Photo by Jordan Wozniak on Unsplash
Seeing the city in the rear-view mirror was a relief. A blessing. I’m no country boy. Don’t get me wrong on that score. But even a bona fide city-slicker like myself recognizes that the metropolitan life is a deviation from a healthy, natural existence. I mean, I enjoy it’s perks as well as the next man. For instance, who can count on a decent curry, some palatable sushi, in the country? Your not going to come across a classy cinema in the boondocks. And I do like me some classy cinema venues. Look, I’m no fashion guru, hell, I’m a bit of a slob…. but I do appreciate that my wardrobe isn’t limited to the town Super Target or the county Walmart.
Still…. sometimes I feel like the city is a giant morgue, or its waiting room. No one does any surviving in the city. City folk, we’re just…. living. Living, biding our time, waiting to die. Something so artificial, superficial even, about life in the big smoke. Gyms so we don’t get fat doing nothing. Therapists so we can validate the symptoms of our stifled existences, our troubled minds. Tap and go. Social media. Conveniences that cripple. Swipe right. Swipe left. Judgments, harsh and final, at the drop of a hat. All within this impersonal sea of anonymity. An arena of strangers, packed shoulder to shoulder, so close and confined that we share each others’ breath…. yet we do not know each others’ names.
I guess people form the country can lament on their own living conditions. The lack or inefficiency of what’s on offer. The mundane limitations of a small town in the middle of nowhere. The fact that the Dairy Queen on the county border is the pinnacle of Friday night fun. For its youth, a sense of feeling bound. Trapped. The only escape; meth or heroine or suicide. This is probably your typical grass-is-greener situation. But from my point of view, whittling away my life standing around in that art museum, hardly making eye contact with anyone as I compete - and lose - for people’s attention that seems to have some holy devotion to their smart phones…. from my point of view, the country is the medicine I need. A breath of fresh fucking air.
‘Holy shit this feels good.’ Ronnie had her window down, sunglasses and smiles, cherry red hair flying in a chaotic plume behind her.
‘Amen, sister.’ I agreed.
We had the windows down. Music blaring. An advert for Jiffy Lube promised friendly service and the lowest prices before Bruce Springsteen came on the air. “I’m on Fire.”
‘Turn that shit up!’
‘Roger that,’ I obeyed.
It was a glorious scene straight from a chapter of summer bliss. Us on the road, windows down, wind in our hair, our dog Snickers with her head out the window, tongue lolling about, the very picture of dumb and cheerful. Our hangovers were shadows, weak and diminished in the face of our good moods and of the late June, midday sun. Bruce was having his say.
Hey little girl, is your daddy home?
Did he go away and leave you all alone? Mhmm.
I got a bad desire
Oh oh oh, I’m on fire.
‘You know what this reminds me of, right?’ She smiled and thrust her chin out towards the dashboard radio.
I smiled back. ‘The music? Sure do, baby-cakes.’ I winked. ‘First day we met.’
‘God, you were a sad figure.’ She laughed. ‘Sitting there at the bar nursing your beer, too self conscious to look away from the Twins game and face those around you.’
‘Hey, come one. I was genuinely into the game.’
‘Total horseshit,’ she called me out. ‘Ben, it was post game analysis for a 2-1 loss to the Royals. The audio was muted. No one could be interested in that. When I sat down right next to you there was an ad for Menards on the screen. Didn’t stop you from staring devoutly. I leaned a shoulder into you, brushed up close. I was in a frisky mood…. I even blew on your neck. And what did I get? Nothing.’
‘I probably thought it was a mosquito.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah….’
‘Well, in the end you got my attention.’
‘I did. Though it practically took a parade to do so. It was the music that gave me the in.’
‘Good ol’ Bruce.’
‘We wouldn’t be here without his divine guidance.’
I remember it clearly. That night we met. I had bet on the Twins beating the Royals by a spread of three runs. I had twenty bucks on that. So I was nervous when we were only up by one run in the seventh, and pissed off when we lost the lead - and the game - in the ninth. Twenty bucks was a lot for me back then. Besides, I lost the bet to this supreme asshole that I worked with, and I was no doubt to hear about it all fucking day the next time I saw the bastard.
I was stewing in the loss, sipping, but not tasting, my beer. At some point Bruce Springsteen came on the radio. “Thunder Road.” I didn’t notice. Hell, music had been playing for the entire 150 minutes of the ball game. The only song I had noticed was Madonna’s “Holiday,” and that was only because I needed one. Needed one bad.
So Bruce got things going. Harmonica and piano kicking off his sweet serenade to Mary as she danced across the porch. But all that was lost on me. Like I said, I was oblivious to the music. And of the girl beside me. But she wasn’t having any of it….
‘Hey, I think this song is about you.’ I turned in my sombre malaise to face a girl in a mood rather contrasting to my own. She was all smiles and mischievous eyes.
‘Huh?’ I muttered. ‘What do you mean, about me?’
She anticipated the question. Her smile widened. And she quoted the tune. ‘You ain't a beauty but hey, you're alright.’
I was pissed off. But only for a split second. The way she smiled, tilted her head, nibbled at her lower lip in that playful way. She was just messing with me. Trying to get my attention. Flirting. It was cute.
Plus, the same thing could be said about her. You're not a beauty but hey you're alright. Her confident, relaxed swagger. Her on-the-offensive attitude. The way she threw back her beer and wiped the foam from her mouth with the back of her wrist. The way the yellow neon light from the Corona sign accentuated the small cluster of acne scars scattered over her dimples. The way its golden glow played off her faded dyed blue hair, making it look some insubstantial grey or mousey brown. I mean, she wasn't geared up for a pageant. And she had the manners of a bloke on the pull.
Still, even so.... five minutes of goofy flirtations and a pint of Hamm’s later she was the only girl in the world. I think I loved her within the hour. Knew she was the one by the end of the night. Confirmed that she was when I woke up the next morning and felt the same.
'You know, you can tell a lot about a guy by how he answers the question; who's the boss?’ She told me. ‘Whether he answers Tony Danza or Bruce Springsteen.'
'Yeah, but wasn't Angela in charge?'
'Huh?'
'In Who's the Boss. Tony wasn't in charge. Angela was the boss.'
'Oh, so you're the type of guy that answers Tony Danza.'
'No. I just told you. Angela is in charge.'
'Motherfucker, pleeease, Charles is in charge.'
'Okay,’ I conceded. ‘So where is Bruce in the equation?'
We looked at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter. It was instant chemistry. To this day we still ask each other the question: 'who's the boss?' When we get in an argument we use it to diffuse the tension. 'Hey man, who's the boss?' Nine times out of ten we drop the argument, crack a smile. Of course, ten arguments is probably something that covers about half a decade's worth of quarrel between us. But that's not the point. Point is, we hit it off right away. And to be honest, I'm still not sure who the boss is. Truth be told, it’s probably Ronnie.
‘My name is Ronnie,’ she suddenly announced. Ronnie. Something about it was perfect. It suited her just right. ‘Ronnie Bauer,’ she added.
‘Nice name. Ronnie. I like it.’ I replied lamely.
‘Yeah, well, get this….’ she downed the dregs of her glass, licked her lips. ‘My middle name is Bonnie.’
‘Ronnie Bonnie?’
She nodded, shook her head. ‘Ronnie Bonnie Bauer. You fucking believe that shit?’ She cursed her parents and scowled, but broke into a smile and told me that she secretly loved it. ‘It’s so quirky. But damn if I didn’t absolutely hate it as a kid. You can’t imagine the shit that earned me on the playground, in the classroom.’
‘Think that's bad?’ I asked. ‘That's nothing. I mean, at least it's only your middle name.
‘Oh yeah?’ She challenged. ‘What's yours?’
‘Ben Polo,’ I told her. ‘I know, I know. Totally boring. But you wouldn't believe the asshole move my parents made naming my older brother.’
Bonnie squinted, thought, then her eyes went wide with realization ‘....No way. You serious?’
‘Yes fucking way. I mean, can you believe that? You have the last name Polo and you have a child, you have a moral responsibility not to name them Marco. Good parenting 101. I think they missed that class. So yeah.... I'm the lucky one who has the forgettable name. But Marco.... fucking hell. Poor guy never heard the end of it. And that game of tag you play in swimming pools? You know.... One person closes their eyes and shouts out Marco, the others have to shout out Polo in response. Forget about it. My brother got roped into playing that once and his classmates chided him for years. All I had to deal with was avoiding polo shirts. Easy enough. I don't play golf. You want another beer?’
‘Hell yes.’
And the night continued as such. Easy conversation. Lots of laughter. Lots of beers. In the end we parted ways, but not before exchanging numbers, and not before a kiss as her cab pulled up to the curb. It must have been three, maybe four in the morning. It wasn’t yet three or four in the afternoon the next day before she called me. I was so stoked to take that call, to be spared the whole wait-a-few-days, play-it-cool horseshit that everyone swears you must do.
Within a week we were a couple. Six-and-a-half years ago now.
She moved into my Minneapolis apartment until we both graduated from the U of M. We stuck around a summer, but wanted out of the university scene. Marcey-Holmes was changing so fast, that neighbourhood, and not for the better. I mean, sure, it was new and sleek, all that shit they were doing out there. But they were adding all that flash and clean-cut sterility by trading in character, colour, and culture. The Dinkytown district used to be cool. Now? I don’t know, it had this lame, safe, gift-shoppy vibe. Counterfeit cool. Cookie-cutter. Way too clean around the edges. It lacked soul.
The final straw was when I watched a pair of bulldozers doing their destructive thing to the Native American survival school across the street from my old place. Heart of the Earth, Oh Day Aki. I learned later that the school’s demise was unrelated to the winds of change in the neighbourhood. Some bigwig in the administration had stolen over a million bucks from the school, caused it to shut down. Fucker got ten years for his embezzlement. So yeah…. the neighbourhood had lost its savour.
Ronnie and I now rent a house in St. Paul. Hamline-Midway hood. It’s pretty alright. I like it. I mean, it’s not our forever home. But it fits the bill. Enough space to stretch our legs. Little fenced-in yard for Snickers, park nearby. Our next door neighbour has a mature red maple that framed our place nicely. One of its larger branches hung over our front lawn and a family of blue jays seemed to favour that spot for nesting each spring. So yeah…. it was good. It was home. For now.
'Oh my god, Ben, we have to stop!' Ronnie was hyped up. All foam at the mouth.
'What?' I asked. 'What's wrong?' We were on Route 10, entering the outer rim suburb, Coon Rapids. I really didn't want to stop so early on into our journey.
'There was a sign for a Baker's Square. How awesome would it be to have a slice of pecan pie right now?'
'Jesus, Ronnie!' I laughed, part annoyed, part amused. 'I thought there might be an emergency or something. Go easy with the sudden spasms, eh? I mean, at least while I am driving.'
'This is an emergency,' she pleaded. 'My tummy is in full rumble mode.'
I did feel the need for a coffee. 'Fuck's sake.' I reluctantly took the exit and shook my head as I pulled into the goddamned Baker's Square.
It was hot and humid and the pavement radiated a sickening wave of unnatural heat. There wasn’t a lick of breeze to alleviate the day’s warm assault. Not a single stirring of wind. Any clouds in the sky lay far off into the horizon leaving the sun to beam down, unmerciful and unchallenged, from its zenith. The odd insect lay dead or dying here and there where attempts had been made to cross the roasting fields of asphalt. I rolled down the windows for Snickers. 'We won't be long, girl.'
The air-conditioning hit us like a punch in the tits. It was nice for a minute, but then our sweaty shirts turned ice cold and it felt like Christmas, smells of sweet baking and cinnamon wafting in the artificial chill. 'Let's make this quick, eh?'
Ronnie was so excited about her damned pie I quickly forgot my irritations. 'Here you are,' the waitress brought it out in seconds, 'Two coffees and a slice of Southern Pecan.'
Ronnie looked at her pie and then at me. 'Would you be happy to partake of my pecan pie?' It was in reference to the film, When Harry Met Sally. Ronnie asked me the question in her best imitation of the silly voice Billy Crystal uses when he is joking with Meg Ryan.
I put up my hands to reject the pie. 'In a genre of films overabundant with mediocrity, I think we can agree.... best romcom ever.'
'Without question.'
I watched Ronnie eat and smiled from first bite to last. It was like watching some little kid. Her delighted expression when the pie had arrived. Her concentration while she ate. How she giggled after telling me how good it was. Those dimples of hers came out in her glee. A red ringlet of hair rested on her cheekbone.
Six and half years hadn't diminished that tickle in my tummy that came with loving Ronnie. Not in the slightest. It was like a little ember, always sitting there, right in my gut. It could take flame in an instant. Start sweeping across vast grasslands, building into forest fires that could not be put out. That was my love for Ronnie. Constant, warm, and very much alive. I laughed out loud at my sudden happiness as I took her in, crumbs resting on her lower lip.
'What?' She asked, suspicious.
I laughed some more. 'Nothing,' I assured.
'Nothing is funny?'
'Nope.' I laughed even harder.
'You are an odd one, Ben Polo.' She declared.
I watched her pick up her plate and lick the smear of pecan filling that edged the rim. Her manners were appalling. 'I'm odd?'
'Mmhmm.'
'As opposed to you?'
'Mmhmm,' She repeated. 'But you know something?'
'What's that?'
'That's why I love you.' She reached out and took my hand. This happy holiday buzz we were feeling sure did bring out the lovey-dovey stuff between us. I couldn't say I wasn't enjoying it.
'Check please.'
James Callan grew up in Minneapolis, Minnesota, but has lived in New Zealand for ten years. His wife and son and the many animals in their care are the brightest of gems in an overflowing treasure chest that is his blessed and magical life. This is an excerpt from an unpublished novel.