Part One: Funny Story, That Fencing

I am staring out the bus window.

It is late summer.  All things in Minnesota, by the way, are referenced by season, and I recall the grass, the warm breeze, the wanton display of my bare ankles on a city bus – and the tore-up chain link fence around the four-plex kitty-corner from The Spring…

This sort of thing makes me frown.

The Spring is one of my favorite bar and grills.  It has everything you expect in a local joint:  affordable drink specials, truly delicious burgers, and rosy-nosed drinkers earnestly holding down bar stools, some of them for long enough to be served by different shifts of bartenders.

This is the bar where I once watched a remarkably happy man belt AC/DC tunes to an equally happy following whilst punctuating the bass line with "thazz mah dawg".

It haunts me.

I am still frowning at the tire tracks that lead up and over the boulevard and into a now rather ineffective bit of fencing when, less than a block away, I notice a good chunk of bark torn off a sizeable oak tree.

Well that ain’t right, is it?

I consciously stop frowning, attempt to smooth my brow with my fingertips.  

This place is gonna give me wrinkles.

Still, life -- and the bus -- goes on.  It is several weeks before the chain link fence is fixed, but the tree, and its missing bark, roughly headlights high, stares daily into my commute.

It is October, I suppose, when I meet George for drinks.

I specifically remember my suede boots, no danger of rain.

We are at a booth, finishing what strikes me as our third beer.  The day is crisp and shiny, the kind of autumn day when one stands amidst the fallen and falling leaves and smiles:  summer was beautiful, and winter’s not yet here.  How lucky we are!

We step outside on the large deck, George and I, artfully cadge a cigarette from those we believe to be our admirers.

“That fence across the street got hit by a car this summer,” I say. 

George looks at me.  “You know who did that, don’t you?”

I start laughing.  Maybe it’s the beer, maybe it’s the cigarette, but this strikes me as funny. 

“I know a lot of things,” I say.  “But I don’t know who hit that fence.”

George exhales, takes another thoughtful inhale and tosses the butt into an ashtray balanced on the deck’s railing. 

“It’s a drunken tale of jealousy, lawlessness, and age discrimination,” she says.  “Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you about it.”

Hmm.  George has a tale for us…