BRANDO LAND, by Danny Klecko by Mike Finley

Brando Land by Danny Klecko

Kraken Press St. Paul

Manifest SMALL MOMENT ON A BIG PRAIRIE ............................... 5 PUSHUPS WITH THE HOMELESS ..................................... 6 ON THE WATERFRONT .................................................... 9 AIRPORT BAR................................................................. 12 WHISKEY WITH MY KIDS ............................................... 13 LILLEHAMMER OR NAGANO ......................................... 15 CROSSING TEXAS ........................................................... 18 DEFENDING THE CAPITAL CITY ...................................... 19 THE YEAR YOU WERE GONE .......................................... 22 ANOTHER CHRISTMAS MIRACLE ................................... 24 BEAUTIFUL .................................................................... 28 KANSAS CITY BOB .......................................................... 29 SEXY OLD MAN .............................................................. 32 AN INJURY CATALOG OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY ........... 33 AN HONEST MOMENT IN KEY WEST ............................ 36 I LIKE YOU PATTY HEARST ............................................. 39 8 MINUTES WITH NICK CLIFFORD ................................. 40 RIDE THE BULL............................................................... 44 AMUSING DIANE ARBUS ............................................... 46 THE ONLY GENIUS IDEA Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;VE EVER HAD ....................... 47 30-FOOT POLE ............................................................... 49 3

WARM BREAD FOR A COLD WAR.................................. 50 POLISH KITCHEN: UNDER A CANOPY OF STARS ............ 53 STUCK IN JERSEY ........................................................... 54 BOOK REPORT: MAD ENCHANTMENT ......................... 57

SMALL MOMENT ON A BIG PRAIRIE Bugs Squashed on my windshield Limiting my vision to the point That I should look for an off ramp But I won’t Because she looks more than comfortable Almost happy, reading tender moments From somebody’s discarded copy of The Old Man and the Sea She hasn’t smiled like this in a long time Her body, completely relaxed Her comfort, initiates wonder What words did Hemingway use To coax her back to a place of ease Was it the description of the great DiMaggio The battle with the great fish Or the realization, that it isn’t uncommon To find the object of your dreams Washed up on the shore

PUSHUPS WITH THE HOMELESS When midsummer construction began on the Phalen Corridor Homeless people were driven out from their established site Some pitched tents, others parked cars, in the woods behind my bakery It was hot the morning I met my new neighbors Twelve men, half my age, stood next to the recycling dumpster Asking for cardboard to make panhandling signs The sun was blazing, the asphalt at melting point Nodding yes, I dropped a piece of cardboard onto the parking lot Placed my hands on it, and rattled off thirty pushups worthy of a Marines approval The twelve men became merry, and for the next ten minutes They followed suit, bobbing up and down All of us, huffing, puffing and sweating Throughout the summer, parking lot pushups became routine

Most of us assembled daily without formality or invitation Killing time with my neighbors was something I looked forward to But then the snow came and camp broke unannounced Leaving me to wonder if it was wrong to hope they would return

ON THE WATERFRONT “The White Glove Scene” It’s a beautiful scene, shot in a public park that’s covered with equal parts of smoke and fog. The sky is overcast, while honking car horns compete with the drone of industry. This seems like an unlikely backdrop for romance. But when it’s over, the audience believes that love can take root anywhere. Even in Hoboken. In acting, understanding how to create romantic tension is impressive, but holding it for its maximum length and knowing when to release it is an art form. Hold the tension too long, the tension will dissipate. Throughout the history of film, nobody utilized this technique as effectively as Marlon Brando. The White Glove Scene starts with Eva Marie Saint’s character exhibiting a virginal quality. Her posture is erect and her wardrobe is immaculate. Look deeper however and you might see that her life is at a tipping point and she might be open to desire. Brando portrays a washed up boxer whose future was over before it started, but he’s incredibly handsome and cloaked with an animal magnetism that isn’t easily ignored.

As they begin walking and the dialog starts, it’s easy for me to tune out their conversation. Both parties are so awkward and vulnerable that their words hold little value. The things they said made me uncomfortable, so instead I focus on their gestures. Brando’s body language indicates he is out of his element in the presence of his refined companion. Gum chomping, hands buried deep in his pockets, feet dragging and mumbling are the best he can offer to convey his feelings. Every time I watch this, it reminds me of the helplessness I’ve experienced falling in love. As Brando and Eva Marie Saint begin to walk across a playground, she reaches into her pocket to pull out a pair of gloves, but one of them slips from her grasp and Brando instinctually bends over to pick it up, but he doesn’t give it back, and that’s where the magic begins. When Eva Marie Saint reaches to take back her glove, Brando isn’t paying attention because his complete focus is on his new treasure. As he inspects it, a small smirk forms as he holds the glove up and begins picking off imaginary pieces of lint. This moment is paramount, not just because it’s spontaneous, but because it’s the first time the audience gets to witness the sensitive side of our protagonist thug. With a second attempt, Eva Marie Saint politely charges Brando, but he evades her by falling backward onto a

swing-set where he swings back and forth slowly until he pulls the tiny glove onto his massive left hand. It’s at this point where Eva Marie Saint begins to lose it, and you can see she’s getting annoyed, I’ve watched this scene dozens of times and I still can’t tell if that look of anguish on Eva Marie Saint’s face belongs to her, or to her character. Had any other actor played opposite of her, they would have simply picked up the glove and returned it. But Brando isn’t any other actor, and that’s why this scene surpasses spectacular.

AIRPORT BAR Her name tag announced her as Viv, as did her raspy voice She placed a coaster in front of me and stared while asking Brave sailor, where will your journey take you When I mentioned I was off to Siberia she adjusted her apron and said Nobody goes there, and I would know But if Ivan decides to give you back Tuesdays my day off A night with Viv was illusion Something to which my wife would object But the prospect was alluring Because like me, Viv was a lout But, if fantasy became reality We'd come home from dinner parties Parade ourselves upstairs And while she began to take off her jewelry She'd start a fight, I just couldn't win And maybe that's the reason These moments remain nothing more than possibilities Enough to occupy the moment Until another sailor comes along

WHISKEY WITH MY KIDS Four days after America celebrated its birthday I celebrated mine With a number of candles on the cake That signified this was a day to pay respect To a man who wasn’t over the hill But could smell the grass on the other side After eating pasta After opening gifts After my wife whisked the grandchildren back home The evening cooled and somebody suggested Let’s go to Dixie’s and drink whiskey with the old man Hours later, everybody at our table is drunk It occurs to me, for the first time, my kids are talking to each other Not because they have to, but because they want to This brought me joy as the server brought the tab Containing a sum equivalent to a monthly car payment Cautiously, my kids reach for wallets and purses Wondering whose responsibility it will be to pay Somehow protocol is determined in a series of silent glances That encourages their hands to return to the table Knowing that the greatest gift

they could give to their father Is to let him pay while he is able

LILLEHAMMER OR NAGANO If you’re a guy, there’s no reason to watch men’s figure skating, unless it’s during the Olympics. Even then, it doesn’t require a strong rooting interest. But if they slot it between events like bobsledding and ski jumping, nobody’s going to hold it against you for watching. Such was the case, one evening, during the Lillehammer or Nagano games. Former U. S. skating champion Scott Hamilton was doing commentary, and just before the network cut away for a commercial break, he made a comment that caught my attention: “When we return, get ready to meet a skater who put the audience ahead of the judges.” As action resumed, at center ice, stood a handsome Frenchman dressed like the musketeer D’Artagnan. His name was Phillip Candelero. When the music kicked in, he attacked. Scott Hamilton became giddy while explaining: “Candelero’s routine has a high level of difficulty and he’s added several untraditional elements that could lead to point reductions. Some have said that Phillip isn’t taking full advantage of his opportunity to bring home a gold medal, but I’ve watched him skate in France and I can tell you first hand, Phillip Candelero has their full support because he has done something

few people do. He’s found the perfect balance between sport and art.” Halfway through his routine, Candelero produced an invisible sabre and began fencing against imaginary foes. The crowd erupted. When the routine concluded, admirers threw flowers and intimate apparel onto the ice. It took more than several minutes to clear the debris. When the awards were handed out, Phillip Candelero stood on the bronze podium. Later that evening, an interviewer asked Phillip if he was disappointed that he didn’t win gold. The Frenchman explained: “People remember moments, not medals. Giving the world a moment to remember is more important than trophies.”

CROSSING TEXAS When I think of Texas I remember big sky and open spaces Rattlesnakes at sunset Enjoying the asphalts warmth When I think of Texas I remember hitchhiking and freeways Truck stops and rest stops Packed with hookers and Christians Demonstrating equal enthusiasm Denton, Dallas, Austin Corpus Christi too Mile after mile of on- ramps and off -ramps Where road houses were filled with women Who believed men in black hats Gave guardian angels purpose When I think of Texas I remember setting up camp under bridges Praying the moon would vanish So the world would become dark enough To dream of Minnesota

DEFENDING THE CAPITAL CITY If you were in the parking lot of Washburn High School, the night some guy in a bread truck kept honking his horn, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll confess, that was me. That year, 2009 was exciting for my family. In addition to my daughter getting married, my son Tydus was named captain of the Highland Park Scots football team. Other than a season opening loss to Como Park, everything turned out storybook that season. My sons eighteenth birthday was the same day as his schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s homecoming game. The Scots were hosting their archrival Central, in a game that would determine who would be conference champion. The winners would go on the road to Minneapolis and face the Washburn Millers for the Twin Cities championship. Both Central and Highland played their hearts out, but in the end, the underdog Scots sealed the victory with a last second interception. My son and his teammates stormed the field. It was the first time their program had beaten Central in years. The night before the Twin Cities championship, Tydus put on his headphones and stood in the kitchen rocking back and forth. He was cut off from the world. My wife dismissed this behavior to adrenaline and boredom, but I knew exactly what he was doing,

envisioning victory. He understood all campaigns are won before they start. On the night of the Twin Cities championship, the Scots were in control throughout the game. The result wasn’t as close as the score might indicate. But still, it may have been the longest sixty minutes of my life. As the players left the field, Tydus sought me out to tell me he wanted to catch a ride if I was willing to stick around. So I waited, and waited, for my son until he finally returned and hopped in. As he leaned back, I half expected to see a look of elation. Instead he projected calm while apologizing, and explaining that his coach concluded the season with a lengthy heartfelt speech. When I asked what he said, Tydus explained they got the… “When I run into you guys, five years from now, this better not be the best thing that’s ever happened to you” speech. The message was nice, and I appreciated his coach’s sentiment. But as we pulled out of the parking lot, it occurred to me that fathers are accountable to their sons, so I told mine the truth. “Kiddo, on the last game of your high school football career, not only did you win a championship, but you gave St Paul bragging rights for the next year by beating the best Minneapolis had to offer. Even if you won a

Nobel Peace Prize or discovered the cure for cancer, it wouldn’t mean as much as this.” My son smiled and remained silent for the rest of the ride home. He was glad the whole thing was over and hasn’t discussed it since.

THE YEAR YOU WERE GONE On the first day I was able to roll down my window Roll it down all the way Enough to feel sunshine on my face I was alone and feeling alone, even though, I was accompanied by a Pavarotti soundtrack Until a red light stopped me at an intersection Where I heard a conversation so sweet I felt compelled to turn down the volume on my favorite tenor To listen to words I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand A dialect that was foreign She, behind the steering wheel He, riding shotgun, wearing an MTC bus driverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s uniform From the way they looked at each other I supposed This was nothing more than an insignificant moment in their relationship But as this couple stared ahead at a personal joy Designed specifically for them I smiled with a hint of jealousy At how effortlessly their conversation seemed tied together By threads of laughter

And when the green light finally flashed, and they sped away I realized how many times weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve had that exact conversation And I thought of you, and smiled, as the loneliness increased

ANOTHER CHRISTMAS MIRACLE On the first Christmas Eve, after my second wife kicked me out, I found myself drinking whiskey in the garage of my friend Brutus. My objective was to avoid loneliness, and gain perspective on my situation. If anyone had the answers, it would be Brutus. He’d been discarded by a parade of women but his overall outlook remained optimistic. Brutus pulled a large cardboard box from the trunk of his Cadillac, while telling me it was filled with things that would keep my mind out of bad places. The box wasn’t wrapped, but the flaps were folded shut, and since I had brought nothing in return, I felt awkward about whether I should open it. Since he didn’t urge me, I didn’t, and took the box home with me. The following day would be the first time I’d spend Christmas alone. I had no plans, and I had no furniture, so I sat in the middle of an empty living room and opened my only gift. Inside I found a stack of old books, and a bottle of bourbon. All the books were by the same person, Charles Bukowski. I’d never read him. After opening the bourbon, I poured a drink and decided to stretch out across the carpet and opened

one of the books called POST OFFICE. I enjoyed it so much that I kept reading until I passed out. On Christmas morning, I woke up and heard a fly buzzing against a windowpane. I was glad to have the company. I got up, and after placing my books on the windowsill, I picked up the cardboard box and took it outside to the garbage. In the parking lot, I noticed sparrows bouncing on the garbage dumpster. There had to be at least fifty of them. As they chirped in celebration, I held onto the box because I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to disturb them. Watching the birds I realized just how far I had drifted from my tribe. I spent the rest of my morning finishing POST OFFICE and found it ironic that in the final chapter, like me, Bukowski was celebrating Christmas. He was with a woman named Betty who gave him turkey, sex and whiskey, in that order. When the bottle was empty, Bukowski left to get another, but when he returned, Betty had passed out in bed. Not wanting to disturb her, Bukowski took a few more belts from the bottle and lay naked under the Christmas tree and fell asleep. When he woke up, he looked up just in time to see the tree crashing down on him. The pointed star came toward him like a dagger. It looked like the end of the world. Bukowski couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t move. The arms of the tree engulfed him, and the light bulbs were red-hot.

When he rolled to left, he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get out. When he rolled to right, he was still trapped. Finally, when he rolled out from under, Betty was standing there asking what happened. Bukowski informed her that the goddamn tree tried to murder him, pointing to the burn marks covering his body. Betty tried to console him, but Bukowski demanded immediate satisfaction and pulled the plug. When the lights went out and the thing was dead, Bukowski said he never trusted that tree, and it would be getting the rest of the night off. I closed the book and set it back on the windowsill, I still had 12 hours of Christmas left to kill, so I put on my coat and stood by the dumpster to watch the sparrows some more.

BEAUTIFUL I’ve got a brother Brutus And he takes care of me When my got real sick, deadly He brought a Christmas tree He stood there in the doorway And he didn’t say a thing I saw him through the window And he just smiled at me I think you’re beautiful I think you’re number one I thank God for you often I’m glad we’ve had some fun We like to play the ponies And read Bukowski too Whenever I get lonely I’m glad I have you, cuz I think you’re beautiful I think you’re number one I thank God for you Often

KANSAS CITY BOB Angels flap their tired wings hoping to create a breeze Knowing there’s no place hotter than a kitchen in July Legions have been sent to observe your every move You don’t believe in them, but your best friend does You entered my city without a cloak or beggars purse The appropriate credentials of a food service worker Tonight, I’m stuck in Moscow and I’m watching CNN The Popes at Yankee Stadium preparing his farewell Mass I imagine blasphemous punch lines you’d deliver without effort Then I feel nervous because I know they’d make me laugh The Russian Chess Federation was closed when I stopped by So I bribed the guard and he let me look inside I stared at empty tables where your heroes waged war And told their ghosts that Bobby Joe would kick their ass Montreal, Chicago, Minneapolis too, your tank was almost empty If you didn’t leave soon you’d never get back home Angels clip their tired wings, they’re not

going anywhere They prefer your company and reside in Kansas City

SEXY OLD MAN Youthful beauty doesn’t deserve praise Why shower accolades on something achieved automatically And without investment It’s easy being handsome when you’re young Good looks are determined by what side of the gene pool you surfaced from Or the amount of pressure your head received exiting the birth canal Then, in a blink, it occurs, boys become men and vice replaces virtue The temple decays and the battle against gravity begins It’s never a matter of if, but when metabolism will betray you And that’s precisely why your praise should be saved For a guy who flourishes during his golden years A guy with vanity attached to a sacrifice supreme A guy on his final lap around a track Where calories and opinions need to be rationed To defy overwhelming odds and remain relevant I’m not going to lie, this isn’t easy If it was, everyone would look like me The sexy old man

AN INJURY CATALOG OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY At 17, his left eye was ruined in a boxing match. The injury prevented him from being able to enlist in the army. Instead, he drove an ambulance on the front, where a bomb exploded close enough to put 268 pieces of shrapnel into his left leg. Many of the pieces were never removed and the injury hurt him so much that most of his life he had to write standing up. Then there’s the time he accidently shot himself in the leg as he tried to finish off a shark he had just pulled onto his boat Pilar. Ernest suffered from 9 documented concussions, 4 car crashes and 2 plane crashes. After the second plane crash, the newspapers reported him dead, but several days later, Hemingway surfaced from the jungle, but he suffered… 1st degree burns, internal bleeding, a ruptured kidney, spleen & liver. He also crushed vertebra and fractured his skull. And if these injuries aren’t enough to qualify my favorite writer as resilient, let me point out over the course of his life, Ernest also survived… Anthrax, Malaria, Pneumonia, Dysentery, Skin Cancer, Hepatitis, Diabetes and High Blood Pressure

Weeks before taking his life in Idaho, Ernest made 2 separate trips to Rochester Minnesota where he received numerous rounds of electric shock therapy. Ernest Hemingway was a god, but he suffered a great deal. My hopeâ&#x20AC;Ś Is in his next life, not only will the pain disappear, but hopefully heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be able to find the happiness he deserves.

AN HONEST MOMENT IN KEY WEST Ash Wednesday, I was with the Russian Super Model Surrounded by sunshine and palm trees We held hands and passed through the gate of our vacations destination The Hemingway House and Museum The moment I set foot on the estate everything felt familiar The moment I crossed the threshold, everything became clear I was , Ernest Hemingway, reincarnate Our tour guide led us robotically Offering information about polydactyl cats, safariâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s and the backyard urinal In the living room, I spotted pictures of my wives Uniformly framed, Hadley, Pauline, Mary and Martha In the past, I reserved a special place in my heart for Hadley But sometimes all it takes is a second chance to change perspective As I watched the Russian Super Model, studying my achievements listed on placards I realized that special place, now belonged to her

She, unlike the others understands the value of silence A trait impressed on her, by a family that addresses emotion with glances instead of words Saving the best for last, we were escorted to the writing room Where I was forced to stand on a platform, and look through bars of a cage When I saw my typewriter, I had mixed feelings The nine books I wrote here gave me satisfaction But when I paused to wonder about stories left unwritten, anxiety began to creep in Before I had time to process I was alerted, politely by the tour guide, that I was holding up the line With that, the Russian Super Model whisked me down the stairs, past the cat cemetery Out the gate, and back to the street, where we resumed walking without conversation As we made our way towards, and eventually down Duval Street I spotted Sloppy Joes and gravity began to pull me in that direction Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s few things in this world that supersede primal nature 37

Russian Super Models are one of them Instead of going to the bar, I found myself in Kermit’s Key Lime shop And as I stood at the cash register with my wallet open I couldn’t help wishing I still lived in the Hemingway House But then, as the room became quiet And as I watched the Russian Super Model eating an ice cream cone My regrets vanished when that special place in my heart reminded me If, you want to be surrounded by joy It’s better to write a new chapter Than cling to a memory

I LIKE YOU PATTY HEARST If time allowed an edit I would join you in the closet To marvel at your features In a less than perfect darkness But maybe we should whisper As they fumble through the ransom Which they can keep, for all I care While we share the closet Where you will tell me stories Of conversations long forgotten Just as long as I promise Not to follow when you leave And you wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to worry Because I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want a lifetime I only want a moment To have you in the closet

8 MINUTES WITH NICK CLIFFORD There I stood, my lens pointed at the face of George Washington, and the red light began to blink. My camera battery was dead and I needed a replacement. At the foot of Mount Rushmore rests a small cluster of buildings consisting of restaurants, an ice cream stand and a souvenir store that I entered only to become overwhelmed by countless trinkets and souvenirs. There were velvet pillows, key chains, snow globes and shot glasses. It was simultaneously tacky and somewhat impressive. I walked through every aisle like I was circling a drain, but when I arrived at the center everything changed. Resting against a fold-out table sat Don “Nick” Clifford, and placed in front of him was a pile of his recent book about working on the Mount Rushmore monument between 1938 and 1940. To his left stood his wife, waving people over much like a carnival barker; “Come on over everybody and meet the last living sculptor that carved the face of Abraham Lincoln.” A small group of young boys approached. As the wife continued giving a step-by-step account of her husband’s legend, Nick showed the kid with a Baltimore Orioles T-shirt how to grip the laces when throwing a curve ball.

As the child attempted to mimic this, Nick reminisced out loud: “The reason I even got the job was because Mr. Borglum, he was the gentleman that started this project, he was a big fan of baseball. He saw me pitching when my squad made it to the state finals, and when he learned I lived in Keystone; he was kind enough to offer me a job. What most people don’t know is that our Rushmore workers had their own baseball team and I became their pitcher.” Shoving the kids aside, I addressed the man: “C’mon Nick, you’re telling me that you slipped into a harness and hung off the side of a mountain just so you could play ball?” The old man smiled at my ignorance; “There was nothing more dangerous about this job than most. Prior to that, I was working in the mines. The mines are far worse than the mountain, and back then a guy felt fortunate to have any job.” When the kid in the Orioles shirt finally got the proper grip on the baseball, he released it and asked: “How old are you Nick?” “I’m 91 years old, son.” For a split second, I noticed how the old man and the boy looked at each other, as if wishing they could change places. A woman with white sunglasses interrupted:

“Nick did you and the other workers feel like you were creating a piece of art? “No Mam, none of us did, this was just considered a job, but then years back, back when the monument celebrated its 50th anniversary, President Bush came out here to give a presentation. This was a big deal and many of the workers flew from all parts of the country to reunite for this moment.” “I think maybe it was then we all understood the magnitude or the importance of what Mr. Borglum had accomplished, and pretty much every Fourth of July after that we held a reunion. Everyone felt very fortunate to take part in something people care about the whole world over.” “It really amazes me how everyday if you come here, you have the opportunity to meet some of the nicest people from across the planet.” All of us stood there hunched amongst the patriotic apparel, savoring being in the presence of the last living person who took part in forming this powerful symbol of what we are all about. Finally the woman in white sunglasses asked Nick’s wife if Nick felt an extra responsibility to be present since he was the only person left who could give a firsthand account of how Mount Rushmore came to be. Nick’s wife nodded slowly, sharing that he plans to stay on the mountain for the rest of his life so he can share

the experiences and stories of the many colleagues he worked with. But just as she was saying this, I saw another small boy approach the table to learn how to grip the curve ball, and thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when it occurred to me than maybe my countryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most amazing surviving mountain carver just liked chatting up baseball.

RIDE THE BULL There was a time, when kids were bad, but not bad enough to go to prison, they were sent to Norris South Dakota to establish confidence working on cattle ranches. The man I reported to was Mr. Merchant, he wasn’t nice or mean, but he was fair. One morning he brought me to town and bought me a cowboy hat and boots. After thanking him, Mr. Merchant told me they weren’t a gift; they were required for our next stop, the county rodeo When we arrived, without a word, we walked to the arena where I was introduced to the director who handed me an entry number and two safety pins to attach it to my shirt. Confused, I stood silently waiting for instruction. Moments later, Mr. Merchant announced that he’d entered me in the bull riding competition; I hoped he was joking, but then I remembered where I was, and who he was. As the bull stared at me through the chute, Mr. Merchant explained that around here people didn’t have much use for outsiders, and if I wanted to fit in, lasting eight seconds on the bull would go a long way. Instantly I felt ill, but before I had time to consider backing out, two cowboys pulled me over the fence and positioned me on top of the bull and handed me a leather glove and a braided rope.

When I nodded, the gate opened and before my mind registered a single thought, the bull double-kicked and sent me into the air where I experienced weightlessness until I felt the impact of landing hard, flat on my back. The wind was knocked out of me and I felt ashamed that I had failed and I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sure what to do, so I just stood still and stared at the ground because I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t brave enough to confront Mr. Merchantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s disappointment. When I finally looked up, and met his gaze, I might have detected a slight twinkle in his eyes when he told me not to worry because nobody in these parts expected a city kid to go the distance, they just want to know if he could fall with dignity.

AMUSING DIANE ARBUS Because it’s in your nature to point a camera towards lost souls Click - little boy and hand grenade Click - dwarf without a tribe Click - men applying makeup in secret Individually, these photographs intrigue me But viewed in succession, I become overwhelmed and uncomfortable By beautiful people, isolated By beautiful people, disconnected Each time I close your book, I wonder how things might have been different If I had been your boyfriend That’s why, if ever I stumble upon Aladdin’s lamp You have my full assurance that I’ll use one of my wishes To unite us in a church-basement kitchen Where we’ll make fruit salad with Nuns and optimistic Lutheran’s And at the end of the night, if you still want to die We’ll stay with you, so you won’t have to cross alone

THE ONLY GENIUS IDEA I’VE EVER HAD It occurred to me during a winter of considerable snowfall My adventures could never take place in exotic lands Because everything about me was urban I would appreciate nature on my own terms by letting it come to me And that’s when I started seeking the acceptance of rabbits By trying to establish a bond like Jane Goodall did with chimps Late at night and into the early morning, I spent hours standing in a snowdrift In the middle of my backyard with the porch light on As my family rolled their eyes behind frosted windows Until my routine became boring and was forgotten It wasn’t until I surrendered to the darkness and the cold That I realized how many sounds silence could produce It was in this silence that Brother Rabbit appeared He was old and wise in the ways of the world For days he watched cautiously from a distance But as time passed he began meeting me 47

on a regular basis And that’s when I began to understand the beauty of our connection While the rest of the world slept, we had each other and didn’t have to be alone Eventually the snow began to thaw, and when it did Brother Rabbit shot me a look that indicated Rabbits never say goodbye, they just hop off to more pressing matters And that’s when I realized -- paradise was lost

30-FOOT POLE On a 30-foot pole I sit above the city And just like God go unnoticed Occupants of the avenue Hardly hold my interest So I look into myself for amusement Until I notice a woman on the sidewalk Who takes time to gaze towards heaven To discover the sky in its eternity All of its luminaries and stars From every angle She is beautiful and I want her But if I climb down to join her I do so knowing Nothing this perfect can remain constant

WARM BREAD FOR A COLD WAR FACT: On June 3rd 1990, Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev touched down in the Twin Cities in a red, white and blue Aeroflot jet. For the first time in a long time, Minnesota was back in the international spotlight. Everybody was curious why Gorbachev agreed to a six-hour layover here before hooking up with President Reagan in California. As usual, answers were not given. Nor did it matter as Gorbymania was out of control and sweeping across America. Everybody wanted a piece of Gorbachevâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s layover. Hundreds of VIPs ranging from Fritz Mondale to preapproved CEOs waited to pimp their wares while standing in uncharacteristic weather that resembled a Siberian cold front. The temp was 49 degrees. The skies were gray and drizzling as this beautiful mob stood huddling close for warmth on the tarmac next to a bunch of Marines, all of them packing major heat. All of us sensed this had to be the event of the season. Even Cher offered to fly in from Chicago after her concert. Nobody likes a good time like Cher, but her request was denied. A local farmer remembered that Gorbachev was once a Soviet agriculture secretary and offered to bring an 850pound boar to any spot along the motorcade to be admired. That idea was also shot down.

I even heard a woman who became a bride that day offered to save Gorby a dance, but our diplomatic guest just didn’t have enough hours to partake of all the hospitality that was offered. I was an exception. I first found out about Gorbachev’s visit when I was working at Custom Bakery on West 7th, in the Capital City. The Governor’s mansion was one of our accounts.. I was told that Governor Rudy Perpich (a CroatianAmerican) wanted to have a special loaf designed for a ceremony where he and Gorby would break bread together as a symbol of peace. That’s where I came in. The symbol of peace, the special bread, couldn’t come off a grocery store shelf. That would be savage. These world leaders were in the milling capital of the free world. This event demanded a loaf, a perfect loaf that would transcend all expectations. When you design culinary dishes for visiting dignitaries you have two options. You can try to replicate something from their homeland, or you can create something indigenous to us. I opted for the latter, after hearing that Gorby was excited to visit Reagan’s ranch. It was reported that he was enthralled with Native Americans and wanted to learn more about their history and ways from one of America’s favorite cowboy actors.

Like a symphony conductor I orchestrated securing the finest ingredients our state had to offer. Projects like this are a blast because you have no budget. Everybody just wants you to get the best ingredients money can buy. During the week leading up to the arrival, we had visits from intimidating looking thugs who might have been FBI or KGB. These people donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hand out business cards. I was a young man and took no offense while these inspectors grilled me with questions while sifting through my ingredient bins. I was not there at the event, of course, I was, after all, just the baker, but imagine in your mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eye, the President of Russia biting into a slice of my bread, with just a dab of good Minnesota butter on it. Eyes closed as he nods in the affirmative, sealing friendship between the two leaders. Had I not done my job properly, there might be Soviet missiles pointed at your house today.

POLISH KITCHEN: UNDER A CANOPY OF STARS Sunday morning after Mass - Grandma swears – Grandpa laughs Relatives will be here soon - and we’ll sit down for lunch at noon When we come together we’re complete Carry groceries from the car - Little Debbies – Nutty bars Fresca, Tang – Quisp & Quake - Swanson dinners – Shake & Bake All packed neatly in Red Owl bags Broken dishes, stain on shirt - arguments before dessert Cup of Sanka, Sara Lee – cribbage and Monopoly Grandpa stops to watch the evening news And we don’t want the night to end We don’t want to be apart The stars come out to form a canopy Everyone is comfortable - when they’re not alone Sunday evening, Kitchens closed - say goodbye, it’s time to go Weddings, funerals, holiday - is the next time when we’ll play Grandma smiles waving from the street When we come together we’re complete

STUCK IN JERSEY The Russian Super Model and I were camped out in New Jersey waiting for a connecting flight to the Twin Cities. This was the third airport of our commute, and rumors began to surface that weather might prevent us from getting home. We were tired, annoyed and powerless, so we both engaged in rituals we hoped would loosen the Garden State’s grip on us. Like most post-middle aged couples, we brought traveling books. I was reading Brando - Songs My Mother Taught Me. This book received a lot of buzz because Brando wrote it himself. The Russian Super Model was tired, so I decided to distract her with conversation. “Do you want to hear something Brando said that kind of freaked me out?” After getting a nod of approval, I read the opening sequence of chapter 18: The intervals of anxiety and depression that began when my mother left New York City continued off and on through the run of A Streetcar Named Desire and long afterward. It would take years for me to escape my acceptance of what I had been taught as a child 54

-- that I was worthless. Of course, I had no idea then that I even had such feelings about myself. Something was chewing on me, and I didn’t know what it was, but I had to hide my emotions and appear strong. It has been this way most of my life; I have always had to pretend that I was strong when I wasn’t. I closed the book and the Russian Super Model flashed a supportive smile before asking: “What part freaked you out?” Uncertain how to answer, I told the truth: “When I read this, it really hit me hard. I felt as if Brando wrote this just about me, or for me. I remember feeling worthless growing up, just like he said. I was bankrupt of confidence, so I manufactured false confidence to get through. But even though I’ve figured out today how to create a personality that has allowed me to get what I want, I’m really tired of it. That’s not me. I wish I didn’t have to be tough anymore.” The Russian Super Model rolled her eyes and said: “Dummy, that’s how everybody feels because we don’t know how to be honest with each other. Not because we don’t want to, because we don’t know how. That’s why life is hard.” Then she came over and sat next to me, and I began to feel better.

BOOK REPORT: MAD ENCHANTMENT “Claude Monet and the Painting of the Water Lilies,” by Ross King I stood alone on Nicollet Mall. It was a Sunday evening and I couldn’t figure out if I was lonely or bored. I was also cold so I stepped into a Barnes & Noble. The guy at the register said he was about to close, but, if I knew what I wanted, he’d be happy to ring me up. I didn’t know what I wanted. But I acted like I did, and approached a random table. The first book that caught my eye was a new release entitled Mad Enchantment (Claude Monet and the Painting of the Water Lilies) written by Ross King and it cost $28. I was familiar with Ross King, or at least one of his books. I’d read Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling and enjoyed it so much that I didn’t even bother to examine the Monet book. Instead I just handed the cashier $30 and crossed the street to the Super Target Café. As I walked in, I noticed most of the diners were not dining. It appeared they had made minimum purchases that would qualify as compliant. I ordered a hot dog and a Diet Coke.

After the concession girl placed my items on a cafeteria tray, I noticed the only vacant table was smack-dab in the middle of the dining room. At first I didn’t want to sit there. The room was filled with a strange energy and the last thing I wanted to become was a common focal point. But there was nowhere else to sit, so I sat. And the hot dog wasn’t bad. On the table next to me was a sleeping body draped over a huge back pack. The guy was out cold, so I just stared at him and tried to determine if the back pack was there to cushion the body, or if the body was there to protect the back pack. As I picked up my book and prepared to read, I took one last look at my companions. There had to be 20 of us killing time together. Some had back packs, some had suitcases. There were even a couple of old women with countless plastic bags tied to their walkers. I had a book and began to read. Just before the First World War, some guy who’d bought some of Monet’s paintings died unexpectedly and in his will, he left them to the Louvre and the Louvre people were really excited because impressionism was controversial and they knew Monet’s paintings would create a buzz. The only problem was that the Louvre had an unwritten rule. No paintings could hang on the walls of the museum until ten years after the painter’s death. 58

But, for reasons the book didn’t get into, the Louvre sidestepped tradition and invited Monet to the grand opening. Monet didn’t like people or metropolitan trends, so when he made his way into Paris incognito, he was left alone to eat oysters and watch wrestling matches. As I was about to turn the page, I noticed a man half my age was standing over me and looking at the cover of my book. When I set it down and gave him my attention, he asked if I was French. When I answered no, he paused a second before asking if I had heard of the Hartlepool Monkey Incident. When I said no, he sat down without invitation and went on to explain that during the Napoleonic Wars a French ship crashed onto the shore of England and freaked out a bunch of drunken fishermen because they thought they were being invaded. But all the French sailors were dead and the only member of their crew that remained alive was their pet chimp. When the chimp began screeching, the drunken Brits thought the screeching was French, so without a trial. They hung the monkey. When I asked the man half my age if he believed the story to be fact or legend, he explained it didn’t really matter to him. He just thought that any story that ended with the word “Incident” sounded important. As I was just about to pick up my book to continue, I noticed everybody’s attention shift to the entryway.

When I did the same, I saw a tall-old woman wearing a long coat darker than lime, but lighter than pine. She was beautiful and crossed the room with confidence. Finally she sat next to an old man who smiled. For awhile they didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say a thing. They just stared out the window, until the old man gave her the once over and said. Green is the color of life. It is the color of grass and trees. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the color of life. That suits you. Then they held hands, and those of us who remained awake smiled, and then the snow began to fall.

Kraken Press St. Paul, Minnesota