As of seven o'clock this morning I had already notched two hours of productive morning under my belt. As I stepped out into the waning darkness, the crisp air that accompanies the first snow of the year slapped my freshly shaven face like a forgotten lover in an old Cary Grant film. I drove to work in the chill of a sluggish car heater, surrounded by commuters who looked similarly drowsy and equally frozen.
Showing posts with label Davenport. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Davenport. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Urin-alyze This
In order to pass the background check for my new job, I had to jump through several hoops. Verify employment at all of my previous posts, confirm my citizenship in these great United States of America, and provide a urine sample to ensure that there was nothing illicit affecting my abilities to serve the company.
A woman called me at work one day to set up the appointment. We set the date and she rattled off a laundry list of do’s and don’ts:
“Drink plenty before you get here, although we do have a water cooler in the lobby”
“If you’re ready when you get here, plan for a half hour. If you’re not prepared, bring a book, ‘cause it could be a while.”
“Don’t try to pull something over on us, ‘cause we’ve seen it all.”
And the appointment was set.
“Anyone every tell you...?"
I pulled up to the building a few minutes before my allotted toilet appointment. It was my lunch break, but I’d refrained from eating, opting for a rigorous liquid diet all morning – four cups of piping hot coffee and close to half a gallon of cold water. I had yet to break the seal, so was primed for pee. This was going to be a piece of cake.
Upon entering the sterile gray lobby, I was met with the disinterested stare of two men in dirty camouflage hats, crusted work boots, and skeptical eyes. One was wearing a tee shirt that said “This Union Delivers” and the other was wearing a denim collared shirt that should have been retired before I was born. I approached the glass window and introduced myself.
“Hi, my name is Chris Walljasper. I’m here for a one o’clock…urinalysis.” My voice went from hushed to barely audible as I squeaked out the final syllable.
“What’s your name again?” Her voice was flat, and she didn’t so much as look up from her computer.
“Chris…Walljasper.”
“Sign in and sit down. We’ll call you when we’re ready for you.”
So I signed. And sat. As I pulled up the AP news on my phone, I couldn’t help but overhear the two men across the small lobby talking. It seemed that I was the focus of their murmuring. Soon I heard,
“Anyone every tell you that you look like Jim Carrey?”
“Yeah man! You could be his little brother or something!”
I sighed and looked up from my phone.
“Every day of my life.” As I said it, I briefly considered an alternative answer.
“Really? You’re the first person who’s ever told me that. Weird.” With such an answer, I imagine a much different conversation would have unfolded. He'd say eagerly,
“Yeah, it’s spot on. I’m surprised no one’s ever said that to you before.”
“Hmmm. I dunno. Do you watch a lot of Jim Carrey movies? Maybe you just know him better than most. Don't tell me you're a member of his fan club!”
“Nah man, I haven’t seen many, but he was a hoot in Dumb and Dumber. And Ace Ventura was pretty funny! You seen that one? Where he’s looking for the dolphin?”
“No, I haven’t seen that one.” I grit my teeth. Maybe it would have been better to tell the truth.
“Really?! Man it was funny. The Mask, that’s another one he did.”
“The Mask? I think I’ve heard of that one. He has a dog, right?”
“Yeah. He finds this wooden mask that has super-powers, and it turns him all green and shit. Pretty funny stuff.”
Yeah. Hilarious.
Peeing into the Wind
Finally the aloof woman at the window called my name. I went through a heavy wooden door, passed through a long hallway filled with exam rooms, and was met by a robust woman who's demeanor dwarfed her impressive physical size. She led me into a large sterile room that was identical to any you'd find in a doctors office, save the presence of a bathroom stall. It was as if someone had removed a chunk of the public toilet down the hall and planted it in this doctors office. The woman opened a metal locker and ordered me to empty my pockets. I thought I'd been thorough, but Nurse No Nonsense proceeded to give me a quick pat down to ensure that I was not hiding any foreign pee on me.
I wasn't.
When she came across my insulin pump attached to my belt, she raised an eyebrow in suspicion.
"It's my pancreas."
The second eyebrow joined its mate. She did not see the humor.
"My insulin pump. I'm diabetic. See, it's attached to my stomach?" pulled my shirttails out of my pants and pointed to the site on my abdomen.
"Alright. I guess you probably don't have any urine in that thing."
She ambled over to a cabinet against the far wall, and opened both doors to reveal stacks of clear plastic cups, all wrapped tight in plastic to ensure sterility. Everything was so sterile in this office.
"Choose your cup."
"Don't you have anything in blue?"
Not even a smile. "It's federal law that you pick out your own cup. So get over here and pick yourself out a cup." Her tone left little room for further remark. I grabbed a cup and handed it to the woman.
"Alright. Get in there, fill it to this line. You have enough to get there? Otherwise, we'll wait. No sense in wasting what you got if it ain't enough."
"Oh I think I can get there. I can probably fill two of these things."
"Well, we only need one. You got anything else, it goes in the toilet."
I entered the stall, and was taken aback by all the signage. There were a dozen brightly colored, laminated signs, all citing federal and state codes regarding my urine and its use. I didn't realize anyone was so interested in controlling my pee.
"It is unlawful to knowingly provide urine for any party that is not the bearer of those fluids..."
"Upon completion of urination, remove sample from stall without flushing..."
"If while urinating, a burning sensation occurs..."
Enough reading. I undid the buckle of my belt, unzipped, and began to fill. Within seconds, I'd reached the top of the cup and deposited the remainder of the fluid into the toilet bowl. I sat the cup on the back of the toilet, redressed myself, and as I reached for the cup of amber urine, I did what any respectful person would do.
I flushed the toilet.
As my hand moved toward the silver lever, there was an internal struggle taking place in my brain. My instincts thrust my left hand toward the stool as it had done for years. But as soon as my mind realized what was happening, it began sending everything it could at my arm.
"Cease and desist! Retreat! Evasive maneuvers! NOOOOO!"
But it was too late. As the water rushed into the bowl, a low groan could be heard from the other side of the partition,
"Oh no you didn't!"
Yes. Yes I did.
I walked out of the stall like a wounded puppy. Without even turning to look at me, the nurse said,
"Pour it out."
"What?! Why? It's perfectly good pee!"
"It don't matter. Pour it out. Federal regulations say that if you flush before I see it, I can't accept your pee."
I dumped my pee, then began collecting my belongings. As I refilled my pockets, the nurse explained what the next steps were.
"Go out, drink about fifteen cups of water. Wait a half hour, then let the receptionist know."
The Waiting Game
And so I drank. And I waited. And I drank some more. As I sat there, glancing at my phone with mild irritation, A family fell through the door. More accurately, a loose collaboration of people whom I assumed were all-too-closely related came bustling through the door. The two women wore clothes that fit them too snuggly, showing off overly tan bits of rolling flesh that couldn't be harnessed by fibers natural or synthetic. The children bore untamed hair and tee shirts that boldly advertised remains from their lunch - ketchup and sweet and sour sauce, as far as I could tell. From the giant vats of cola the women carried in, it was clear that McDonalds was the purveyor of the stains. Slipping in behind them was a tired looking man in a torn shirt and work boots. He seemed as though this was the last place in the world he'd rather be. In that we were kindred spirits.
Against all my might and better judgment, I overheard the women as they spoke to the receptionist in unnecessarily loud volumes.
"We're here for a paternity test."
With that, I forced myself to concentrate on what the Associated Press was saying about the economy. Blocking out these women's flippant remarks about baby-daddies and child support, I failed to notice the presence of a ragged little girl in the seat next to me.
"Whatcha reading?"
I glanced to my right and discovered a little girl, with wild brown hair that smelled mildly of chlorine and eyes that sparkled with an ornery enthusiasm that overcame any fear of the unknown man in the waiting room.
"The news."
"I can read. I read all the time for school."
"Oh yeah? What have you read lately?"
"I've read lots!" She hopped off the black plastic chair and bounded over to a table that held a smattering of golf magazines and bedraggled children's books. From the stack she pulled an old Dr. Seuss. Horton Hears a Who was scrawled whimsically across the front. She clambered back onto the seat beside me and began flipping pages.
Unsure of what to do, I resumed my article on Congress and the debt ceiling, all the while aware of the little girl reading tales from Whoville beside me. Every so often as she turned the pages, I caught her glancing up at me with a hopeful grin, waiting for a chance to show me how well she could comprehend this tome. She'd look at me for only a second, then dive back into the book, tracing the lines of rhyming text with her tiny index finger and mouthing the words in a barely-audible voice.
After a few seconds, I could feign indifference no longer. I watched the child muscle through a bit more of the book and when she looked up again, I asked,
"How is it?"
"It's great! I LOVE Dr. Seuss!" She almost shot through the ceiling as she beamed. Then back into the book.
I smiled, then crossed the waiting room to the water cooler that I was single-handedly emptying with my bladder-filling prison sentence. After about seven more cups of tepid water, I returned back to my seat next to my new best friend. She'd finished the Seuss and was on to an issue of Ladies Home Journal that looked to be from 2006.
"I'm going to be the flower girl in my mommies wedding!" She beamed as she imparted this fact.
"Oh yeah? When is that?" I asked, afraid of travelling too far into this conversation.
"Next Saturday. I have a dress, and shoes, and a basket! Wanna see my walk?"
Without hearing my response, she proceeded to march across the waiting room, dramatically stretching first her left arm, then her right arm. It was as if she were endowing life-giving bread to the starving masses, the amount of care that was placed in each little swell of the arm. The woman whom I can only assume was the blushing bride-to-be bellowed,
"Knock it off! He doesn't want to hear about it! Come sit over here now!"
Just then, I decided I'd go for round two with the plastic cup. As I strode by the women, I indiscriminately muttered,
"Congratulations on your upcoming....wedding." The words trailed off as I ran out of things to say.
Upon reentering the room, the same nurse walked me through the same routine, as if I hadn't been there thirty minutes prior. I picked my cup, I filled it, and as I finished, I began to reach for the lever.
But this time, my brain won the day. I strolled proudly from that stall, bearing my cup of urine high.
"My urine, milady."
And with that, I strode out of that office a free and empty-bladdered man.
I also left that office a little more humble, and glad that I'd been able to sit and read with a little flower girl from Davenport, Iowa.
A woman called me at work one day to set up the appointment. We set the date and she rattled off a laundry list of do’s and don’ts:
“Drink plenty before you get here, although we do have a water cooler in the lobby”
“If you’re ready when you get here, plan for a half hour. If you’re not prepared, bring a book, ‘cause it could be a while.”
“Don’t try to pull something over on us, ‘cause we’ve seen it all.”
And the appointment was set.
“Anyone every tell you...?"
I pulled up to the building a few minutes before my allotted toilet appointment. It was my lunch break, but I’d refrained from eating, opting for a rigorous liquid diet all morning – four cups of piping hot coffee and close to half a gallon of cold water. I had yet to break the seal, so was primed for pee. This was going to be a piece of cake.
Upon entering the sterile gray lobby, I was met with the disinterested stare of two men in dirty camouflage hats, crusted work boots, and skeptical eyes. One was wearing a tee shirt that said “This Union Delivers” and the other was wearing a denim collared shirt that should have been retired before I was born. I approached the glass window and introduced myself.
“Hi, my name is Chris Walljasper. I’m here for a one o’clock…urinalysis.” My voice went from hushed to barely audible as I squeaked out the final syllable.
“What’s your name again?” Her voice was flat, and she didn’t so much as look up from her computer.
“Chris…Walljasper.”
“Sign in and sit down. We’ll call you when we’re ready for you.”
So I signed. And sat. As I pulled up the AP news on my phone, I couldn’t help but overhear the two men across the small lobby talking. It seemed that I was the focus of their murmuring. Soon I heard,
“Anyone every tell you that you look like Jim Carrey?”
“Yeah man! You could be his little brother or something!”
I sighed and looked up from my phone.
“Every day of my life.” As I said it, I briefly considered an alternative answer.
“Really? You’re the first person who’s ever told me that. Weird.” With such an answer, I imagine a much different conversation would have unfolded. He'd say eagerly,
“Yeah, it’s spot on. I’m surprised no one’s ever said that to you before.”
“Hmmm. I dunno. Do you watch a lot of Jim Carrey movies? Maybe you just know him better than most. Don't tell me you're a member of his fan club!”
“Nah man, I haven’t seen many, but he was a hoot in Dumb and Dumber. And Ace Ventura was pretty funny! You seen that one? Where he’s looking for the dolphin?”
“No, I haven’t seen that one.” I grit my teeth. Maybe it would have been better to tell the truth.
“Really?! Man it was funny. The Mask, that’s another one he did.”
“The Mask? I think I’ve heard of that one. He has a dog, right?”
“Yeah. He finds this wooden mask that has super-powers, and it turns him all green and shit. Pretty funny stuff.”
Yeah. Hilarious.
Peeing into the Wind
Finally the aloof woman at the window called my name. I went through a heavy wooden door, passed through a long hallway filled with exam rooms, and was met by a robust woman who's demeanor dwarfed her impressive physical size. She led me into a large sterile room that was identical to any you'd find in a doctors office, save the presence of a bathroom stall. It was as if someone had removed a chunk of the public toilet down the hall and planted it in this doctors office. The woman opened a metal locker and ordered me to empty my pockets. I thought I'd been thorough, but Nurse No Nonsense proceeded to give me a quick pat down to ensure that I was not hiding any foreign pee on me.
I wasn't.
When she came across my insulin pump attached to my belt, she raised an eyebrow in suspicion.
"It's my pancreas."
The second eyebrow joined its mate. She did not see the humor.
"My insulin pump. I'm diabetic. See, it's attached to my stomach?" pulled my shirttails out of my pants and pointed to the site on my abdomen.
"Alright. I guess you probably don't have any urine in that thing."
She ambled over to a cabinet against the far wall, and opened both doors to reveal stacks of clear plastic cups, all wrapped tight in plastic to ensure sterility. Everything was so sterile in this office.
"Choose your cup."
"Don't you have anything in blue?"
Not even a smile. "It's federal law that you pick out your own cup. So get over here and pick yourself out a cup." Her tone left little room for further remark. I grabbed a cup and handed it to the woman.
"Alright. Get in there, fill it to this line. You have enough to get there? Otherwise, we'll wait. No sense in wasting what you got if it ain't enough."
"Oh I think I can get there. I can probably fill two of these things."
"Well, we only need one. You got anything else, it goes in the toilet."
I entered the stall, and was taken aback by all the signage. There were a dozen brightly colored, laminated signs, all citing federal and state codes regarding my urine and its use. I didn't realize anyone was so interested in controlling my pee.
"It is unlawful to knowingly provide urine for any party that is not the bearer of those fluids..."
"Upon completion of urination, remove sample from stall without flushing..."
"If while urinating, a burning sensation occurs..."
Enough reading. I undid the buckle of my belt, unzipped, and began to fill. Within seconds, I'd reached the top of the cup and deposited the remainder of the fluid into the toilet bowl. I sat the cup on the back of the toilet, redressed myself, and as I reached for the cup of amber urine, I did what any respectful person would do.
I flushed the toilet.
As my hand moved toward the silver lever, there was an internal struggle taking place in my brain. My instincts thrust my left hand toward the stool as it had done for years. But as soon as my mind realized what was happening, it began sending everything it could at my arm.
"Cease and desist! Retreat! Evasive maneuvers! NOOOOO!"
But it was too late. As the water rushed into the bowl, a low groan could be heard from the other side of the partition,
"Oh no you didn't!"
Yes. Yes I did.
I walked out of the stall like a wounded puppy. Without even turning to look at me, the nurse said,
"Pour it out."
"What?! Why? It's perfectly good pee!"
"It don't matter. Pour it out. Federal regulations say that if you flush before I see it, I can't accept your pee."
I dumped my pee, then began collecting my belongings. As I refilled my pockets, the nurse explained what the next steps were.
"Go out, drink about fifteen cups of water. Wait a half hour, then let the receptionist know."
The Waiting Game
And so I drank. And I waited. And I drank some more. As I sat there, glancing at my phone with mild irritation, A family fell through the door. More accurately, a loose collaboration of people whom I assumed were all-too-closely related came bustling through the door. The two women wore clothes that fit them too snuggly, showing off overly tan bits of rolling flesh that couldn't be harnessed by fibers natural or synthetic. The children bore untamed hair and tee shirts that boldly advertised remains from their lunch - ketchup and sweet and sour sauce, as far as I could tell. From the giant vats of cola the women carried in, it was clear that McDonalds was the purveyor of the stains. Slipping in behind them was a tired looking man in a torn shirt and work boots. He seemed as though this was the last place in the world he'd rather be. In that we were kindred spirits.
Against all my might and better judgment, I overheard the women as they spoke to the receptionist in unnecessarily loud volumes.
"We're here for a paternity test."
With that, I forced myself to concentrate on what the Associated Press was saying about the economy. Blocking out these women's flippant remarks about baby-daddies and child support, I failed to notice the presence of a ragged little girl in the seat next to me.
"Whatcha reading?"
I glanced to my right and discovered a little girl, with wild brown hair that smelled mildly of chlorine and eyes that sparkled with an ornery enthusiasm that overcame any fear of the unknown man in the waiting room.
"The news."
"I can read. I read all the time for school."
"Oh yeah? What have you read lately?"
"I've read lots!" She hopped off the black plastic chair and bounded over to a table that held a smattering of golf magazines and bedraggled children's books. From the stack she pulled an old Dr. Seuss. Horton Hears a Who was scrawled whimsically across the front. She clambered back onto the seat beside me and began flipping pages.
Unsure of what to do, I resumed my article on Congress and the debt ceiling, all the while aware of the little girl reading tales from Whoville beside me. Every so often as she turned the pages, I caught her glancing up at me with a hopeful grin, waiting for a chance to show me how well she could comprehend this tome. She'd look at me for only a second, then dive back into the book, tracing the lines of rhyming text with her tiny index finger and mouthing the words in a barely-audible voice.
After a few seconds, I could feign indifference no longer. I watched the child muscle through a bit more of the book and when she looked up again, I asked,
"How is it?"
"It's great! I LOVE Dr. Seuss!" She almost shot through the ceiling as she beamed. Then back into the book.
I smiled, then crossed the waiting room to the water cooler that I was single-handedly emptying with my bladder-filling prison sentence. After about seven more cups of tepid water, I returned back to my seat next to my new best friend. She'd finished the Seuss and was on to an issue of Ladies Home Journal that looked to be from 2006.
"I'm going to be the flower girl in my mommies wedding!" She beamed as she imparted this fact.
"Oh yeah? When is that?" I asked, afraid of travelling too far into this conversation.
"Next Saturday. I have a dress, and shoes, and a basket! Wanna see my walk?"
Without hearing my response, she proceeded to march across the waiting room, dramatically stretching first her left arm, then her right arm. It was as if she were endowing life-giving bread to the starving masses, the amount of care that was placed in each little swell of the arm. The woman whom I can only assume was the blushing bride-to-be bellowed,
"Knock it off! He doesn't want to hear about it! Come sit over here now!"
Just then, I decided I'd go for round two with the plastic cup. As I strode by the women, I indiscriminately muttered,
"Congratulations on your upcoming....wedding." The words trailed off as I ran out of things to say.
Upon reentering the room, the same nurse walked me through the same routine, as if I hadn't been there thirty minutes prior. I picked my cup, I filled it, and as I finished, I began to reach for the lever.
But this time, my brain won the day. I strolled proudly from that stall, bearing my cup of urine high.
"My urine, milady."
And with that, I strode out of that office a free and empty-bladdered man.
I also left that office a little more humble, and glad that I'd been able to sit and read with a little flower girl from Davenport, Iowa.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Keep on Trucking
There is just something I love about driving a truck.
Please put the above statement in context. I drive a 2008 Toyota Matrix. A gunmetal gray hatchback that gets an average of 34 mpg. I love my car. I love everything about my car. It is the perfect vehicle for my life – living, working, and playing in a midsized metro area.
But when I recently drove my father's 2005 Ford F-150 Lariat quad-cab pickup truck, every logical reason for owning a sub-compact, fuel-efficient Toyota went out the window. The car fulfills every logical need I have for vehicular transportation, but the truck meets a more inherent, philosophical need. If you were to compare the two vehicles:
Toyota Matrix
Compact
Great handling
Easy to get in and out
Fold down seats create additional cargo room
Fuel-efficient
Sits low to the ground – little wind resistance
Ford F-150
It's friggin' huge
Takes corners like a boat
You need a rope to pull yourself into it
Its a truck. It has a bed. What other cargo room do you need?
Fuel? What is fuel? This thing goes through it like water
You'd be closer to the ground riding a giraffe
Every Girl's Crazy 'bout a Pickup Man
It may be a deep-seated masculine impulse, or it may be something I learned growing up in a farming community in Southeast Iowa. Trucks are the gold standard in Lee County and trying to find a Toyota, Honda, Suzuki, or Hyundai dealership within one hundred miles of my old country home is near impossible.
In high school, I would drive my little auction bought 1993 Mazda truck to school, and squeeze into a spot between any variety of giant 1980's Chevy or Ford truck. Mud tire clad, lift kit jacked, PA system blaring, aftermarket Cherry Bomb straight pipe exhaust ripping through the sonic atmosphere, these behemoths of the Central Lee High School parking lot would roll through the rows like prowling lions, daring a smaller car to cross their path. The 454 big-block engines would roar out a warning to the lesser vehicles, lest they be crushed under wheel like the tin cans they were.
My truck? It was a wounded meerkat. Stay out of the way, and I'd be fine. Otherwise my little red rice burner* would be a little red rice cake.
A Truck of a Different Color
The truck got me through high school. In college, my Mazda went kaput and I inherited a 1985 GMC Grand Sierra from my grandfather – a loaner that served me well for the rest of my higher education. At Monmouth College, where the student body is largely comprised of suburban Chicago minds, I encountered a very different vehicular phenomenon.
As the country mouse among city mice, my truck signified a tough agrarian existence. My newly-acquired “farm boy” image was further heightened when I cut the shoulder-length hair I'd sported throughout high school. My summer job working for my grandfather's farm implement sealed the deal, as I proudly wore my WALLJASPER CONSTRUCTION hat throughout the school year. I'd somehow gone from the hippie/punk kid driving a little foreign clunker in high school to the down-home country boy sporting the hulking pickup in college. I cannot really qualify this change in perception as good or bad, but it was certainly an interesting realignment of reality. Over the next few years I wore my agrarian heritage on my sleeve as something that made me stand out at Monmouth.
That old GMC would go on to be featured as a part of the ZBT homecoming float, haul pianos, drums, and more than its fair share of students, and cart all of my personal possessions to my new home in Davenport, Iowa.
But as all things are cyclical, my life would lead me back to a foreign vehicle. The GMC didn't do well for my wallet as I zipped around the Quad Cities on sales calls. So I sent it back to the farm, where it could be free to roam as God intended.
And I bought a Toyota. The more responsible choice.
*I apologize for the potential political incorrectness of the term rice burner as a pejorative synonym for an Asian made vehicle. This term is common vernacular in Southeast Iowa, where an American owned car company was held in much higher regard than any foreign made vehicle.
Friday, May 28, 2010
I've never ridden in a Cadillac
Listen to it as a Podcast!
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It was one of those winters that you'll never forget. One of the first winters I spent in Davenport, so one that will stick with me forever, branding Davenport Iowa as a city that has horrible, icy winters. In reality, the 3 years that I spent in davenport had fairly mild winters, but this was the first, so this was the one that had a lasting impression.
This winter was not bad because of the amount of snow. It was not even bad because of the temperature, which was frigid. The prevailing aspect of this winter that, to this day brings dread to my heart, was the ice. There were multiple ice storms and intermittent warm spells that would melt and refreeze, leaving ice as much 12 inches deep in some streets. The cars would drive through and create ruts in the ice, forming inevitable tracks through the streets that would lead your car, as if beyond your control, where the last car had gone.
It was on a particularly frosty morning that I came across Rita. Rita was a leathery woman with a scowl that shown through the most toothy grin. Her hair was a frazzled yellow gray mane that refused to be tamed by brush or hat, even in this arctic clime. Rita was known around the neighborhood as being crazy.
The story goes that Rita used to be a flight attendant. She would travel the country with her job, and was very good at what she did. But one day, the flight she was on didn't reach its destination. The pilot crash landed the plane, and while no one died, Rita was diagnosed with post traumatic stress syndrome. This affliction has manifested itself in many ways.
That cold winter morning, Rita's illness appeared in an interesting way. As I was driving to work, I noticed Rita on the street. She was wearing a sundress, a raincoat, and sandals. No winter coat, no sensible shoes, no hat. She didn't look miserable, but I could not fathom how she could be anything but hypothermic. So I pulled up along side Rita and asked if she needed a ride.
“Oh sure! I'm headin' to down to 3rd and Iowa Street.”
Her voice was vaguely southern in dialect, with a whimsical quality that could only be described as Blanche DuBois after smoking cheap cigars and drinking a fifth of whiskey. A lovely singsong cadence on an instrument that had long given out and only worked in screeches and rasps.
As we exited the parking lot and jostled over the uneven ice, Rita let out what I can only describe as a cackle – an unbridled giggle that, in another body, could be contagious, but coming from Rita, it was simply eerie.
“Are you a St. Ambrose Student?” She asked with a half grin.
I replied “No, I graduated from Monmouth College, last year.”
“Oh, Monmouth! I had a girl friend who went to Monmouth... She had a boy down there... I never went to Monmouth, but I visited... They were such beautiful people. I loved watching all the beautiful people...” her sentence trailed off as her eyes glazed and stared out the window.
At this point her eyes caught a panel on the door. My 2004 Toyota Corolla was equipped with automatic windows that were controlled from a faux wood panel on the arm rest. Stroking the poor mans mahogany accent, Rita mused, “I never thought I'd ride in a Cadillac...”
Unsure of what to say, I sat quietly, focusing on navigating the icy side streets. Rita's gaze floated from me to the wood on the door to a point in the distance. Under her breath she mused, “To dream the impossible...”
“DREAM!” I thought. The tension of here unpredictability was unnerving. Rita had always made me uneasy, but I was beginning to regret offering her a ride.
Luckily we we're nearing the place where I was to drop her off. Still a few blocks away, she turned to me and asked “Well, do you have any...Last requests?” then let out another cackle, solidifying the feeling of dread.
I couldn't tell if she thought she was a lounge singer or an executioner, but her instability was not something I wanted to test. I quickly found a space along the side walk and put the car in park. She sidled out of the vehicle with surprising fluidity and grace. As she wandered away from me and towards the warehouse on the corner, she turned and gave me one final toothy grin and a wiggle of her fingers, then laughed as she turned the corner.
Powered by Podbean.com
I'm going to start taking select essays and developing them as podcasts. Stay tuned for more radio versions of my laughable tales of oddity and self deprecation.
It was one of those winters that you'll never forget. One of the first winters I spent in Davenport, so one that will stick with me forever, branding Davenport Iowa as a city that has horrible, icy winters. In reality, the 3 years that I spent in davenport had fairly mild winters, but this was the first, so this was the one that had a lasting impression.
This winter was not bad because of the amount of snow. It was not even bad because of the temperature, which was frigid. The prevailing aspect of this winter that, to this day brings dread to my heart, was the ice. There were multiple ice storms and intermittent warm spells that would melt and refreeze, leaving ice as much 12 inches deep in some streets. The cars would drive through and create ruts in the ice, forming inevitable tracks through the streets that would lead your car, as if beyond your control, where the last car had gone.
It was on a particularly frosty morning that I came across Rita. Rita was a leathery woman with a scowl that shown through the most toothy grin. Her hair was a frazzled yellow gray mane that refused to be tamed by brush or hat, even in this arctic clime. Rita was known around the neighborhood as being crazy.
The story goes that Rita used to be a flight attendant. She would travel the country with her job, and was very good at what she did. But one day, the flight she was on didn't reach its destination. The pilot crash landed the plane, and while no one died, Rita was diagnosed with post traumatic stress syndrome. This affliction has manifested itself in many ways.
That cold winter morning, Rita's illness appeared in an interesting way. As I was driving to work, I noticed Rita on the street. She was wearing a sundress, a raincoat, and sandals. No winter coat, no sensible shoes, no hat. She didn't look miserable, but I could not fathom how she could be anything but hypothermic. So I pulled up along side Rita and asked if she needed a ride.
“Oh sure! I'm headin' to down to 3rd and Iowa Street.”
Her voice was vaguely southern in dialect, with a whimsical quality that could only be described as Blanche DuBois after smoking cheap cigars and drinking a fifth of whiskey. A lovely singsong cadence on an instrument that had long given out and only worked in screeches and rasps.
As we exited the parking lot and jostled over the uneven ice, Rita let out what I can only describe as a cackle – an unbridled giggle that, in another body, could be contagious, but coming from Rita, it was simply eerie.
“Are you a St. Ambrose Student?” She asked with a half grin.
I replied “No, I graduated from Monmouth College, last year.”
“Oh, Monmouth! I had a girl friend who went to Monmouth... She had a boy down there... I never went to Monmouth, but I visited... They were such beautiful people. I loved watching all the beautiful people...” her sentence trailed off as her eyes glazed and stared out the window.
At this point her eyes caught a panel on the door. My 2004 Toyota Corolla was equipped with automatic windows that were controlled from a faux wood panel on the arm rest. Stroking the poor mans mahogany accent, Rita mused, “I never thought I'd ride in a Cadillac...”
Unsure of what to say, I sat quietly, focusing on navigating the icy side streets. Rita's gaze floated from me to the wood on the door to a point in the distance. Under her breath she mused, “To dream the impossible...”
“DREAM!” I thought. The tension of here unpredictability was unnerving. Rita had always made me uneasy, but I was beginning to regret offering her a ride.
Luckily we we're nearing the place where I was to drop her off. Still a few blocks away, she turned to me and asked “Well, do you have any...Last requests?” then let out another cackle, solidifying the feeling of dread.
I couldn't tell if she thought she was a lounge singer or an executioner, but her instability was not something I wanted to test. I quickly found a space along the side walk and put the car in park. She sidled out of the vehicle with surprising fluidity and grace. As she wandered away from me and towards the warehouse on the corner, she turned and gave me one final toothy grin and a wiggle of her fingers, then laughed as she turned the corner.
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