a wave of confidence through the body it was once against. No longer did I fear death or pain. There was just absolute freedom, for at least one, beautiful moment—absolute freedom.

10 feet. I turned my head, staring directly at my original rival forbidding me of progression. We were to never see each other again. However, I was to make sure he would remember this moment. He would remember this day, the day he failed, the day I conquered, for all time. He twitched his head my direction, a microcosm of acknowledgement, just enough to fulfill my satisfaction.

5 feet. Time sped back into its normal form.

1 foot. I braced for impact; my eyes set forward, guided by some unnatural force, beaming towards the vehicle in front, readying for it. Fully expecting it.

0 feet—

A twist of the wheel jerked the car left. The motor shifted into third, thrusting me across the pavement. The engine screamed louder—louder, harder and faster! An angry howl, one seeking revenge on its enemy after several years of torture.

“WHAAAAAA HOOOOOO!” I screamed, delivering my final deathblow to my enemy, an enemy separated by mere inches; inches that turned to feet as its puttered engine breathed its final breaths over I-94 West. I didn’t wait to watch him perish, didn’t care to watch such a pathetic display as the feet turned to miles, and then to many miles, miles that would eventually become states.

I flew across the highway, past the last traces of the Midwest. There was no apology as I disappeared into the Siberian-like landscape of North Dakota, an unstoppable force with the world at its fingertips, a world waiting to be conquered as a challenge—one I gladly accepted. My heart continued it’s heavy beat, injecting my body with a double shot of adrenaline across the 850-mile stretch of I-94 West with several hours of daylight at my disposal. My eyes beat down the highway, eyeing its first victim like a madman possessed. This was what it meant to be alive. This is what it was like to love. This was what true freedom was.

“Bill! Gretch! I’m comin’ for ya!”

Pony, Montana. It seemed like such a lovely place…

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Chapter 17: I’m Never Dancing… Ever, Again… A Wisco Wedding Part 4

I had no idea who this Dave guy was or why he was catering the wedding, but everybody seemed to speak highly of him. And supposedly he was famous too, as they made it their business to remind me of the fact whenever they said his name. Famous our not though, I gotta admit, the guy makes a pretty mean pulled pork sandwich, an excellent choice for the reception dinner; so good, that I eventually found myself also referring to the man as “Famous Dave” whenever the subject of his food was brought up.

Naturally, we found ourselves seated at the table with the largest aggregate of liquor stashed in the middle. While Sean and Wes were main proprietors, our contribution was fair and modest, making sure there was more than a sufficient amount of ingredients to make a night’s supply of Old Fashioneds. Much was needed as well, for a round of toasts were about to commence.

The crowd quieted in tandem with the fading of background music as Maggie stood at the helm of the wedding party’s table, microphone in hand to deliver the first of a long string of toasts. Hers was sweet and sentimental, no need for a funny anecdote or long story to describe the friendship between her and Beth or the special bond shared between Beth and Blake that had strengthened their own bond of friendship. It matched her style quite well.

Billy was up next and followed Maggie’s lead with a sentimental toast of his own. His words about Blake and their friendship were touching and from the heart, and he couldn’t have been happier that Blake had found a girl like Beth to spend the rest of his life with. We responded to the uplifting and impressive toast by lifting our glasses and joining him in a well-deserved “cheers.”

“Well, I’m the father of the bride,” started Beth’s father with the full expectation that words of wisdom would follow. “I… I produced her…”

“Cheers,” all of us replied with spurts of laughter, followed by a good sip of liquor in response. The toasts continued, some funny, some heart-warming, and some requiring a heavier intake of alcohol than others.

“Meet me and Gretch over on the lawn after the mom and dad dances,” whispered Bill during one of the toasts. He wouldn’t hint to why, a bit concerning as sneaking away could very well come off as rude, but curious of what it exactly was that he had devised, I did as I was told. As soon as Blake finished his dance with his mother, I made my move.

 

***

 

Spread out across the lawn was an equilateral triangle, each leg approximately 15 feet long and made up of three full cans of Keystone Light. Bill handed me a dart and sent me a nod, for we both knew exactly what I was supposed to do. Out in the distance was a lone can of Keystone Light, one waiting for my company.

Bill, Gretch, and I each stood over our designated can with a dart in hand, each of us taking turns sending one in the other’s direction. The game’s competitive nature requires a great deal of patience and concentration in order to drive your dart successfully into your opponent’s beer. The consequences of holding ownership to a pierced can are severe. Not only do you loose the game, but you are also called upon to pop the top and shotgun your beer as punishment for losing.

Many rounds had passed, and yet, other than a couple of close calls, no cans of beer had been pierced. A simmering of determination sparkled in my eyes as I held the dart up to my face, the sun shinning a quick sprinkle onto the knurled steel gripped between my fingers, pointed directly in line with the can below Gretch’s feet. Her persistent taunting would prove paramount to her failure, a cockiness that caused her to overshoot several times. I blotted out every distracting image in my head, setting up a calculated effort to send the dart to its final location. Perhaps for once in my life, my engineering degree was actually about to pay off as iterations of equations derived from the laws of physics ran through my head.

Ok, with an even trajectory and the force of gravity accelerating at approximately 32.2 ft per second squared, that means with a straight shot I’ll have less than a second until this dart reaches the ground. If I tilt the trajectory upward, that buys me a little more time, and being that the center of mass is placed in the front of the metal tip coupled with the tendency to follow a parabolic curve, the dart will naturally be pointing down towards the ground upon impact. Provided my aim is precise, I say a velocity of 18.34 feet per second at an angle of about 25 degrees should just about do it…

My arm pushed forward and the dart left my hand, sailing through the air and down towards the beer can. Gretch’s arrogant smile turned to a frown in direct proportion to the position of the dart, itching closer and closer to the can, the milliseconds feeling like seconds and the seconds feeling like minutes, until—

“Pfffff.” The dart penetrated the can, sending a fountain of beer up into the air and spraying in all directions, including Gretch’s feet.

“OHHHHHH!” Bill and I cried, for it was a truly impressive shot, as is the case with every successful shot made in beer darts. Gretch, however, didn’t quite share our enthusiasm. Her mouth was shut at first, as exceptionally deep and heavy breaths went in and out through her flared nostrils, giving way to a rising fury much above our level of comprehension. Her eyebrows dipped down and her face turned beat red, shaking and radiating heat like a nuclear bomb within seconds of detonation. As the pressure built to unsustainable levels, the whites of her teeth became exposed, gritting them like a rabid dog forcibly starved. A shot of panic surged through my spine as her head tipped back and she stared up towards the sky. With a pair clenched and shaking fists, she let out a deafening scream, the source of so much anger and frustration that a lifetime of punch cards couldn’t sustain the damage it would cause; an anger and frustration that could only leave her mouth as—

“GAAAAARRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYY!!!”

“Heheh Gretch that means you have to shotgun the beer, haha.” I couldn’t help but egg her on over my most outstanding accomplishment. “You better hurry, don’t keep the game waiting, heehee! C’mon, you can drink faster than that! You shotgun beer like a girl, heeheehee hohoho hahaha—“

A soft release of pressure resonated near my feet, sending my gloating to an abrupt stop. My eyes peered slowly down towards the ground, resisting as much as possible the image I feared would appear. A dart had impaled the can, sending a geyser of beer shooting up into the air. I took another slow peer up towards its presumed origin. Bill stood 15 feet away and delivered a sharpened grin in my direction. My feet lost all feeling, causing a drop to my knees and a solid gaze up to the heavens for an answer. How could this happen? How did he—Why… Why—

“GAAAAAAARRRRRRYYYYYYYY!”

 

***

 

A steady beat resonated down to the lawn from the tent above. The reception area had been transformed into a dance floor, one being utilized by a select few party guests who had the rare ability to muster up enough courage to dance without the assistance of alcohol. It was a group mostly made up of babes, a group that looked more and more enticing after each shotgunned beer and each Gary. The combination of heat and humidity presented an unfavorable environment to the human body however, where even the most modest of movement would result in excessive perspiration, something I was trying to preclude as much as possible.

“We ran out of beer…” said Bill with a look of concern smeared across his face. The lack of beer though wasn’t the real issue. We were well capable of walking up to the cooler and grabbing a few more rounds. He was however fully aware, as was I, of my compulsive tendencies when it came to music and the effects it has on me, having survived a night with me at the 1029 karaoke bar. It consumes me like a drug, making my body move in ways beyond the moral capacity that any God-fearing man can tolerate. But there was no choice in the matter. More beer had to be procured, and walking past the dance floor bustling with hot babes and hot beats was a risk we all were forced to take.

A familiar drumbeat pulsed through our ears on our way back from the beer cooler, heavy on the hi-hat and bass drum. “I know this song…” I told Bill right before the lyrics came on board accompanied by a low-pitched horn section.

I stay out too late…
Got nothing in my brain…
That’s what people sayahay, mmhmm.

 The lyrics sucked me in, casting its evil spell to draw me onto the dance floor much like the wicked witches did in the movie “Hocus Pocus.” Bill may have tried to stop, but his words, his actions, anything and everything said was blotted into the black hole recently formed inside my head. My legs moved side to side, my arms swung left to right, and my fingers began to snap to the beat. I opened my mouth and words came out, matching the ones coming through the speaker.

But I keep cruisin’, can’t stop—won’t stop movin’, it’s like I got the feeling
In my mind sayin’ it’s gonna be alright!

As soon as the chorus hit I was twisting back and forth with a full 180-degree rotation, my knees bending, my torso lowering closer to the ground, my limbs dangerously flying in random directions and my head shaking back and forth as directed by the song.

Cause the haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate
And the fakers gonna fake fake fake fake fake
Baby I’m just gonna shake shake shake shake shake
Shake it off. Shake it off!

The music had taken full custody of my body, for I was no longer capable of controlling any physical movement. I remained in a foolish jiggle the remainder of a song, a mix of Chubby Checker’s “Do the Twist” and the fluid hip motions of “Teach Me How to Dougie,” but by the end of the song, it was a solid mess of body parts flinging themselves about the dance floor as she repeated the hook of the song.

Shake it off, shake it off (you got to…), shake it off, shake it off!

 Luckily I wasn’t the only one caught in a foolish twist of limbs, as a handful of little girls joined me with their own version of shaking and stirring, their fingers spread, wrists limp, and arms, legs, and head flinging about, just like me.

Just as soon as it was over, believing that the spell had come to a close, another familiar song hit the floor, starting with its signature horn intro that directed everybody into position. A larger crowd gathered, both men and women this time, for the effects of alcohol were starting to kick in and give everybody their much-needed liquid courage. And as for me… it just wouldn’t let me go.

“Young man…” there’s no need to feel down, I said, “Young man…”

The entire dance floor stood with their legs spread and knees bent as if they were riding an imaginary horse, or as the Japanese would say, “kiba-dachi.” One hand was placed on the hip, the other pointed in front, moving across their field of vision like a controlled water sprinkler while voicing the words of the song, a combination we all had been anticipating since the song’s introduction. After our outstretched arms had made a full wingspan across our bodies over the course of a line, the process repeated itself with the opposite hand as the verses continued, until 5 blaring quarter notes led us into the chorus.

It’s fun to stay at the…
YMCA!

 My hands motioned the shape of each letter as it was announced in the song, a procession of moves that everybody flamboyantly participated in. Heck, even Bill and Gretch joined in! I love it how a couple of simple notes, a percussion beat, and voice mixed together can get a group of people to think the exact same thoughts and let loose, with an end result of a smile on everybody’s face. It’s actually a pretty extraordinary feat if you ask me!

The sudden presence of a slow song cleared out most of the dance floor except for a few predetermined couples. As it turns out, when forced to choose a sole partner of the opposite sex to dance with, it’s not just a couple of timid and hormone saturated Jr. Highers that aren’t willing to take a risk. Not me though. Hey, if I have to wait 15 years for a boundary babe, who says I can’t enjoy myself from time to time? That’s my motto.

I scoured the edges of the dance floor, flooded with an abundance of babes. So many to choose from, but how can I? I mean, I don’t want to make the wrong— 

That’s when I saw her; her head down and shoulders slouched, on her way to one of the empty tables to wallow in sorrow if I had to guess. In any other circumstance I would’ve just ignored the situation and stayed the course to execute my initial plan, but there was something about her dejected demeanor that suddenly sent a sense of guilt through my body. That if maybe for once in her life, somebody might actually ask her to dance… and all it took was a good lad to perform a good deed. Then maybe, she just might—

What are you doing? Stop it! This isn’t your problem! Just walk away and move on! But I couldn’t move on. I mean, she just looked so miserable over there, and perhaps I was the only person capable of turning it around. Every time I looked to make a move towards the congregate of babes, something kept holding me back, my conscious equipped with a dagger, continually stabbing at my heart. In a way, I kind of wanted to—

“What the heck are you even talking about? I can’t do—I don’t want to… no, I won’t do it! Screw her, she’s not even worth it. And man, Ayn Rand would be pissed! In fact, she’s probably rolling in her grave right now with all the bull crap going through my head! What the, why are you so freaking nervous? You don’t even like her! What in the world is going on?”

A disappointment to Ayn Rand or not, I just couldn’t shake the remorse that was eating away at my insides with nothing but my selfish motives keeping me from making the move. Maybe it was the spirit of the 4th of July getting to me, but whatever it was, it just wouldn’t let go. I guess I was still a human being… that maybe, I had a soul after all…

“God, I can’t believe I’m actually going to go through with this…” I took a deep breath, an even deeper exhale, and approached her, preparing myself for a world of backlash afterwards and mustering up all the courage that could be gathered through my short stroll across the dance floor.

“…Hey Gretch… Would you like to dance?”

Yea, me and Gretch danced… so? Who cares? I know we danced too, because the photographer snapped a stupid picture of us (sorry, but I’m not sharing the photo. I look kind of fat in it). And geez Louise did her face light up like the 4th of July fireworks show later that night.

The stupid song seemed to drag on and on too. It was ridiculous! And of course, everybody else seemed to take resplendent notice to us. Beth mouthed a big ol’ heart-melting “aww” while dancing with Blake, who gave me an elated thumbs-up, of which I responded with nod of appeasement. A half of turn later put me right in the line of sight with Bill, who smugly stood with a growing grin on his face. I just shook my head in annoyance and looked away. That didn’t stop him though from making a stupid comment afterwards.

“Move over Boundary Babes,” he said to me with a stupid chuckle under his breath.

“Oh come… freaking… on…”

 

***

 

When you see a faded sign at the side of the road
That says “15 miles to the—”
LOOOOOOOOVE SHACK!

Any potential disruption caused by my dance with Gretch was quickly forgotten once the famous phrase from the B-52’s was heard, followed by a twangy guitar rift that really got the party guests in the mood to hit the dance floor again. My body was at the risk of overheating, and provided that the sun had only begun its decent over the lake, there was still a lot of dancing left before the nights end, but this was just one I couldn’t sit out. I mean, everybody was movin’ and everybody was groovin’ baby, kids, adults, anybody with a sense of rhythm, and I refused to be an exception to that.

As the night went on, the hits continued and moved in a more contemporary direction, you know, the Nicki Minaj, Flo Rida type of songs. The music sent smooth and seamless motions from my arms, through my upper body and abs, and down to (and especially) my hips and legs, a combination of moves that had a tendency to flaunt my greatest assets. Although I found a way to keep myself hydrated with a beverage either in hand or in close proximity, the intake of beer failed to produce the same results as it usually does, as if the alcohol somehow just seeped out of my skin as soon as it entered my body. With the assistance of beer or not, the atmosphere of the wedding reception still triggered provocative behavior, some of which Sean was not ready for and reacted in a way that caused him to spill his drink all over the floor. We all rushed to take part in the clean up so we could continue to party, using the special wedding napkins which were provided to us with special instructions, “not to use for cleaning up spills;” instructions that we conveniently ignored, for spilt beer on the dance floor became a reoccurring problem throughout the remainder of the night.

 

***

 

I walked out of the bathroom (or more accurately the port-o-potty) in the middle of the lawn with every intention of heading back to the dance floor, when a sparkle of light flickered across the sky. Over the lake, a series of fireworks were exploding in sequence. “Oh my God, I almost forgot. It’s the 4th of July…” At the edge of the lake Coti and Sean were sitting in observance of our natural holiday. It was imperative that I join them and pay my respects as well.

Man, the older I get, the more I learn to appreciate moments like Independence Day, and I realize not only what it means to be an American, but also how lucky I am to live in such a place like America, a place that dared to try an experiment called freedom. A freedom that was fought for, a freedom of which many great men fell, dying for a great cause and believing that their lives could mean something greater for the rest of us, that there was this idea that all men were created equal under the eyes of their creator. It’s a freedom that led us to become the most prosperous country ever to grace the Earth; a freedom that realized the evils harboring in its own country like slavery and the lack of civil rights and produced warriors like Abe Lincoln and Doc Martin King who fought tirelessly to make it right. A freedom that defeated Nazi Germany, initiated the tear down of the Berlin Wall, and became the shining star on the hill, a beacon of hope for the rest of the world. It was indeed this freedom that facilitated the creation of the automobile and airplane, and eventually put us into space to land a guy on the moon. The freaking moon! A feat that no other country has ever been able to accomplish—Ever! Think about that. Going into space and landing on a giant freaking rock hundreds of thousands of miles away and coming back! Don’t tell me we ain’t the best until you’ve put a couple dudes with balls of steel on the moon and live to tell about it, damn it!

But perhaps most important of all, the one things that makes us stand out above all the rest over the history of civilization, is that we are the one and only country to ever—

“Wait, they’re playing that one Usher and lil’ John song aren’t they? You know, the one that goes ‘YEAH!’ over and ever again? Man, I haven’t heard this one since I was a freshman in college! I can’t believe—I mean, what was I saying earlier? What I’m trying to say… I wan’t to—Sorry guys. I gotta go.”

 

***

 

The crowd went wild at the next soulful, lyrical lead in:

“You know you make me wanna SHOUT!”

Each one of us put our hands up and let out a big “SHOUT” to match the beat of the song. Our bodies jumped left to right on each foot with our hands in the air and our heads moving side to side, a natural reaction to such an up tempo song. And staying true to the song’s structure, one among us took command and acted as the song’s narrator, a role I’ve had the pleasure of playing at parties before. But if I remember correctly, that man could’ve very well been Bill this time.

“Hey-A-Hey-A!” he said.
“Hey-A-Hey-A!” we repeated.

“Oow-whoaoao-whoa!”
“Oow-whoaoao-whoa!”

“A little bit softer now…” he repeated over and over again, a command that told us to get lower to the ground. Each of us did, our knees bent near our chests, yet still twisting side to side, singing and dancing as quiet as humanly possible, then going even quieter at the next segment, anticipating the lyrical change to send us back up to our normal state.

“A little bit louder now. A little bit louder now…” we repeated during our ascent back to an erect body, wiggling, shaking, and dancing in a natural and comfortable fashion as little by little the music got louder and louder.

“C’mon now! C’mon now! SHOUT!”

Once again, the uncontrollable feeling to move my body overcame and took control. And this time, the enchanting effects had spilled over to the rest of party guests, who like myself found themselves shouting and dancing with boldness. Beth and Blake were moving of course, Anna was getting down, Sean was dancing like an animal, Wes, in gentlemen like fashion danced and twirled with a few of the mom’s, Maggie was doing her thing, and Coti was dancing like she—wait a minute… whoa, I never realized—I mean, I know she’s a babe, but holy cow, Coti’s actually a huge babe! Oh no, she caught me staring—great, she saw me. Act like you didn’t—wait a minute, she’s checking out my moves—I think she’s actually impressed! This is awesome!

The shouting came to a fade and mixed in with a slower paced song. The DJ, who had been on point the whole night with his music selection, figured everybody could use a good rest before the upcoming finale, a rather logical assessment in my book. The usual couples took their places and conjoined on the dance floor while I filtered away with a number of others, heeding the implied advice of the DJ. Something caught my attention however out of the corner of my eye, something I just couldn’t shake off. It was a babe, and she was standing by herself at the head of the wedding party table. Hey, that’s Coti. I can’t believe nobody’s asked her to dance—wait a minute, could this be… my big chance? I mean… it has to be! It’s fate! Maybe I should go over and ask—heck! Yea, I’m gonna go ask her to dance!

There was an elevated sense of intrepidness to my step as I approached her. A smile spread across my face, beaming not so much with undisciplined excitement, but more from a high level of confidence. I was a man among and above men, valiant in my mission and boldly setting forth to seek out life’s purpose. I was going to dance with this babe, and I was… I… I—

I felt the sleeve of my green dress shirt, brushed by my swinging hand in caught in a zealous stride. What in the… why is this all wet? I felt further up the shirt, only to feel the same consistency of moisture and fabric. My dark green dress shirt had turned two shades of green darker and my head looked as though I had taken a dip in the lake. I looked down to check if my pants followed the same pattern. Unlike my shirt, my pants weren’t fully soaked; only enough to give the impression that I had just peed myself.

“Hey Coti… I—“ I stood as a deer peering into a pair of shining headlights, unknowingly forcing her into an encounter with me and my repulsive layer of sweat. “I wanted to know… I mean, I was going to ask you if you wanted to… never mind…”

Under the penumbra of defeat, I walked back to the bar in the basement of the mansion, my head lowered in shame, my legs dragging and arms hanging, pulled by a force further magnified by acceleration of gravity. Every square inch of my body was covered in a grotesque bodily fluid released from each pore of my skin. The warning signs were vivid and frequent, yet ignored time and time again. There was no one but myself to blame for my sodden state, a state that left me in the torment of my ultimate collapse. I simply just couldn’t keep myself from dancing.

“Looks like somebody got a little sweaty, heheh,” commented Gretch as I entered my the basement. Gee, nice observation there Captain Obvious… Bill looked at me and shook his head in disgust. Even members of Beth’s family found themselves providing commentary to the amount of saturation that had occurred through the natural process a body undergoes in order to release heat. A process commonly known to scientists as “sweating.”

“Have a little too much fun out there?” asked her Uncle. I just shook my head and repeated the traditional incantation, the mantra of error and acceptance of omission made famous by Joey Carter.

“I’m never dancing. Ever… again…

IMG_1577

***

 

It had to be less than a minute later when a bustling piano introduction caused an involuntary reaction of cheers to bellow from the dance floor. Everybody knew, as did I that it was the beginning of Journey’s greatest hit, the single-most popular music staple in the history of wedding parties.

She’s just a small town girl
Livin’ in a lonely world
She took the midnight train goin’ anywhere…

“Screw it. Bill, Gretch, I’m goin’ back out there.” Leave it to the graceful pipes of Steve Perry to make me renege on my vow to never dance, ever again. In a body covered in a film of sweat I walked back out to the floor and flung my green shirt that had been crusted with an extra layer of salt out over the lawn, making the choice to dance in my wife beater, perhaps amongst the most inappropriate of articles to wear at a wedding. At this point though, I hadn’t a care in the world for fashion. No matter how grotesque I may be at this point, this is what I was born to do for this moment in time. To dance and act a fool; to celebrate Beth and Blake’s marriage and to enjoy myself, and in turn, bring joy unto them.

And dance I did, as did the rest of the crew. And in usual fashion, each of us belted out the lyrics to Don’t Stop Believin’. And in that moment of time, each of us actually believed that every note coming out of our mouths was matched in perfect tune with Steve Perry’s voice. And for some beautiful reason, nobody seemed to care that the person singing next to them was off pitch. We moved, grooved, and gave it our all, our voices turned raspy and our muscles swollen from a nights worth of celebration. However, it was not quite over. Blake and Jordan had one last request before the nights end…

The Cold War Kids.

Jordan took center stage, clenched his fist, and sent a mighty roar across the dance floor, singing a set of lyrics delivered straight from the heart, and next to him was Blake following his lead. Each of us watched in awe at the display of sheer jubilance shared between father and son. We listened to the excitement in their voices; felt each thrill of happiness vibrating as the music moved them around the dance floor. It was a special moment they had been waiting a long time for; a moment that brought them unbounded joy… a special moment and happiness we were lucky to witness… to experience… and join.

And how lucky we were to be there with them… to have them as friends… to get a glimpse of love, life, and liberty all in one place and one time—Wisconsin, aka the motherland, on the 4th of July. The verdict was conclusive. By all accounts, it certainly was a Wisco Wedding that we attended, a textbook example of how to celebrate love… and a perfect end to a perfect night (well… almost).

Billy, I guess you were right. The Cold War Kids are all right after all… Respect.

But they’re still no Kanye West.

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Chapter 11: Young Americans, Part 3

We bolted into the 1029 like a couple of mobsters ready to take over joint, a decently populated dive for a Wednesday night. The bar tender watched as my imposing figure marched to confront him, my new Surly Brewing Co. crew cut sweatshirt of the Boundary Babe’s preference serving as the primary draw of attention, and with a snap and point of the finger, I set my demands. “Surly Furious and an Old Fashioned. Here’s my ID, here’s my credit card. Leave the tab open… it’s my birthday.” Prudent in his drink preparation, the bar tender handed me the ammunition set to aid us on our next mission and sent me to the DJ booth with my next set of demands.

The DJ and I had a blunt, yet cordial conversation, of which we discussed my requests and concerns, and she assured me that she would continue to perform her DJ duties with fairness and balance throughout our tenure. I had full confidence in her, as the importance of this night was clearly conveyed. Minutes later, a beautifully plucked guitar rift filled the room, sparking the attention of the Boundary Babes. They were well rehearsed in the sequence of notes, as it was their official theme song. I stared directly at them, pointed, and then motioned with my head to make their way towards me, a bold move no doubt, but I was in a bold mood and willing to take risks. “We’re up!” Despite a slight hesitation in the response, they willfully joined me on stage seconds later, for there is no challenge too daunting for a Boundary Babe and no duty worth forgoing, as long as it spreads the pure and elegant spirit of the Boundary. So far, the DJ had not let me down.

 

 

Jewel – You Were Meant For Me

 

I hear the clock; it’s 6 AM…

Our voices faded into the opening verse, their soft tones harmonized to create a soothing picture of a calm lake, its surface so still that you would actually consider the possibility to walk across it. On either side is a thick and impenetrable wall of trees only navigable by a specialized individual whose proficiency lays within the familiarity of the landscape, leading to another untouched body of water, a chain linkage of land and lake that spans for 100’s of miles. Through the morning mist rising below, a narrow boat structure slices through the water, sending a subtle ripple across the lake, a gentle greeting from the visitors. They are welcomed to become one with the environment, to be free of the impurities plaguing the modern world, a small plot of Earth where the stresses of work, politics, and drama of life are simply non-existent. If there were ever the existence of heaven on Earth, it would be found within the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota.

I never put wet towels, on the floor anymore cause!

Dreams last, so long… Even after you’re gone!

Together, we rejoiced over its existence, a trio of passionate voices in jubilation from having been immersed in such a pristine atmosphere; having the privilege of setting foot in such a sacred part of the world. A congregation of widened eyes looked upon the display, struck with bewilderment at the picture being painted before them. “How could this be possible? The babes—that makes sense, but how is it that such a burly old hunk in a Surly crew cut sweatshirt be capable of this—the voice of an angel?” The confusion was clearly understood, for the demonstration was indeed beyond comprehension, and not even the most perfect rendition sung by Jewel herself could even come close to mirroring the beauty laying deep in the northern woods of Minnesota. The answers were plotted out in front of them however; all that was required of them was the will to explore.

You were meant for me… and I was meant for you…

Thunderous applause lit up the room, the crowd graciously responding to the battle cries of their courageous leaders standing above them. We looked at each other with satisfaction, knowing that we had created inspiration in the young souls sitting before us. An ignition had been set to venture forth and discover the majesty beyond the Boundary; a performance so well executed that even the likes of Mike Gibson could not resist its call for exploration. It would be a long time before any of us could reunite with Boundary, but guided by the voice of Jewel, we knew deep in our hearts that we were always destined to return.

It is said that the prettiest girls live in Des Moines Iowa. Jack Kerouac obviously hadn’t spent enough time in Minnesota.

 


Bob Seger – Night Moves

“Bill,” the DJ announced through the loud speaker. Bill strutted his way up towards the stage, shooting me a smirk along the way. He must have had a good one up his—wait a minute? There’s no way he—I made my song requests—how the hell did he sneak—the DJ broke her—what’s the big idea!? 

“Zack!” he hollered over to me with wave of his hand, inviting me to join him as a duet. It was a flattering gesture I’ll admit, partially settling my previous offense, but I stayed back, my pride forcing me into defiance.

“This one’s for you Jay!” screamed Bill at the top of his lungs, his eyes rolling up towards the ceiling and his finger pointing in the same direction. A familiar set of guitar chords entered and Bill lowered his head in preparation for his performance.

I was a little too tall, could’ve used a few pounds,

Tight pants, points hardly reknown…

The classic tune never fails to bring back memories, those of a great man, a walking party, a guaranteed good time, and above all, a friend. This was Jay’s song, his story embedded inside the raspy blues of Seger’s voice, a reminder of the wild nights at Cinco, his down to Earth personality, and how personable the man was after a long and heavy night of partying. He’d want us to show these people what it was like to share a sandwich and talk philosophy with him on a Saturday afternoon. He’d want us to tell a crazy story that involving alcohol of which disaster and jail time were barely avoided. And most of all, he’d beg us to fill them with his spirit, the full embodiment of Moscow, Idaho. He was Jay, a man, a legend… a brother (See the Jay Blog).

The lyrics consumed me like a drug; once I start, there’s no turning back, and now, I had a duty, a yearning desire I could not overcome, no matter how offensive Bill’s actions were. I wanted to resist, for Moscow had been brought to other cities before and the results were devastating, a dangerous mixture of chaos and destruction (Bill can tell you about a little place called Calgary). The experience is almost always overwhelming, and most aren’t capable of handling the behavior. But tonight, something was different. A hand was guiding me, telling me that indeed, this was our calling, to bring to Minneapolis the Moscow experience. Bill held his own for the time being, but ultimately, he wouldn’t be able to complete the task alone; it was much too difficult to be performed by oneself. He would eventually need help, and the only barrier standing between me and the other microphone was my ego.

“Workin’ on our night moves,” another voice came through the speakers. Bill looked over and smiled at a friendly face. The friendly face smiled back and followed on with the tune.

Tryin’ to make some, front page drive-in news,

workin’ on our night moves…

It was the spark of confidence Bill needed to once again bring about the voice of an angel—my Angel Boy. I backed him up as he continued through the song, movin’ and dancin’ and singing his heart out, making it his purpose to for the next three and a half minutes to turn Minneapolis into Moscow. It was his show now.

The music came to a slow, and we both lowered our heads, our voices humble as we sang the bridge, willing to shed a tear for our late, great friend.

I woke last night to the sound of thunder…

how far off, I sat and wondered…

Started hummin’ a song from 1962…

Ain’t it funny how the night moves…

We looked up to the ceiling once again, an unnatural force guiding our eyes upwards and speaking to us. Its power seeped into our eyes, slowly consuming our minds as preparation for the fury that was about to strike down upon the 1029; a fury we were absolutely unaware of.

“…With autumn closin’ in…”

The reprisal of the opening guitar rift built into a climax, where Bill and I stood tall amongst the patrons at the 1029, a crowd who seemed to be frightfully engaged with our progressively intensified number as if a live exorcism was being performed right in front of their very eyes. Our feet subconsciously moved us back and forth across the stage, our arms swinging and heads swaying with the deepened rasp of our voices, building and building as a preparation for the grand finale. The pleasantly rough tone of our voice turned from blues to black, a seamless transition of what would become a harsh sequence of screams and howls growing harder with each passing second, unable to abate the progress that the existential spirit moving inside of us had set in motion—moving, growing, creating a monster so strong it could no longer be held by the physical bounds of his cage!

“LORD I REMEMBER! LOOOOORD I REMEMBER! AHHHHHUH AHHHHHH!” It was a loss of fear, of physical consciousness. The lyrics belted out from the top of our lungs, two young tribal warriors in wild celebration after a great sacrifice, our primitive dance an uncivilized display of carnage and lunacy. The words leaving our lips were those of a long lost language of grunts and screeches, only translatable to those with the same power of spoken tongue. It was official. We had completely lost control of our minds.

“OHHHH YEAAAAAA! NIGHT MOVES… UUUUUHHHUUUUUUUHHHHH! TALKIN’ BOUT THEM—OHHHHHHHOOOOO I REMEMBER I REMEMBER I REMEMBAHUH…

We awoke from the dream, or nightmare depending on your point of view at the song’s closing, taking the time for a long peruse around the bar, the banner of obscurity lifted by a heavenly spirit in possession of our bodies, allowing for the retainment of our senses. A shockwave had rung its way through the bar, Pompeii’s volcanic eruption leaving the unsuspecting souls in attendance frozen in time. A full recovery would not be obtainable. Gibson would be proud. Jay would be proud… damn proud. Mission accomplished.

 


David Bowie – Young Americans

 

The first two tracks were merely warm-ups for what was to come next. For months I had been preparing for this very moment, ever since the song came on a classic rock mix during a Saturday at work. The once dreadful feeling of coming in on the weekend became a blessing in disguise as the song was repeated over and over again through my headphones, precluding the progress of any work of substantive value ever to be accomplished for the rest of the Saturday. The obsession with the melodious mixture of pop, soul and jazz prompted me to purchase the CD soon as I returned home that day, leading to months of moving and grooving to the song’s beat, foolishly singing and dancing in full view of my neighbors as the freak of 12th Avenue. It propelled me faster and faster through the streets of Seattle on each of my daily runs, a catalyst to liberate my inner Hulk and give me the edge to pump up the 173 ever so daunting steps of Howe Street over and over again, blazing past the rest of the struggling exercisers who watched the freak show with total astonishment. It would not stop, a months long perpetual dream that longed for the moment where I could finally come to an acceptable discharge of the bulging pressure vessel—and the moment was finally here. My months of preparation, a tight mimic of Bowie’s approach with a calm opening and a driving set of lyrics, showcasing his fierce passion (with a masterfully inserted quip from a most famous Beatles song I might add), were to be released in a public forum. And just like Bowie, I would hold nothing back.

“They pulled in just behind the bridge he lays her down… he frowns, ‘Gee my life’s a funny thing?’ Am I still to young—“ What the?

Suddenly, there was another voice, one that was neither David’s nor mine. I took a glance over to confirm my hypothesis that the voice matched an unfamiliar face. I retained my cool and calm demeanor, as I knew better during situations like these, even as my insides sweltered with rage. No. Ah Hell no! Who does this hunk think he is, coming up here, trying to steal my thunder; the one I’ve worked months on, in front of the Boundary Babes, ON MY BIRTHDAY NO LESS? You never do that to another man! And he thinks he can just come up and act a fool during my moment? Not on this day. This will not do. This dingus needs to go…

I began to devise my plan to rid the intruder from the stage and take back what was rightfully mine. I examined his stature—a bit shorter than me, and not as built, though he does look a little rough around the edges; therefore he would be willing to put up a fight, which wouldn’t look good on my part, especially on my birthday, and double especially in front of the Boundary Babes. He does look rather nice however for a Wednesday night at a karaoke bar, a little overdressed if you ask me, and what’s with his cheering section? All these girls in their sequenced dresses, it seems rather odd—holy crap, this cat just got married! But who gets married on a Wednesday night?

A wave of sympathy blew across me for this young fellow, triggering an involuntary flow of second thoughts to creep into my mind. Ok, so I’ve had 30 of these birthdays so far, and chances are, I got a few more coming up in the future. How many times will this kid get married? 3? 4? Maybe 5 tops? I can’t let this happen, not on this day…

I swung my arm around the stranger’s shoulder and embraced his presence, an embrace that urged him to step up the game, raise the stakes—take our karaoke session into a new, rather unorthodox direction.

Articles of clothing began to appear on the ground around me—a coat, a vest; one by one they fell to the floor, adding to the accumulation as the song dragged on.

Alllllllll Night

He wants a young American

Young American, young American, he wants a young American…

The groom lifted each suspender one by one with an outstretched motion of his arm, letting the elastic band snap back under his arm upon its release. Motivated by the attention he received from the bridesmaids, each of the groomsmen made their way up to the stage and followed his lead, each with a special strip move of their own. Whether it was a desperate attempt to make a provocative impression on the ladies, I cannot say, but one thing was for certain; I had successfully turned to 1029 karaoke bar into a Chippendales strip show.

(I heard the news today oh boy)

I got a suite and you got defeat

Ain’t there a man you can say no more, and

Ain’t there a woman I can sock on the jaw, and…

The situation was beyond my control at this point, with limbs and articles of clothing flailing about. “How did it come to this,” I asked myself, contemplating whether to put a stop to the whole thing, or if that was even possible. My boisterous song and dance only seemed to encourage the unnecessary removal of clothing, a terrible decision deemed favorable probably with the assistance of excessive liquor. None of this was in any way a part of my original intention, thrusting me into a position of dire straits. I could walk away, wipe my hands clean of any wrong doing. I was young, I was an American, and damnit, I still had my freedom… the freedom to choose…

Ain’t there one damn song that can make me…

Break down and cryyyyyy—hhyyyyyy…

“Ah, screw it.” A drum solo kicked in the last chorus, and I seized the moment.

Alllllll night

He wants the young American

Young American, YOUNG AMERICAN, HE WANTS THE YOUNG AMERICAN…

“Why throw away all I’ve worked hard for just over what might be a minor offense in the city of Minneapolis, Minnesota?” Every ounce of passion left in me gathered for another grand finale, full of unruly dancing, stripping, and singing, everything a mother would despise, but had to be done regardless. The bridesmaids threw up their arms and screamed like a bunch of wild animals responding to a string of mating calls. The whole incident seemed to make quite the impression, and who knows? Maybe by the nights end it would lead to one of these lads getting lucky? Maybe it would lead to love…

As the song faded out and my singing came to a soft end, I was surrounded by a congregate of undressed men; all of who proceeded to honor my part in the performance with an inundation of hugs. Though somewhat of an uncomfortable exchange, I gladly accepted the adoration, for respect is a hard thing to come by these days, especially for an out-of-towner, then headed to the bar for another drink. I think I deserved one.

“Can I get a fine “PILS-ner,” I asked the bartender, a request that was immediately upheld. I leaned over the counter and twisted my head to the left, realizing the presence of another man. It was none other than my new friend the groom, of whom I had become very close with over the last 5 minutes.

“Hey, man thanks for coming up and singing with me back there… I can’t believe you all started stripping like that! You all are crazy… I tell you what, when I get married, I hope I’m able to come to the 1029 and party just like you guys do… You’re an inspiration man… never change…”

If you haven’t guessed, I’m a very happy drunk. In fact, get me sloshed with a serial killer, and I could probably find a way to agree with 90% of what comes out of his or her mouth. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case for the groom, as I later became a witness to a physical assault on one of his own groomsmen. He thrust the boy’s head into his arms, something he said apparently striking a nerve, forcing him into the headlock situation with a continual series of threats. Luckily for all of us, his newlywed wife quickly swooped in to diffuse the situation, reminding the groom that he would later be involved in some unrepeatable greasy acts with some “sexy ass bitch” (her exact words, not mine). I happily walked away from the diffused situation, content that nobody was going to get beat up and that we were to remain acquaintances for the rest of the evening, and nothing more. Although we didn’t say much to each other afterwards, I wished him the best of luck. It looked like he was set for a match made in heaven.

My voice started to give way by the time Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” began, a song that Cambray somehow just happened to convince me to sing along with (who knows how that happened). It further took a noise dive when Bill and I followed up our Jay tribute with Boston’s “More than a Feeling,” the abundance of falsetto really taking it’s toll on my ability to carry a good tune. Cracked voice or not though, I soldiered on with the classics such as Ludacris’s “Get Back,” and even going as far as to dance like a fool to a bridesmaids butchering of “Baby Got Back,” an exhaustive effort that required a copious amounts of beer consumption at the song’s conclusion. I made my way back to the table, grabbing the first seat I could find, conveniently placed right next to a Boundary Babe, who had a full pint of PILS-ner waiting for me.

“You know, you had some interesting dance moves out there,” she said.

“Thanks! I’ve been practicing a little bit,” I replied, sobriety a long ways away from forming any sort of regret towards my decision. “And thank you so much for coming out tonight. It really means a lot to me.”

“You know, I told myself I was only going out for one drink, and now look at me! I might even have to cab it home tonight.” There was a slight pause, a contemplation on whether or not I should apologize for the fact that she had drank more than she had planned to, something I was more than culpable of contributing to. I bought some time by taking a large sip of beer, and she did the same. “But I have to say, even though I might regret it when I get up for work tomorrow, this has probably been the best night of summer so far.”

“Well, let’s cheers to that,” I said full of flattery as I lifted of my glass, gladly accepting the honor I hardly knew I was deserving of.

“Cheers,” she repeated before we touched glasses and took a gulp of beer. Behind Lauren was Cambray, sitting there starring at us with a sheepish grin, like she had an ace up her sleeve or some other sly trick she was ready to deal. I don’t know if it was the liquor or what, but it was evident that she had been eavesdropping and had something of importance to add, something that would probably never be mentioned in the absence of alcohol. So we waited as she mustered up the courage to speak whatever prudent matter was on her mind.

“Ok, I’m just going to come out and say it. I could really see you two getting married, and having the perfect family someday. I’m just saying…”

Holy Moly—WOWZERS! Way to drop the bomb Cambray! Marriage? To a Boundary Babe? It was great—what a dream! But marr—I couldn’t even process the idea at a time like this, given such a short notice, at least not coherently!” Gosh, my heart was beating faster than a jackrabbit on the run, for the next words out of my mouth could very well determine the rest of my life! I glanced over to John and Bill at the other side of the table, each flashing me their own fully comprehendible look of advice, a solemn bond only understood between the boys.

Play it cool brotha. Play it cool.

“…Yea, I think I could see that,” I said in a calm matter after a sip of beer and a cool, subtle nod of the head, as if I had rehearsed the line thousands of times before. Bill and John responded to my response quite favorably with nods of their own.

Well done lad… Well done.

“I’ll tell you what,” she started. “Let’s meet again in fifteen years… if I’m still single, and you’re still single, we’ll tie the knot. How about that?” It was a good deal… It was a great deal, and I had it in the bag! I was going to marry a Boundary Babe! Talk about a confidence booster!

…But she was high balling me, big time. I knew it, she knew it… fifteen years? I could do better than that. Much better.

I looked her straight in the eye, my face void of any emotion, masking the overwhelming urge to grin. “10 years.” Her loveliness was her weakness, her kind spirit her Achilles heel, and sad to say, I was going to take advantage of it. There’s no other choice in this dog-eat-dog world, and as a firm believer in fierce competition, I set the rules. I controlled the negotiations; I was the one who—

“15.” Oh my God, what the hell just happened? There was no hesitation, even less emotion than my emotionless reply seconds before! Oh God, I had overplayed my hand, big time! I knew it, she knew it… and she saw right through me!

Bill lowered his shaking head into the palm of his hand, disgusted by my blatant display of arrogance. Cambray let out a deep gasp, for her hopes and dreams, everything she had prepped and worked for in her adult life was within seconds of obliteration. My mind spun out of control. My heart pounding out of my chest! This should be over. I should be a dead man, thrown into the fatal pits of despair. Toast! Destroyed! No hope of recovery, ever! But by some miracle, some inexplicable act of God, I was still standing, still in possession of a slight fragment of working mental capacity, still in control of the heavy beat of my heart that remained invisible through my Surly crew cut sweat shirt. I was still alive, I was still fighting—there was still a chance.

I stared right back at her, my mouth flat and closed, my eyes narrowed with steady, sustained breaths entering and exiting in and out of my nose, neither one of us budging; there was no room for weakness. Out of the corner of my eye there was a glimpse of John, and man did he look pissed! His eyes beamed with rage, a telepathic translation of a pep talk…

“Zack, you fool… you FOOL! How could you forget the cardinal rule? This is a Boundary Babe we’re talking about, not some bridesmaid pushover who can’t sing Sir Mix-a-lot worth garbage! Man that was awful, a complete abomination, a disgrace to the human race! My intelligence has been permanently diminished because I bared witness to that anathema of a karaoke performance. But you think you can just come in and run the show, talk to a Boundary Babe as a replaceable being? Take it from a guy who married one, not only is the Boundary Babe irreplaceable, but also the best damn negotiator you’ll ever come across, a used car salesmen on steroids, but twice as shrewd, and even worse, 10 times as honest. It takes time, patience, hard work, and dedication—and LOTS of it for even the slightest consideration of a courting, and don’t even get me started on gaining her trust! Now we did this for you… WE DID THIS FOR YOU, AND YOU’RE ACTING LIKE AN ANIMAL! We gave you a golden ticket, and I’ll be damn—I’ll be DAMNED if I see it go to waste. Not on my watch. Not on this day! Now you get out there and get this done. NOW!”

“Deal.” I stuck out my hand, letting her know full well I meant business. She stuck out hers and we shook, both of us sincere in our efforts. John gave me the nod of approval while Cambray and Bill exhaled a huge sigh of relief as if they had just watched the disarming of an atomic bomb. I indulged in a relief of my own with a massive intake of beer, followed by a final “cheers” for our accomplishment. “C’mon Bill, let’s take a birthday shot.” Frankly, we all needed one after that.

The Boundary Babe left that night, back home to a normal life, where the obligations of pets and work awaited her return. Jewel’s famous words lingered through our heads, never to forget the deal we made; a promise that began to feel like a dream as the night went on, waiting for the day it would become a reality; a day I was certain would eventually come.

It was near last call, yet I still had one more song left in me, one quite fitting for the occasion, causing the re-emergence of late 90’s memories as the song’s orchestrated intro came into play.

 


Aerosmith – Don’t Want to Miss a Thing

 

I could stay awake, just to hear you breathin’

Watch you smile while you are sleepin’

While you’re far away I’m dreamin’!

I was in jeopardy of losing the very voice that had produced flawless renditions of Jewel, Bob Seger and David Bowie earlier, but it didn’t matter. Ravaged voice or not, there was more at stake at this very moment, something I was willing to give up the voice of an angel for.

Every moment spent with you, is a moment I pleasure. YEA!

I don’t wanna close my eyes!

I don’t wanna FALL asleep, cause I miss ya baby

And I DON’T WANNA MISS A THIIIINNNNGGG! 

As my vocal chords blew at the cry of graceful lyrics crafted by Steven Tyler, my mind faded, as the consumption of alcohol had finally done me in, the song’s chorus being my last memory of the night; one last coherent thought coupled with a deal permanently engrained in my head… a promise… a fate I was eternally bound to…

15 years… half a lifetime… Well worth the wait.

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Chapter 10: Young Americans, Part 2

“Gretch? Gretch who?” Bill and I looked at each other half-bewildered. The mentioned name was of a foreign dialect as a mixture of melted cheese, ground beef, and deep-fried pickle seeped into our taste buds, sending signals of ecstasy to cloud our minds. It was an overwhelming amount of grease and fat, far more than our bodies were acclimated to, but a risk we were more than willing to take nonetheless. The heaven we were experiencing now would far outweigh the potential hell that our stomachs would suffer and the carnage it would produce later down the road, for this… this was how a birthday was supposed to be spent. I had Bill, my traveling and crime companion, Cambray, our certified Minnesota representative, and John, a fine English lad recently adopted by the state, and we were gathered at the Blue Door Pub, a local favorite according to the Food Network enjoying the simple pleasure of my long, sought-out Juicy Lucy.

The waiter stopped by our table as I took my final sip of beer, making his arrival a timely one in order to sustain our state of euphoria. “Can I get you guys anything else to drink?” he asked.

“Do you have a nice ‘PILS-ner’ on tap?” I asked back in a half-sarcastic manner, parodying an obnoxious character created by the comedy duo Tim and Eric. Being that it was my birthday, not only was it an excuse, but also an obligation to act like a dingus.

“Yes. Yes we do.” he replied, his dry facial expression obviating the fact that he wasn’t the slightest bit amused with my question. “It’s called Hamm’s.” Well, crap. That sort of backfired on me.

 

“Uh, heheh… ok, I guess I’ll have the PILS-ner,” I said in a sheepish manner, slouching my chin into my chest. Shamed by my own immaturity, accepting the cheap imitation of PBR was my only means of recovery.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take you to a place where you’ll never have to worry about beer ever again,” said Cambray. There was a spike of sincerity in her soft tone, bringing true meaning to the words she had just spoken. She was a loyal and trustworthy friend, her word at least equal, if not great to that among my other best friends, including Mike Gibson. I wholeheartedly believed her, and chugged my beer to prove it.

“Tell me more.”

“It’s called Surly, a local brewery that’s been gaining in popularity lately, especially in the Midwest. They just opened a new facility this year too,” said John.

“Surly… I think I’ve heard of that before. They have a Furious or something… That might be something worth checking out, and you know it’s no secret that I like an occasional beer or two, even if it is a PILS-ner.”

“And if you’d like, I’ll even be the designated driver, being that you are the birthday boy.”

“Yea, and get this. If you’re lucky, you might even see a…” Cambray leaned in close, her inside voice turning into a whisper. “…A Boundary Babe.”

“Boundary Babe?” shouted Bill.

“Check please!”

***

SURLY BREWERY—The sign glowed bright into the fading summer sky around a sculpted foundation of stone and rebar, the gateway to a 50,000 square foot complex. It was clean, it was open—it was in all forms of the word stunning, a textbook example of how all breweries should be built, and a true monument to the beer gods. We walked along a path of brick and fire, behind us a large gathering of beer-drinking patrons spread across a beautiful landscape of cement and green, decorated with meticulously placed art sculptures, trees, and walkways lined with bench level ledges. At the center of the master-crafted courtyard was the main attraction, a large mound of finely broken black stone with fire spitting up from its core that each section of the campus built towards, blending in to become one with its atmosphere, as if its presence were merely just a simple reflection of Mother Nature. As an aspiring architect, my sister would be thoroughly impressed.

But as striking as it all was, its beauty could not preclude us from moving forward onto our ultimate goal, to the indulgence of another sense; the trigger for further euphoric satisfaction. The freshly built brew hall stood before us, serving as a modern day Parthenon for beer worshipers everywhere. We drew closer to the entrance, our excitement reaching the bounds of containment, like Ridley Scott’s Alien seconds from bursting out of our bellies. Our pilgrimage was nearly complete.

I swung open the double doors into the brewery a man on a mission. To my left was a gift shop, its immediate vicinity drawing captivation over the rest of the brewery’s attractions far beyond the focal point of my faded eyesight. I took a sharp turn to a clean spread of pint glasses, clothing, accessories, and much more paraphernalia with the Surly logo plastered about, giving each carefully placed item a quick peruse, but unable to stop my legs from kicking back and forth in a scissored direction that propelled my body in a steady circular motion around the shop, over and over again. It was the best and only control I could provide to an over-stimulated body, a puppy parading around his personal candy store, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, drooling over everything that could potentially be his.

The sound of heavy metal blasted through the gift shop’s other entrance, reveling unto me a large dining hall filled with rows of long, solid wood tables leading to an industrial style bar lined with 20 different types of craft beer. The gift shop was merely a distant memory now, for my deficient attention span had drawn me towards a new majesty, growing more majestic with each aggressing step.

At the end of the bar was a 4-story glass wall that spread the length of the dining hall, a showcase of industrial ingenuity. Inside it was home to a state of the art system of pipes, boilers, rows upon rows of hoppers, and various other stainless steel structures, all for the purpose of producing a large quantity of a quality beverage we call beer, and doing so in a logical and efficient manner. Every square foot of the grandiose facility was spotless, a valid sign that they took pride in their craft, a craft of which I was about to show my upmost appreciation for. As an engineer whose expertise is in piping system design, I was thoroughly impressed.

“Yes, I would like that one, that one, we’ll go with a Furious just to be safe, let’s try that smoky one, and maybe a nice ‘PILS-ner’ if you have it,” I told the bar tender, pointing to random beer taps left and right with faith that they would all be up to my sophisticated standards for beer. Bill, Cambray and John grabbed a pint and joined me at a table I had snatched a moment later, as it was a struggle keeping up with my rabid excitement.

Seconds later, our tattoo-clad waitress walked up to us with a look distress, although my up-spirited mood left me unsuspecting of concern. It’s probably just been a busy night, that’s all. She began talking, my mind trying to focus on her speech, but distracted by the other elements in the room—friends, babes, the augmented reverberation of distortion pumping through the beer hall, the variety of beer sitting in front of me—I can’t understand what she’s trying to—now she’s looking at you and nodding her head! Focus man, focus!

“Oh yea! No problem! Sounds great. Thank you very much! I appreciate it…” I went on and on, adding to it a heavy nod and a giant smile with raised eyebrows and two forceful thumbs up before she walked away, foregoing any future eye contact. She was just busy, that’s all, and wanted to let us know that she would be with us soon like all waitress do. No big deal. Bill, Cambray, and John all whipped out looks of unease, as if they had just witness daddy hit mommy. “What?”

“Zack, you do realize she just yelled at you, right?” replied Cambray.

“What do you mean?”

“I think her exact words were, ‘um, just to let you know, this isn’t open seating. You’re supposed to see your hostess, before you grab a table, ok?’ She looked pretty upset about it too, like you cut in front of a bunch of people…” Whoops!

 

I guess it’s a good thing crabby waitresses never brings me down! And despite the same grumpy look she gave us each time she walked past the table, our mood never seemed to sour, each pass having quite the opposite effect to be exact. The simple fact was, I had beer, I had friends, and I had a beautiful evening to spend with both, and nothing could take that away from me. And at that very moment inside the Surly Brewery, I felt no anxiety over turning 30 like I had anticipated, no feeling of discontent, and certainly no concern over compromise. There only was wisdom, maturity, and resolve. So I rose my glass, and prepared a toast, a rite of passage to the rest of the 20 year olds around me, for as a 30 year old, I had lots of knowledge to give.

“You know, I wasn’t sure at the beginning of this day how I was going to feel going forward, especially after the H&M debacle.” I shot a look towards Bill, who responded by darting his head towards the ground. “But as I sit here in this brewery on this wonderful Midwest evening, I realize it’s times like these when we realize how lucky we are to be alive. And to have you here as friends spending this special day with me… gosh, all I can say is, life is good, and I honestly don’t know how this day could get any better! So from here on out, I’d like to make a pledge. No more distractions. No more excuses, and no more silly games. From here on out, I won’t let anything keep me from becoming a strong, independent, and contributing member of society. I would like to announce that starting now, at this moment forward, I will—“

“Whoa,” Bill interrupted. His jaw dropped and his head slowly shifted towards the entrance, my words of kindness long forgotten. “What is that?” he asked, running out of breath as the words left his mouth.

John and Cambray followed his lead with similar expressions, the effect seemingly growing on the rest of the bar, bar tender’s included. Even the scorching sound of heavy metal had softened, as if we were about to witness an old Wild West style stick up. What’s going on? What possibly could be so intriguing as to make my own friend stop me in the middle of my birthday toast? I turned my body to investigate. “Whoa…”

 

Her radiance cut through my heart the moment I laid eyes on her, ripping it my from my chest and taking control, all without making an incision. The room lit behind her with each graceful stride, as if an angel’s aura left it’s blessing over the sacred ground she walked. It was quite evident she was out of her natural environment, a beer pub not exactly on par with the serenity of lake and forest, but her elegant stride did not falter, only enhancing the pristine surroundings of the finest brewery I had ever set foot in, her beauty incorrigible to even the most repulsive of surroundings.

For days I had tried to prepare Bill for an encounter, just in case we happened to be lucky enough to be graced with such a sight, but no matter how concise I made the definition to be, no words could ever come close to describing the ineffable symptoms one experiences when coming across your first sighting. And though it was a sight I had been fortunate to see before, its presence once again struck me harder than I could have ever imagined, as it always does, capturing me under a hypnotic spell that I was doomed to bear for the rest of eternity. The next set of words barely left my mouth, her presence leaving me dumbfounded, hardly able to complete the most elementary of sentences… and she was walking right towards us.

“Bill… that my friend, is a Boundary Babe.”

We exchanged hugs and a few kind words of to each other, as was customary after any extended absence, for a Boundary Babe never shies away from a polite greeting. “Hi, I’m Lauren,” she said to the unrecognized face across from her.

“Uh, I um, well… gee, I am… oh boy…”

“Sorry, this is my friend Bill,” I jumped in for the save, having witnessed the speechless effects a Boundary Babe can have on a person from previous experience. “Would you care to join us for a drink?”

“How about we have one on me! It is your birthday after all. What would you like?”

Wow, I actually don’t know what to say… But say something stupid! “Uh, I um, well, I like, um… gee, I guess uh—”

“Sorry, he would love a Surly Furious, if that’s ok with you,” Bill jumped in for the save, having witnessed the speechless effects a Boundary Babe can have on a person from previous experience.

“Surly Furious would be great,” I added. She called over the waitress, which for the first time that night, caused a smile to grow across her face as she took the order, as if she were eager to be of service to us.

“Ok, I’ll be back in a minute with your drinks!” And sure enough, within a minute, she was back with a fresh round of brews, another good quality of the Boundary Babe. “Cheers!”

Cheers!” we replied, satisfied with her newfound alacrity.

To be fair, for I believe in full disclosure in all of my writings I must say that Cambray is a Boundary Babe as well, for she embodies the same characteristics as mentioned above. However, being that she was (and still is, so don’t get any funny ideas guys!) married to John, groveling over her would not only be awkward, but also inappropriate. But as for Lauren (and all other boundary babes for that matter), nothing could stop my devotion, a succinct representation towards one of the few unadulterated locales left on this Earth, tucked away in the Northern wood and water of the Minnesota/Canadian border called “The Boundary Waters.” It was a beauty and presence I did not deserve, but regardless, was given the pleasure of her company along with a beer to share, for within the spirit of a Boundary Babe to provide to others, undeserved or not.

“You know, there was a nice crew cut sweatshirt I saw in the gift shop when I came in. I think it would look really nice on you,” said Lauren.

“I saw the same one,” added Cambray. “You have to get at least SOMETHING to remember the Twin Cities by.” It was by those word that I was prompted to pound my beer and all others lying on the table and venture back into the depths of the long forgotten gift shop… on a quest for the perfect crew cut.

“I love it!” I immediately said after pulling the sweatshirt over my body. It was black, and that was all I really knew. It didn’t matter however, for the Boundary Babe has an impeccable eye for style. I wasted no time with my purchase, the cashier scanning the sweatshirt as it was still attached to my body, for I had complete faith in the Boundary Babe’s choice of attire. “What now?”

“I have an idea,” Cambray popped in, her eyes gleaming as if she had just had a Godly revelation. “What if we did a little karaoke tonight?” the question was framed in what seemed like random fashion. I however knew better, as did she. She knew full well karaoke was my strong suit, the one area where I unequivocally outshined the rest, no matter the crowd, and she was rooting for me, as a true Boundary Babe would.

Lauren gave her a nod of approval, and then Cambray looked at me, waiting for a similar response. A grin grew across my face, for I was unable to hold a straight face, as was the intention.

“I would love some karaoke.”

To be concluded…

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The Boundary Babe

The Boundary Waters, an ecological paradise located in the remote wilderness of northern Minnesota near the Canadian border, where most forms of technology, including motorized vehicles are prohibited, and for good reason. To travel, you must canoe from site to site in which expeditions can take multiple hours, and sometimes a full day. This includes the occasional portage, which involves carrying your canoe over your head along with all of your belongings over treacherous terrains and distances that can be nearly a mile long, depending on your location.

This type of trip is not for the timid. However, the accolades of completing such an excursion are beyond the capacity of history’s greatest minds, including Steve Jobs, Albert Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Benjamin Franklin, Kanye West, and William Shakespeare.

And perhaps the greatest of these accolades is gazing upon the appearance of true majestic elegance. A vision that makes the heart instantly skip a beat and the stomach swell with butterflies that have been given lethal doses of meth-amphetamine. I’m talking about the first time you lay eyes on the exalting figure of a pure specimen in her natural state. I’m talking about, the Boundary Babe…

So what is a boundary babe exactly? Well, if you look up the definitions, you’ll find the following:

Boundary: Something that indicates bounds or limits.

Babe: A girl or woman, especially an attractive one (slang definition)

But a Boundary Babe… Well, I wish it were that easy…

You see, it can take years, even decades to fully understand what and who a boundary babe is, but only mere moments to appreciate their presence. Babes come in all different forms.  They can be of the sort of a girl in the workout room in a spandex outfit with big bo… eh, ahem, ayayaya (see The Girl in the Workout Room)… OR a cutie, who despite her poor attitude, you give her the time of day for sporting the colors of the world’s greatest football team (which is the Green Bay Packers, just to be clear, see Wisconsin, Part 3 for full context). However, one thing is for certain… You never forget the first time your see a boundary babe. And trust me, you will know instantly the moment one crosses your line of sight.

If you ever come across a Boundary Babe consider yourself fortunate. Two, now that’s rarity… and a blessing.

 

***

 

To be a boundary babe, you must be ready to accept adventure at the whim of an instant. It may take a wild one who is able to gracefully walk out the door with only two hours of sleep, gladly accepting the challenge before her.

They are tough, driven, and determined, and can endure any type of hardship or weather. However, they also have heart and understand that weaker members of their party may need a little extra energy and encouragement from time to time. So asking them to stop at a Hardees in Hinkley, Minnesota for a double XL fully loaded omelet biscuit may not be the most ideal, but will be an acceptable sacrifice in order to build morale and productivity for the group as a whole.

A boundary babe will never give up… under any circumstance. Though fatigued and malnourished, she will navigate through violent waters for hour’s non-stop until she finds the perfect spot to settle for her crew. And when it becomes apparent that the outfitter has failed to provide her with the basic necessities for survival, she does not panic. She does not fret. And most importantly, she does not complain. The boundary babe is forever thankful for the gifts that Mother Nature has provided her, and does not need the luxuries of cooking stoves or other modern amenities to produce fire and provide her party with dinner, for she will survive with the resources laid out in front of her with comfort and glee. She will even go as far as to share her last portions of puppy chow to satisfy the less experienced of the group, if absolutely necessary.

There is no portage too long, too steep, or too difficult for the Boundary Babe to conquer, for she will risk life and limb to carry a 70 pound canoe on her shoulders across a land mass of steep cliffs, piercing trees, and limited visibility without hesitation. If she happens to falter, you dare not ask her for help, for this task is hers, and hers alone to accomplish, and she will carry on with honor and pride, as if her name is Atlas, holding the world upon her shoulders. Only this Atlas will never shrug off the weight… under any circumstance.

One must understand however that a boundary babe will not always deliver you a warm reaction. They do not put up with incompetence, nor do they take unnecessary crap from anyone. They may demean you for actions such as forgetting how to tie the knot that holds your canoe to the Subaru, or waking up multiple times during the night for water because you may have decided to drink a little too much Jagermeister before bed, causing a ruckus in the tent where the team dwells. And don’t even think about asking them silly questions such as “are we having peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch?” Especially if it was you who packed the lunch and you all ready know the answer to be a firm and astounding, “No.” You will only trigger a fiery response so fierce and demoralizing that it would bring tears to the eyes of the most stoic of grown men.

This attitude is not meant to belittle or disparage, but instead intended to make the rookies of the group grow stronger in their boundary experience. They know that only the durable and mighty can survive out in the boundary waters. Aka, no room for wussies (Ben Woodward’s), and they will do all that is necessary to toughen you up, testing you every step of the way until you have proven that you are able to endure the challenges that the Boundary Waters will bestow upon you.

And if you manage to overcome the challenges faced along your adventure, your hard work and determination will not go unnoticed. The boundary babe believes in redemption, and will reward you for your efforts to become worthy of such an experience, in much the same was you felt as a child, looking out with wonder upon a freshly placed mountain of presents under a tree on Christmas morning.

This feeling can come in the most common form of being within a natural habitat, watching a sunset cross over a pristine lake that has barely been touched by the fouls of civilization. It is so crystal clear, that you can see an impeccable reflection of the sky, untouched forest, and surrounding geography to the point where you can hardly tell which way is up and which way is down. All of this complimented perfectly by the company of two babes who have prepared the perfect thanksgiving meal, in which no words need to be uttered to express your thanks… The simple beauty that surrounds you is the only explanation needed.

And when the night falls, they will take you on a boundary cruise, canoeing through a pitch-black field of liquid purity to gaze upon a blanket of stars laid above them across the sky. They brush the possibility of death; navigating with a natural, pinpoint precision through blind waters just so you can discover the elegance of God’s creation. This magnificent display, both out of this world and sitting in a canoe next to you makes you realize that it’s moments like these that make life worth living for; moments you will cherish for the rest of your life, with the hope and possibility that one day, you may once again experience a similar glory that has been bestowed upon this Earth.

And once the journey is over, and you’ve stepped out of your canoe for the final time, haggard from the arduous trek back into modern society, you take a glance at the Boundary Babes following closely behind. You see their arms caped in red, bulging bumps from the non-stop attacks of blood-lusting mosquitoes, their legs covered in scrapes and scratches from their odyssey across thick tree brush to gather as much firewood as possible to offer temporary comfort after a long day of scouting for camp sites, the knotted state of their hair from days without a proper shower, and the dirt smeared all across their face from the hell they have endured in order to reach a destination that resembles heaven on Earth…

It is a sight like this that takes your breathe away, for you realize that the Boundary Babe leaves the Boundary Waters in a state more stunning and more dashing than the moment when she first entered the canoe to venture out into an unknown landscape that so few have ever had the luxury of ever witnessing. It is then when you realize the potential of true beauty. Not from plastic surgery and globs of make-up, nor from an advertisement of a paper-thin model plastered across a billboard, but from the inner beauty that blossoms from the euphoria of observing an area of the world so unadulterated and unknown to the human race, mixed with the beautiful smile of a soul who has been freed of the toxins polluting the modern world.

The truth is, I could write an entire thesis describing the grace and refining qualities of a Boundary Babe, and it still wouldn’t do the justice she deserves. The only way to truly know who and what a Boundary Babe is, is to experience the Boundary Waters yourself with one by your side (or two if you’re EXTREMELY lucky).

So I encourage anyone with enough will and enough courage to create your own adventure out to the Boundary Waters, to find your own Boundary Babe, and to make your own memories that will forever change your perception of beauty; memories that will change your life… memories that you will preserve for the rest of your days until the Great Father takes you home.

 

***

 

So how do you answer the question, “What is a Boundary Babe?”

Easy. The best kind there is.

 

-Grizzly Chadams

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