Grand Old Days

Last weekend, summer stopped by for a short visit.

I planned to greet it on the patio with a book and a beer but my wife, a zealous crusader against relaxation, insisted we go to Grand Old Days, a street fair in Saint Paul.

I argued.

I sulked.

But after being allowed my point, we drove to the city.

Traffic was light in the outer suburbs and the day pleasant. Big bright clouds roiled in a blue sky and the trees, finally accepting summer, let their young leaves out to romp in the sunlight. The day promised to be as enjoyable as a book and a beer on the patio.

The pleasantness lasted until the Mississippi bridge where a torrent of mini-vans swirled up from behind. They flashed their lights, vocalized their aggression, and jostled us aside. We were between them and their prey, the last available parking place in Saint Paul. Their behavior didn't intimidate me, for I knew where the spot was.

It lay two blocks north of the festival, hidden behind the Catholic grade school where I survived my youth. This is a place where the nuns taught - to acquire knowledge is to suffer. I later learned in Driver's Ed -  to park in the city is to suffer. The logical juxtaposition of the two - was inescapable. I deduced parking must be found at the intersection of suffering and suffering.

As we pulled into the lot, a smirk of recognition blossomed across the parking attendent's pug-like face. His name was Lenny Schultz and he had not volunteered to work the festival out of charity. Lenny always was, and still is, the neighborhood bully. One who loves to reestablish old relationships.

Even after a half century, we appraised each other with the wariness of two kids meeting at high noon in an alley. I eyed him, he eyed me and we both asked ourselves, "Could I kick his ass?"

The tension was not lost on my wife, who snapped, "You better be nice or that guy will kick your ass."

But Lenny was all smiles. "I got just the spot for you", he smirked, (placing an all too chilling emphasis on the word 'you'). He waddled off slowly, dragging me and my Honda into his wake.

As we passed one generous expanse of open asphalt after another, I got fed up and pointing at a spot, yelled, "Why not there?"

"Too big", he replied.

"Or there?", I suggested.

"I'm saving that for Walt Moore's panel truck."

"How about there?"

He turned to register his disgust and we glared at each other until my wife hissed a reminder that Lenny could kick my ass. To keep the peace, I graciously accepted Lenny's parking wisdom.  Eventually he halted before a sliver of tarmac wedged between two Chevy Suburbans.

"Are you kidding?", I protested loudly.

Lenny took offense. He frowned not at me, but at my wife, silently asking her something to the effect  "Why did you marry this loser?", but I remained firm.

"I'm parking back THERE", I insisted while gesturing toward an ample space two rows over.

Lenny looked shocked; I had grievously wronged him. To prove the point, he produced a tape measure and carefully calibrated the width of my Honda - then with astounding precision he compared that to the distance between the Chevy's. His thumb indicated a full quarter inch clearance.

"Okay smarty, how is he supposed to get out?" my wife asked. Obviously she did not know Lenny.

As he stood absorbed in sullen thought. I could hear the machination of his mind grind and clack, then with an audible click, the light bulb snapped on. Illuminated with his brilliance, he pointed to my sunroof.

"You're kidding", I objected - but my wife was already out of the car, impatiently tapping a toe for me to get on with it, so I squeezed carefully into the slot and exited through the sunroof, trying to keep my dignity intact.

No such luck. No sooner had I slid off the trunk when she pointed to the dash where her sunglasses lay.

I dutifully reversed course, porpoising back into the car and after a few not so athletic moments,  emerged with glasses in hand, only to be sent on a return trip to fetch the sunblock resting next to where the sunglasses had been. My wife and Lenny were enjoying this immensely. They had much in common.

After retrieving all necessary items, I produced a ten for parking.

Lenny shook his head. "Cost ya twenty bucks"

"WHAT!!", I exclaimed, pointing to a sign clearly indicating $10.

"That's for one space, you took TWO".

"How the?"

He grinned a cruel smile as he traced a pudgy finger along the yellow line bisecting the pavement beneath my Honda. The unreasonableness of it all even brought my wife to my side.

Unmoved, Lenny explained, "I could'a put two motorcycles there. You trying to rob God?"

I paid.

. . .

A short walk on a warm day later, we entered the color, sound and gaiety of Grand Old Days.

At the first booth, the joy of my life announced. "I want a corn-dog."

"Great idea", I said trying to make light of the unpleasantness of the morning.

"Good, get yourself one - and one for me too."

I should have known.

She wandered off attracted by something that sparkled while I appended myself to the end of the queue. Things were not going well in line. The kid behind the counter flirted with a metal studded harpy while dozens of over-fed under-clad fairgoers seething in rebellion.

I must say, the girl was quite striking, covered as she was with wrap-around fading tattoos. She was not really my type but for a purveyor of grease on a stick; I could see the attraction.

What I did not get is the tattoos.

Back in my day, we looked like idiots because we were idiots. But it was easy for us not look like idiots. All we had to do was bath, change clothes and, depending on gender, run a razor across the armpits.

But tattoos?

Why would anyone lock themselves forever into the same mortifying moment of fashion? Imagine our humiliation, if my generation had welded itself into a tie-dyed t-shirts and powder blue leisure suit for eternity?

In all humility I can boast, other than a few incriminating photos, my youthful flirtation with outrageous fashion remains mostly deniable.

After much musing on this subject, I found myself with corn-dogs in hand looking for my wife, who was of course nowhere to be seen.  Thank god for cell phones. I called her.

"Love", I said, "I have the corn-dogs where are you?"

"I'm down by Dale Street", she replied from two miles away, "I found a corn dog booth down here. No line at all".

I sighed.

"And Greg?"

"Yes?"

"Look at the sky toward the west."

I groaned.

"Yup, it's raining."

"Best get going then, huh."

"You better - your sunroof is open."

© Greg Schiller, 2008
Author: Greg Schiller