Menagerie

Jon and Brooke left town for the weekend to do stuff with Brooke’s family. They took the kid, of course, but they didn’t have to take the dog, too. Whose tummy am I supposed to rub?

I had Thursday, Friday, and Saturday off of work. That won’t happen again this holiday season. I wanted to take advantage of it. I wanted to go back home to have a Star Wars marathon, but Starbuck was busy this weekend. Even David had plans, so I really was left to my own devices. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but… when I’m left to my own devices… it usually doesn’t end well. Bodies in motion tend to remain in motion, wandering aimlessly with Hans Zimmer and his ilk playing in the car. In this case, I had many things I wanted to “accomplish” with my time, but the miniature Herr Vogler on my shoulder had other plans. Wearing a devil costume, he continued to whisper suggestions in my ear.

With no one around to socialize with, I essentially had nothing to do but wander. I didn’t literally spend the whole weekend walking around, but I did find myself constantly on the move, looking for something too abstract to begin to know how to look for. Perhaps I was looking for a “sweet spot,” where the atmosphere reached a perfect equilibrium of comfort, familiarity, and unfamiliarity. Something I call “future nostalgia.” Perhaps a place where something would click and I would have an epiphany about how to get out of where I am now. Perhaps I could even find an example of how St. Charles could end up offering me more than I thought. I didn’t know what it was I was looking for, and I still don’t. I just kept moving.

Friday night. Once again, I went to Picasso’s in the off chance that the band wouldn’t suck. Once again, I was screwed. So once again, I was back out in the cold, wandering aimlessly for an alternative.

Main Street was done up in lights and wreaths, and carolers were wassailing in top hats and turn-of-the-century dresses. Horse carriages took people from one end of the brick road to another, and ye olde shoppes with painted signs in British and French spellings were all open well past their usual closing time, offering all manner of seasonal treats in addition to respite from the biting cold. Everywhere I went, I could smell wood stoves burning, and someone was selling old-time kettle corn to a band of cockney urchins on the brick sidewalk. I passed a couple of rosy-cheeked lovers on a park bench in front of the ornate gazebo, and suspected that I had somehow crossed over into a Chris Columbus daydream. It was all too… cliché.

A disembodied voice as smooth as butterscotch was admonishing everyone for their behavior, for Santa Claus was coming to town. She was speaking in rhyme and melody, warning us that he sees us when we’re sleeping and knows when we’re awake. It was really weird. How could she know that? And where was her voice coming from?

I passed every frosted windowpane, candles gleaming inside, watching the revelers in the bars. People seemed merry. What was it that was doing all this? I decided I had to find out. Why was I the outsider? And where could I get a top hat like that?

Main Street was truly an anachronistic experience. Every four feet was a different scene. Finally, I happened across a certain exhibit that cast suspicion over everything else that I had encountered. A man had filled a trailer full of miniature, light-up houses and figurines of an elaborate Christmas town scene, a toy train weaving its way through and around it all. It was a walk-in exhibit where you were immersed in the scale model of Christmas itself. And the disembodied voice turned out to be a stereo system—who knew? There was something inherently creepy about this lifeless display of an entire city. Somehow, I was reminded of the opening to Beetlejuice, but I shrugged it off. This dreamlike, idyllic town he had constructed was quite impressive, and seemed to reflect everything outside.

Then it occurred to me that the pipe-smoking man outside the Christmas trailer had quite possibly engineered everything that I had seen. Perhaps he had brought his creation to life outside his elaborate mobile scene. With this thought, I whirled around to look at him. He gave me a tight smile, puffing on his pipe, his eyes sparkling with unspoken acknowledgement. I quickly left his exhibit and walked quickly back in the direction of where I had parked.

I would find another place to explore, to observe the various acts of good as well as ill will amongst strangers, as the shoppers rush home with their treasures. It occurred to me that, for better or worse, most people were completely indifferent to people they didn’t know. I wondered if someone in the crowd was simply just like me—another dark, hooded figure, another bard finding tales to spin. I was looking for characters worth telling stories about. I was tired of all the Jacob Marleys of the world, seeking only to better their own lives.

But what was I looking for? Wasn’t it a bit conceited to say that I was observing and sorting out all the good and bad deeds of humanity? Was it self-deception to say that I was looking for someone else’s story to tell? Was it paradoxical to say I was merely looking for clues about what it was I was looking for?

Finally, I decided that I was looking for two things: a good red lager and a memorable encounter with a total stranger. That was all I wanted. Friday night, I found only one of the two.

Saturday. Partly due to the sixth consecutive night in a row of taking NyQuil to fight off a persistent cold, I slept until noon—something I had not done in a long, long time. I awoke in the middle of the day, where mental projections of myself were milling around, engaged in numerous activities. The various, ethereal Me’s merged into one being as I got out of bed and threw on a hazel zip-up sweater. I had just woken up and I was already hopelessly “behind.” So I hit the ground running. In the back of my mind, I ruefully recalled the advice Herr Vogler had given me the night before: set out specifically to accomplish nothing so that I would not be disappointed. He was wiser than I had given him credit.

So much for sketching a choral cycle, (re)mastering hiragana and katakana, finding a job in Kansas City, jump-starting a new workout regimen, rust-removing my piano chops, and half of the other items on my list of things to magically accomplish in three days. “My own devices” seems to always end up meaning “fruitless improvisation.”

Aside from undertaking a variety of errands and tasks designed to get me out of my personal funk, I found myself in plenty of unusual places. I was sorely tempted to go hiking on the Lewis Trail, the longer of the forked Lewis and Clark trails I had discovered at the end of this summer, but I still wasn’t quite healthy enough to hike five hours of rough terrain in freezing cold.

By dinnertime, I had found myself returning to Main Street, against my better judgment. But as history indicates, my judgment is often wrong, is it not? So… it was good judgment to return? Well, it was far busier than it had been the night before, and while Steve Jablonsky’s music told the tale of shapeshifting robots duking it out for world domination in my car, I was at odds with what can only be described as a clusterfuck of cars in a feudal parking system. The irony wasn’t lost on me that I had earlier rejected the idea of going to the mall because it would be too “crazy” on a Saturday.

I knew it was going to be an ordeal fighting traffic to double back, so I figured I might as well proceed on foot. Fortunately, as a “just in case,” my ace-in-the-hole was a flask full of Jagermeister (German for “bad idea”) in my coat pocket. You see, I had discovered two things prior to departing from the house: a mostly full bottle of Jager in the cupboard (mostly full, but already opened, so no one would notice a little siphoning) and the flask Andrew had given all the groomsmen as participatory tokens at his wedding back in June. I had decided it was providential and only logical to unite these two discoveries.

I thought perhaps the previous night was a fluke, but I was wrong; there were still plenty of historically garbed people here and there. Along the stretch of road, I stopped into the occasional shop to warm my ears before continuing onward. What I did not expect was to see things that inspired ideas for Christmas gifts. Hm. Well, I wasn’t out to impulse-buy, so I kept going, nodding at the lantern-bearers who wished me a Merry Christmas. Passing three kings of orient, I was nearly run over by three children who were playing Peter Pan with sticks for swords, which I found ironic because earlier in the day I had been listening to John Williams’ Hook. Fantastic score, suitable for the season.

I ducked into a shop of Irish/Scottish what-have-you. There, a man with a shaved head and a kilt looked up my clan history in the computer and told me things about my bloodline I didn’t even know that I didn’t know about. There were prop replicas and crests and attire of my lineage, which I found exceedingly surreal, knowing nothing of such things myself. I found myself wanting to travel to the Lowlands to strike up conversations with the locals at various pubs along Scotland’s border with England about the Scott Clan. Conversations over a mug of ale, of course. Aye.

By this time, I was warming up to society. I was willing to partake in some Christmas cheer, since it seemed so ubiquitous. I was relaxed but alert, ever observant, with my Sword of Righteous Indignation at the ready, barely concealed beneath my Cloak of Anonymity; I hadn’t forgotten my mission, after all.

I finally ended up where else but Picasso’s. This time, I hit the jackpot, because a jazz trio was slated to perform. Funny, I was told earlier that there wouldn’t be one at all. Although a coffee shop, Picasso’s also offers a small assortment of beer. I selected a Leinenkugel’s Fireside Nut Brown, which I strongly urge you to sample for yourself as soon as possible. It’s amazing. It might be my new favorite beer… but it’s seasonal, so get it while you can. Since seasonal beers don’t count as “favorite,” that prestigious title is reserved for Killian’s Irish Red. I digress.

The trio was upright bass, electric guitar, and saxophone. The first piece the band played was far too… evolved for jazz. It was still jazz-oriented, mind you, but with an undeniable influence of Schoenberg that clubbed you over the head (unless you don’t know what twelve-tone is, in which case it would just prod you gently but persistently in the forehead). Come to think of it, the saxophonist even employed extended technique, over which I nearly crapped my pants. Surely nobody in there would understand what was going on in front of them! I got the sense that they programmed a more “academic” piece at the very beginning so as to make the rest of their repertoire seem more comfortable by comparison. It was fantastic. I wished Julio had been there.

I slipped deeper and deeper into reverie, and glanced among the other people in the audience at the coffee shop. I swear to Dog I saw Hermione Granger in a party of four, which made me think of the pikey and his… um, interests.

I decided this wasn’t a bad destination for such a long and pointless journey. And who knew when I would find a jazz trio this good again? My budget and my common sense allowed me to slowly nurse two beers before leaving, which gave me plenty of time to enjoy the atmosphere. The specter of Herr Vogler appeared again on my shoulder, again in a red devil suit, whispering, “I told you. You should just set out to accomplish nothing at all, so you won’t be disappointed.”

“Maybe I should have taken your advice in the first place,” I admitted out loud. Hermione looked at me funny.

This place was the nexus of countless stories the bard will never know to tell. All those people… how did they get there? Did any of them know Schoenberg? Perhaps the bard failed, for he did not learn of any such tales. He just sat in the corner, taking it all in, eyes sharp beneath his dark hood.

That was as good as it was going to get. I grabbed my coat and began the long walk back to my car.

I was back out in the cold, both literally and figuratively.

Several blocks down, I passed Hermione and her friends. Had a drunken Dean Yzon been present, we might well have asked her if that was the look she was going for. But the moment was past. Then I thought idly about returning to that pub from two Saturdays ago, which I had promised on the blog that I wouldn’t return, just to see what would go down. I was reminded of Clark Kent at the end of Superman II, when he goes back to the bar just to kick some ass because he can.

Nah. I didn’t want to go over budget just for the sake of playing the role of Avenging Angel on behalf of those in food/beverage service who can’t speak up for themselves. (See previous post A Dark and Stormy Knight and subsequent comments.)

For the time being, my wanderlust was quenched. However, a part of me lamented the unshakable feeling of failure. I had, after all, not quite reached a satisfying climax for such a long-winded blog post. There was no glorious moment of karmic retribution. The dark and stormy knight, the avenging angel, the warrior bard, the anonymous wiseman would have to fade into the night until another day. Chances are, I realized, that day would mostly likely dawn sooner than I might think. Perhaps, even, the warrior bard would have a chance encounter with the oracle jester, his counterpart in the Random Event Generator, who would undoubtedly shed some light on the elements of humanity he had overlooked. After all, there has to be a kindred spirit out there somewhere…

Humanity… what a concept!

I felt slightly let down, nevertheless. With a silent apology for being perhaps a bit anticlimactic for my readers’ expectations, I clicked on “Publish Post.”