How to Stop Worrying and Love the Dance

This week, Matt takes us to the North Country for a tale of intrigue, attraction, and dead animals on the walls. Not only does he flash some fly footwear; he also manages to bring the poignancy. Enjoy it--I did.

The Net

by Matt Kuehl

I believe they were deer hunters. Not the .30-06 (thirty-aught-six) kind, though; rifle season opener was quite some time away. This breed preferred fletching and string over barrels and steel. Perhaps this affinity for bows was due to the more sporting nature of arrows, or the adrenaline high that comes from steadying and releasing the draw. Or maybe, just maybe, it is because hunting with a bow means you can slay a large, antlered mammal at least one whole month sooner.

I don’t have problems with hunters. My father is a deer hunter. So was my grandpa. My friend Tom, god rest his soul, was a hunter, too. A school janitor by trade, he hunted locally during winter and kept game meat in his seasoned pickup truck, wrapped up in butcher’s paper to give to friends. In the summer, he vanished from his home in the lonely suburb in northern Minnesota and migrated somewhere down south, living off the land and hunting game. Hunters, much to the objections of hippies, can be good people. And as an ecologist, I can appreciate the balance they can provide to an ecosystem.[1]

However, that night I didn’t find these hunters in deer stands or hunting shacks. From a naïve perspective, if they weren’t in the forest with a quiver in hand, they were out of their element. But if one remembers that hunters are people too, they were exactly where they should be. Rustic oak-stained tables, a plethora of neon domestic beer displays, deer heads, moose heads, fish heads (and bodies) taxidermied and hanging on the wall, this was a bar made for them — a place where men (and the occasional woman) could come together to relax, talk about the trade, and get piss drunk. The Net was a Mecca for hunters in northwestern Minnesota, which then makes you wonder why the fuck we were there.

While one of us slaughtered a deer with a car grill and several hundred pounds of speeding metal, for the most part, none of us were hunters. We were college-age teaching interns.[2] Our purpose: Travel from the big city university to a country high school, bringing our fresh knowledge of science with us. Typically, most of our time was spent teaching biology, chemistry, or anatomy in the classroom, but occasionally, as part of our internship program, all us interns met at Itasca State Park for pedagogical training. During the day we worked, learning teaching technique or listening to professors lecture about research. At night, though, like all teachers secretly did, we partied.

One session, instead of staying back at the cabins,[3] we decided to explore what the local establishments had to offer. The locals weren’t unfamiliar with our kind. Itasca State Park is home to a well-known university research station, so there is an annual summer influx of undergraduate student researchers. However, once autumn came, the college students were gone, and a new blaze orange demographic[4] migrated into the rural countryside.

The door swung open, a group of small bells clanged, and we took a seat at the only table able to accommodate us: a larger table, close to the karaoke machine, in the middle of the joint. A pair of staring eyes accompanied every half-drank bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon sitting on the bar. These were not glares, however, but more confused looks followed by the thought, “I wonder if they are having car trouble.” While this was not home for any of us, I felt particularly out of place for one major reason: I was the only one wearing sandals. And not your basic sandal either. I was wearing the sandal equivalent of Ugg boots.[5]

For your entertainment and mine, let me indulge in a related tale. Four weeks before the events at the Net, I joined a Tae Kwan Do class and suffered some immediate setbacks to my goal of becoming a professional kick boxer. Three days into the classes, I bruised my toe doing some type of cool roundhouse kick. Not one to be discouraged by pain, after recovering, I jumped back in to practice.

Several days after I restarted my training, fate again tested my convictions as a martial artist: I demolished my other big toe, again at Tae Kwan Do. This time, I am sad to admit, I didn’t break it while performing an awe-inspiring, soaring jump kick. Actually, I was trying to kick a ball during some bizarre Tae Kwan Do ball exercise and I smashed my toe into the ground. For the few of you who are smart enough to read, but are somehow not intelligent enough to understand levels of physics even barnyard animals have mastered, foot vs. ground always results in foot’s defeat. Man may be able to destroy the Earth with nuclear weapons, global warming, or perhaps a giant drill that reaches to the core, but the Earth will never lose to a man’s foot. The spoils of my defeat: a toe so broke, so swollen, I could not fit it into shoes.

As the season was autumn and I wasn’t a hobbit, I needed a substitute shoe that could accommodate my Hulk-like digit. Something with an open toe seemed the most suitable for my condition, but the timing of my fracture was not on my side. Stores in northern Minnesota tend to be seasonal, and summery footwear is in short supply in fall. As a result, the only thing I could find that would accommodate my foot was a pair of brown women’s flip flops from Target. The ambiguous nature of brown may have saved me from some strange looks or innocent childish harassment about my choice in sandals, if not for the faux sheep’s fur insole. They were girly, which is perhaps okay if you have a broken toe and two X chromosomes, but when you are a 20-year-old boy surrounded by drunken tough guys who probably just skinned a deer in some dude’s garage, a manly steel-toed boot is preferred.

Once our table ordered their first round, the other patrons knew we were there to stay. Truthfully, where else could you go out here in the wilds of Minnesota? The six of us, three girls and three guys, started out by playing cards. In retrospect, this seems like a pretty lame thing to do, but when you are as awesome as we were, you can play cards and not be hassled. Nobody had noticed my unorthodox footwear selection, and surprisingly I wasn’t too worried. I probably would have been a lot less anxious if I were drunk (I was underage and the designated driver) but the present company made things fun and relaxing.

“That chick is pretty hot.” An unfamiliar voice interrupted my conversation with one of my friends.

I laughed. “Yeah, you should go introduce yourself,” I said jokingly to the man. In a matter of seconds, however, he did exactly that.

Soon enough, I would find out that his name was John, he was a plumber, and while he didn’t need to tell me, the blaze orange cap and vest were sufficient evidence that he was a hunter. John was a cool, confident guy, the type that a jealous person would call an arrogant bastard. He drank. A lot. But I could tell that besides his slightly slurred speech, his confidence level and personality were not affected with varying degrees of booze. The hot chick that he was referring to was my friend and co-worker, Virginia. While I wouldn’t disagree with him on the “hot” part (though I personally would have phrased it in a more sophisticated way), her real charm was her carefree and charismatic spirit. She was the kind of girl who could pull a cigarette out of a man’s mouth, lecture him on the dangers of smoking, and after it was all through, leave the guy smiling. Sure, he would light up again, but he would at least wait 20 minutes to do so.

John and Virginia soon were talking. He was being an ass, which would have been annoying if she didn’t so effortlessly put him in his place; perhaps that is what some people consider flirting. I, on the other hand, didn’t mind observing; this was comedy gold. Eventually, as if proving this mysterious band of strangers meant them no harm, his cronies came over to chat with us as well. While not nearly as cool or confident as their kingpin, they turned out to be interesting people nonetheless; one guy and I turned out to be best buddies after we discovered our shared respect for law enforcement.

Time passed and people were drinking beer and singing country songs as I dwelled on the uniqueness that was probably a usual night at this bar/off-sale liquor store in rural Minnesota. Then John and his buddies came up to me.

“Which one of these girls are you going to hit on?” John asked

I laughed at his directness. “What are you talking about?”

“There are all these girls here and you are not hitting on them.”

“Well, we work together. It would be kind of awkward.”

“What kind of shit are you talking about?”

“Plus, hitting on girls at a bar really is not my style. I am a little classier than that.”

“Fuck. You don’t know how to pick up a girl do you?”

Again I laughed. “Okay, so let’s say I am a little young and naive. How about some tips from a master?” I said jokingly.

“Okay, lesson one: simple math. Six of you came here tonight. Beat up the two guys and you have three hot chicks to yourself!”

The party continued, people got drunker and drunker, and we were letting the good times roll on at the Net. John was giving me drunken advice throughout the night about how to hit on girls, most of which was the cliché junk I can’t really imagine myself, or anyone who didn’t want to be slapped, doing. Also, from all the attention that we had garnered, I was amazed (and relieved) that no one had noticed my effeminate footwear.

Toward the end of the night, someone selected a sappy slow song from the jukebox. Old couples grinned and began swaying with each other, while lonely old drunks shed a metaphorical tear into their Buds. Virginia was talking with some of our friends. I just stood there, wishing for something a little bit more upbeat. John came up to me.

“Go dance with her.”

“With who?”

“Virginia.”

“This isn’t high school.”

“You like her, don’t you?”

“Yeah, she’s cool.”

“Can’t you tell that she is waiting for you to grab her and sweep her off her feet?”

“No, that isn’t my style.”

“Fuck. What is your style? Stop being a pussy!

“What, I just go up and ask her?”

“No, just grab her and start dancing.”

“I can’t just grab her. That just seems way too rude.”

“Girls like her won’t beg.”

“Yeah, I don’t know.”

“Look at the way she looks at you. She wants you.”

I contemplated his words. Each fading second brought me closer to some sort of redemption from this lecturing. While I believed there was chemistry between Virginia and me, I also didn’t want to ruin a good thing. We were good friends. Perhaps that is where I was always conservative like that. I had seen friendships get ruined by advances and such; I didn’t want to fall victim to the same trick.

“Come on, do it,” he said.

“Why don’t you do it?”

“I am a married man, and besides, she wants you.” He urged me on. “Do it!”

I wondered what would happen if I screwed it up.

“Get out there and do it you pussy!”

Or if she said no.

“This is your chance, man.”

Would it make everything different?

“Don’t live in regret.”

Was there really a more opportune moment to come?

“Eye of the Tiger.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on son, go out and grab her!”

And I didn’t ask. I came to her, wrapped one arm around her, and dipped her. She looked surprised, but then genuinely smiled. I can’t remember what she said to me, but I believe she called me by my full first name, the way that she endearingly used to do. The dance was simple. And even though it lasted only part of a song, and even though it was amongst crusty old chairs and ash trays, the stained glass beer chandeliers, and with a broken toe that was not yet prepared to walk, let alone dance, it was beautiful. Looking and perhaps hollering on with his two friends, John knew his mentorship had been successful. His student didn’t beat up two guys and get three girls, but he did get a dance with an incredible woman, a victory that they celebrated, of course, with beer.

************

Five years have passed since the events at the Net. While I sit here alone drinking a coffee, working as a teacher in a school and a community not so different than the one in northern Minnesota, I can’t help but think back on those days, and her, with affection; she is the one that taught me to appreciate coffee, you know. Virginia, John, the Net — I haven’t seen them in five years now. And while I don’t think that we were right for each other, I don’t regret dancing with Virginia that night; I don’t regret being less conservative than I usually was, and I don’t regret chancing it in the company of the camouflage and blaze orange patrons that night.

After all this time, I think I am finally beginning to understand the hidden truth to John’s teachings that night.[6] In five years, I have seen many important friendships come, and while they don’t necessarily end, they go. In this migratory society, the ones you play it safe with, shy from, or grab on to, more often than not, they leave you all the same; this is the unfortunate reality of growing up. But even if this is true, the memories you make with the ones you did reach out to, they aren’t generic or stale or filled with what ifs or should’ves. They are like your trophy bucks, the ones this system tried to deny you, but the ones you took back because you decided it was worth doing something crazy, like sitting in a tree stand for several hours and then taking the shot, or going out in women’s sandals. And oh man, are these memories beautiful. They sound twangy, or ache like a fractured toe, or taste of mocha. The Net is what life feels like when, to paraphrase John, you stop being a pussy and grab on. And sometimes, if you are lucky, you’ll find someone who is willing to grab back, too.

[1] When I get a flamethrower and a katana, you are on my list, Australian cane toad invasion.
[2] Side note: Being a teacher or intern teacher and a hunter are not mutually exclusive activities. However, we were generally more interested in DNA than 12-point bucks.
[3] No alcohol was allowed at the research station, which I am sure would be contested by many of the greatest scientific minds in the world.
[4] Prey for those of the blaze orange species may also include ducks, pheasants, grouse, and for the lucky few that get a permit, moose.
[5] While considered a hearty winter boot by some, they are most often worn by (slutty) girls in miniskirts.
[6] And even if John believed their use was only for trying to score with chicks, the hidden truth is real nonetheless.

Merlot and a Thousand Little Stars

Channeling the energy of black coffee from the Spyhouse Coffeeshop in Minneapolis, Sharkey explores the concept of context through three stories. The result, I like to believe, is very similar to the wondrous visual sensation you get when you press you your fists to your eyes for five minutes.

Regardless, by the end, you to will be asking yourself for the Merlot.

Enjoy.

If Knowing is Half the Battle, I'd Rather Lose

Something that happened:

A few comrades and I were spending a summer night lounging on the shores of a heavily-developed North Dakota lake. A still night, pretty clear—the sort of night where sound can carry for miles across the water. It doesn’t matter what we were doing, because I don’t remember. In fact, I only remember one thing about that evening. From somewhere across the water, a male voice proclaimed: “I am not getting on this fucking boat without my fucking merlot!”

Something that probably didn’t happen:

The weekend wasn’t going as well as Chad had hoped. He had big plans, after all—sure, a gentlemen’s weekend might seem cliché, but it was a rare thing indeed to have the whole crew in one place. Good times would be had on the water.

Things started to go sour when Teddy missed his flight. At least, they were pretty sure Teddy missed his flight; in any case, he never got off the plane. His whereabouts remain unknown. And shortly after, Vinny arrived with his new lady, Tina, in tow. So much for a manly, blue-talking, hard-drinking weekend.

Tina and Chad had a bit of a history, which we don’t need to bother recounting here; suffice it to say things were satisfactorily awkward. Chad was displeased, but committed himself to enjoying the weekend anyway. After all, they had an entire case of wine.

Most of the day turned out to be surprisingly bearable. The wine helped. But having the rest of the gang around improved Chad’s mood to the point that he was nearly enjoying himself. As the sun set the situation deteriorated, though. It started with a friendly game of charades. For some reason, Jim was unable to correctly identify Chad’s exquisite, Brando-esque performance of an emu. Then Tina was clearly mouthing words, in clear violation of charade protocol, while attempting to perform Abraham Lincoln.

Hope remained, though, for the evening boat ride. Chad has always enjoyed being out on the water, so the opportunity to wander the lake seemed like a good way to calm his party game-induced nerves. And cramming a dozen people onto a small pontoon boat would assuredly make for ideal opportunities to casually push people into the drink.

The kitchen had plenty of cooks, so Chad decided to let the rest load up the boat with the essentials: drink, cigars, dice, and some fireworks of questionable legality. Chad and a few others hung back and watched Baseball Tonight. Priorities, you know.

Anyway, after a spell the remainder wandered down to shore. As they were boarding, Kevin was checking off the list of supplies:

“High Life… Black Cats… Canadian Club… Hey, anybody grab the wine?”

Chad stopped. All he wanted to do was hang out on a boat and lay the groundwork for a vicious red wine hangover.

“God dammit,” he said. “How hard could it possibly be to remember to grab a couple bottles of wine? Now I have to go back up for it.”

Tina rolled her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, forget the wine. We’ve got everything else. Let’s hit the water already.”

This proved to be too much.

“No. Fuck this. I am not getting on this fucking boat without my fucking merlot!”

Something even less likely to have happened:

I woke up on the floor.

In and of itself, this would not normally be alarming. I frequently wake up on the floor. This floor, however, was unfamiliar. For one, it was hardwood, and I have made it a point to carpet every inch of my domain—among other things, it’s more pleasant to wake up on. And, there was a dead moose staring out of the wall at me. I found this fact alarming, mostly because it took me a few seconds to conclusively conclude that the moose in question was, in fact, dead.

Attempting to get my bearings, I scanned my surroundings. An associate of mine was dozing peacefully in an easy chair. I gently awoke him.

“Holy hell! Where are we?”

“What?”

“Where are we, and why are we sharing a room with dead beasts?” By this point, I had noticed the stuffed beaver and half-dozen mounted fish. I also seemed to be wearing a high school class ring that didn’t exactly belong to me.

“North Dakota. A weekend on the lake. Don’t you remember?”

“Does it look like I remember? Why in sam-hill would we go to North Dakota? That’s the shitty Dakota.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. With the amount of tequila you were putting away, I’m shocked you woke up at all. Anyway, just relax. These people are friendly.”

“These people? What people? And how did we get here? And since when does North Dakota have lakes?”

“For chrissakes, calm yourself. He’s an old friend. Works in oil now. We flew up in his Cessna last night. He was in Colorado for the weekend. Any of this ringing a bell?”

“I remember the tequila. Foul stuff.”

“Fine. We’re here for a bit of relaxation. I think we’ve earned it. A weekend on a heavily-developed lake, free hooch, some meat cooked over fire. Don’t worry. We’ll be back in Denver by Monday morning. We can finish it then.”

This all seemed reasonable enough. A weekend out of town sounded fine, and the whisky he’d pushed into my hand during the reorientation was unwinding the vise clamped around my skull. Things were looking up.

“Okay. So where’s the oilman? I should thank him for this hospitality.”

“I think he’s putting gas in the boats. I heard him leave about an hour ago.”

“Hmmm. Boats, you say? What kind of equipment are we—“

I didn’t have to finish. The rumble outside answered my questions. We strolled outside to soak in the sight, near-comical: a slim fiberglass beauty with a pair of monstrous out-boards. To say the machine didn’t fit its surroundings would be a crippling understatement.

“What do I call him?”

“Just Jim.”

Jim slid the boat onto the lift and clambered ashore.

“Holy mother of fuck, I didn’t think you’d live through the night. We made sure we had you on your side, at least; you can put away a hell of a lot of shitty tequila.”

I just nodded and tipped my tumbler of whiskey in his direction. “Breakfast of champions,” he said. At least I knew he could read.

A proper breakfast was prepared. Jim got some wood out of a plastic bin in a clearing on the east side of the house, flame was created, and bacon was fried. Eggs were cooked in the fat. I was fortified.

“Well boys, I think it’s time to hit the water.”

My associate and I agreed. We stocked the boat with cheap domestics and a bottle of scotch and took to the lake. The lake itself was less an open body of water than a winding series of connected bays, which only heightened the absurdity of such a high-powered aquatic beast—with the throttle wide open, it was rarely more than a few seconds before we would need to rapidly change course.

This is exactly my style. High speeds, twisting turns, constant vigilance: a true test of a man’s reflexes. Since I had a free hand (with the scotch in my left), I commandeered the controls and pointed us west towards one of the more expansive stretches of water.

My associate wasn’t too amused by my talent of spooking water-skiers with a quick weave, but Jim seemed to be enjoying himself. My senses were running full-tilt; the lake was pretty shallow, and most of the points hid some serious rocks at minimal depth—at the speeds we were going, they’d be enough to rip a fresh asshole right down the length of the hull. Luckily, Jim seemed to be a man of grit.

“Fuckin’ a, boy. They aren’t used to this up here. There’s another one—eleven o’clock!”

As it happened, our morning boat ride had started around three in the afternoon, so after a couple hours of raising hell on the water we retired to shore to begin preparations for a proper evening feast. The house had a fully-outfitted kitchen, but we were committed to doing this properly—thick, heavily-peppered stakes in a cast-iron pan, cooked nice and rare; thick Idaho golds wrapped in tinfoil and tossed in the coals, with another bottle of Scotland’s finest malt.

This process, as you might expect, took a few hours. Can’t rush these sorts of things. And besides, by now there was wine to drink—essential to mellow us out for the coming evening. After all, there was a whole ‘nother boat to test.

This one fit its surroundings a bit better. A modestly-sized pontoon boat, albeit one that suited our need for luxury. Comfortable seats and more than enough cup holders boded well for our future endeavors. After polishing off one more round of dead cow, we began preparations. This excursion would require endurance, so we packed accordingly—plenty of sugars, carbohydrates, and most importantly, the wine. It would be crucial to steady our hands while docking afterwards; a good red wine calms a man and brings clarity of thought. Especially since we’d be dealing with no light.

I briefly retired to the lavatory to attend to some business, leaving my companions to stock the vessel. When I returned a short time later, things seemed to be in order.

“We have the potato chips?”

“Indeed.”

“Both of the cakes?”

“Check.”

“The wine?”

“Ah, I think it’s still inside. Forget it; we’ve got plenty to drink.”

“No, you don’t understand its importance. I am not getting on this fucking boat without my fucking merlot!”

Thoughts:

Wasn’t that fun? I know I enjoyed myself, and for a very specific reason: I don’t have the slightest idea who wanted his fucking merlot, or why that bottle of wine was so damned important. Every time I think about sitting on that lake and overhearing that snippet, I ponder the endless number of possible backstories that bubble up in the back of my mind. (Kind of like the bends, actually.) Since no single one is true, any of them could be. That lack of knowing opens up fantastic possibilities.

Think of your favorite suspenseful movie. What’s the best part? The big reveal at the end? Doubtful. Sure, there might be some satisfaction in finally figuring out what was going on, especially if the ending is particularly well executed. But I’d be willing to wager that the real reason you like that movie so much is the way it leaves you knowing so little about what’s actually going on. That lack of grounding context opens up fantastic possibilities.

I’m particularly smitten by the TV show Lost. The reason is simple. Lost does an excellent job of giving you just enough information to be able to dream up all kinds of fantastic theories, without revealing so much that you’re forced to settle on one interpretation. (This is becoming, inevitably, less true as the show hurtles towards conclusion, but that doesn’t detract from the earlier seasons’ excellence on this front.)

All art is improved by contextual ambiguity. Would knowing why the Mona Lisa grinned, or to whom Shakespeare wrote his sonnets, add anything to our interpretation? Of course not. This may be a rather uncontroversial statement to make about art, but we treat all sorts of everyday happenings the same way, glorying in what we don’t know.

How else to explain people-watching? That’s most of the appeal of state fairs, after all. When we consider the visage of someone we’ve never met—and will never meet—we’re filling in all sorts of little pieces of backstory on our own. That sickeningly-sweet couple over there, or the father ready to rip his own hair out because his kids won’t shut up, or the guy riding the impractically tall bicycle, are all interesting insofar as we can imagine just what’s going on with them. If we found out, any appeal they may have would depend on how they really were. Those interesting people we imagine could be lost forever.

We have entire websites devoted to this phenomenon, which just allow us to further satisfy our desire for contextlessness. We don’t have to bother moving to be able to create all kinds of wonderful little worlds, populated with interesting people, right in our heads.

Now, the wonders of context-free living do have their limits. In certain situations—romantic letters, foreign policy negotiations, capital murder trials—context can be everything. (Context free: “I’m going to kill him,” says the accused. Context: “…in that next game of parcheesi.”) So we must be willing to occasionally allow context to guide us to more accurate conclusions.

But we shouldn’t let our natural desire for knowledge constrict the wonders of our imagination. Context replaces what could be with what is. Without it, we can spend our time pondering the significance of a certain bottle of fucking merlot to our heart’s content.

There's No Place Like Home

Concurring with her arrival back to the motherland, this week on the Proofread, Sarah reflects on her experience in the land of Oz. On one hand, i can be happy for her. She gets to see her friends and family and be home for Christmas. However, i also acknowledge that the Proofread is going to be lacking a lot of kookaburras from now on.

Pull up a chair, grab a cup of coffee or Foster's, and keep a Australian slang dictionary handy. This is Australia is a Parallel Universe (Or In an Aussie Accent: Orstraliar is a Parallel Yeunivas)

Enjoy.

P.S. This essay was inspired by a colorful, comfy, and socially conscious little coffee shop named Café Soul Organics. Sarah's beverage of choice: cappuccino.

International Coffee House

December marks the beginning of this month's new theme: International Coffee House

The traditional haven for aspiring youth, this month's essays were inspired by each staff member's visit to and flavors of a local coffee shop in an exotic land.

Allison starts by making the transition smoother for those of you that hate change with a combination Hiding Places and Coffee House essay from the most exotic of locals, Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Read on as Allison personally explores (i.e. battles) one the most dreaded foe each and every writer must at some point tackle: Good Enough.

Enjoy

Location: Jenn's Java in Manitowoc, Wisconsin.
Drink: Hot Chocolate
Notes: Other features of Jenn's -- lots of board games, and homemade everything. Baked goods, scarves, baby jumpers, hats, jewelry, a whole line of bath products, all made by Jenn herself. Allison would like to meet her.