Specious Reasoning: Part 25: Our Only Regret

Contributor:
Kidpowertool – unemployed dairy professional, lives in Key West, FL.
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7 August 2009, evening

Earlier this afternoon, I found myself at the St. Louis Park Triple-A office with Edmund Callipeaux and his strange friend, Merle Higgins. I’ve been visiting the Twin Cities for the past ten days, and while preparing for my return flight home, I realized that I was in need of some new luggage. Edmund told me that the AAA office has a large travel area that sells maps and all sorts of other travel related stuff, including luggage....

“Plus, I have to get my tabs renewed and they have a DMV office in the same building,” explained Edmund.

“Ah, the Department of Motor Vehicles! The grand equalizer,” I replied. A sentiment that is similar to what Andy Warhol said about Coke. And by that I mean that it doesn’t matter if you’re the Queen of England or some slob walking around downtown Cleveland, if either of you buy a Coke, you’ll each get the same thing. The DMV has the same power, no matter who you think you are, the DMV doesn’t care, and you’ll have stand in line just like everyone else.

As it would also happen, Merle Higgins was waiting on line when we arrived at the St. Louis Park AAA DMV. He was there to get his picture taken for a new license. Saying hello, we took a number, and the three of us chatted while we waited - - and as luck would have it, I found the perfect carry-on suitcase in the AAA travel shop. Cheers.

With our business concluded, the three of us took our leave from the elegance of both Triple-A and the DMV. Clearing the doors of the building, however, we saw from a distance that Edmund had left his truck’s headlights on during the 1+ hours we were in the building. Running down the sloping blacktop of the parking lot, Edmund hopped into the cab of the truck, and quickly turned the key. Thankfully, the engine fired up after a slight hesitation.

“Whew, that was lucky,” said Edmund.

“What if the battery had been dead? Can you imagine calling Triple-A from the Triple-A parking lot?” I replied. “How embarrassing.”

Edmund asked, “I wonder if we could have just gone inside and asked for a jump?”

“Are you kidding me?” replied Merle, “Those idiots in there wouldn’t have known what to do with you.”

“Easy, Merle,” I replied.

Ignoring Merle, Edmund said, “I wonder if they would have made me call the Emergency Hotline if I had gone inside the AAA office?”

“Yeah, I bet that they would have asked your location despite the fact that you were standing right in front of the guy as the two of you watched each other talk to one another over the phone!” I said laughing while I leaned against Edmund’s truck.

“Would you two morons shut the heck up and grab yourselves a cold Pabst?” blurted Merle as he reached into the bed of his pickup and threw open the lid to a blue cooler.

The situation with Edmund’s nearly dead battery reminded me of a time long ago when Edmund’s truck completely died in the parking lot of his old art studio. It was mid-August in the year 2000 - - a day like many other summer days in Minnesota: the sun was intense, it was humid, and it was hot. We ended up calling AAA for a jump, and what should have been a simple task turned into something that I’ve regretted ever since. In fact, Edmund and I both agree that what transpired that day, or rather, what didn’t transpire that afternoon constitutes the one and only true regret either of us have in life.

Like mentioned above, the setting for this story goes back to an old art studio of Edmund’s. It was the year 2000, and Edmund had rented a 1000 square-foot space in an old, rundown Minneapolis warehouse, near the University of Minnesota. The building was in a no-man’s-land-industrial area populated by railroad tracks, boxcars, and massive grain elevators that seemed as grand as the Pyramids of Giza (and there was wildlife too, like geese, woodchucks, and skunks - - I’m not kidding, there was a skunk that lived behind the warehouse!). Even though it was in the heart of the city, there was a dirt road leading to the building. For an art studio, it was Heaven on Earth. Turning off the main drag of University Avenue and heading north on 25th Street and up into the rail yards that surrounded the warehouse was like passing into a bygone era, when Minneapolis was still on the edge of the Wild West.

Within this warehouse, seven individual floors and 4 bathrooms supported about 50 or so art studios. The inhabitants of the studios were sculptors, print makers, painters, photographers, drawers, and the like, as well as musicians, performance artists, and other artist-type people. Or, more accurately, the building was populated by:

1/3rd professional artists;
1/3rd insane people;
1/3rd crazy people;

In my experience, pretty much the same demographic breakdown can be observed in any artist studio warehouse space. The professional artists and the crazy people are generally fun to meet and hang around with - - however, you’ve got to watch out for the insane people. They can be trouble.

When Edmund moved into his studio on the sixth floor of this building, he soon found that his neighbors matched the appropriate ratio of professional to crazy to insane people. Quarter Dutch, a friend of Edmund’s from college had the studio to the east (professional), some guy named Chuck had the space across the hall (insane), and a guy named Antonio had the studio to the west of Edmund’s space (crazy).

Antonio was from Spain. He played the clarinet and he was living in the country illegally due to his recently expired visa. He was squatting in his studio space where he had a makeshift darkroom as well as a bunch of old couches and chairs and rugs and a mess of other junk that he had found in dumpsters around town. He burnt his food nightly on his hotplate and showered a few times a week in the bathroom on the forth floor. He wasn’t tall and he wasn’t short. He had dark hair and intense eyes that darted around as he spoke. He was thin and jumpy and his clothes consisted of various ragtag layers that were held together with a big floppy straw hat. He spoke with a thick Spanish accent and waved his arms around a lot while he welcomed Edmund to the building.

Even though Antonio had a darkroom in his studio, he wasn’t much of a photographer. Or, perhaps I should say, that we didn’t see many photographs coming out of his studio. What we did often hear coming out of Antonio’s studio was the sound of Antonio’s amazing clarinet playing. Late at night, for hours on end, the halls of the building would be filled with the most melodic, wandering, and hauntingly beautiful clarinet music.

Antonio was a true character. He was the type of resident crazy person that every artist studio warehouse needs to maintain its legitimacy in the art world. He’d become very excited when he showed off his photographs. He beamed as he introduced us one day to a bunch of his mysterious-looking friends who were traveling from Europe. He was the kind of guy who always had something going on – always something important to do – and yet, he could sit idle in his studio for days and days and days. He was flighty and sincere…a rare combination to find in a person.

The day of our Great Regret began like any other uneventful August day. It was summer, it was hot, it was humid, and there wasn’t much going on. The Dog Days of Summer, as they say. Edmund and I had spent the morning working on a project in his studio. However, walking out to the parking lot, at about noon, we found that Edmund’s truck wouldn’t turn over because he had left the headlights on all day.

“Damn battery!” cursed Edmund.

As Edmund was trying the engine, I caught a glimpse of Antonio in the distance as he drove away from the building in his old Volkswagen campervan. That lucky bastard had one of those Sixties-era vans with the split windshield and the big old chrome VW symbol between its headlights. I think that it was light blue with a cream-colored top. At any rate, Antonio was crouched forward at the steering wheel wearing his big floppy straw hat while the van sputtered and puttered along making that sound that only old VW engines make.

“I better call Triple-A,” said Edmund, “This thing is dead.”

He made the call and we waited by the truck. “There’s no way that the driver is going to find us. No one knows this part of Minneapolis…there’s not even an address on the building,” complained Edmund.

Sure enough, about an hour and a half later, Edmund got a call from an irate tow truck driver who was lost in South Minneapolis. “No. We’re over by the University, in Southeast Minneapolis,” Edmund patiently replied.

Boredom set in as the sun beat down and we both began to worry that we were going to get screwed out of having a decent lunch.

Finally the tow truck driver called a second time to say that he had figured out where we were and that he’d arrive at our location within 5 minutes.

We were saved!

However, not two minutes had passed since that phone call when Antonio puttered back into the parking lot in his old VW. He haphazardly stopped the engine and left the van saddling two parking spaces. Throwing open the door, he bounded out of the cab, and at a dead run, he made a bee-line to where Edmund and I stood.

Edmund was distracted and I could tell that he was worried about his truck and what it might cost if it needed more than a jump. I was tired from the heat and worried about missing lunch, so I barely took notice as Antonio flew toward us wearing his big hat and a pair of bibbed overalls with no undershirt and no shoes.

Reaching us, Antonio exclaimed:

“I’ve found the most amazing thing! You have to come with me!”

Just then a distant tow truck emerged into view as it was slowly making its way up the dirt road. Distracted by the truck, Edmund turned to Antonio and replied, “Can’t do it, man.... Automobile issues.”

Antonio’s expression dropped and he looked at me. Unfortunately, my mind was on my stomach and its daily need for cheeseburgers, so I was no help at all.

And with that brief exchange, Antonio turned and bounded back across the parking lot and into his campervan. He cranked the engine, jammed the clutch into gear, and buzzed away while kicking up a small dust storm in his wake.

And we never saw him again.

As our AAA-approved tow truck driver pulled into the parking lot, Edmund blinked and jerked his head as if he had just returned from being lost in a daydream. He slowly turned to me and said, “What was that just now? What’s going on here? We should have gone with Antonio. Why didn’t we go with him?" Then, beginning to panic, he then said, "I’ve never seen the guy more excited. I wonder what he found? I’ve never heard him use the word amazing to describe something! Oh no, what have we done?”

Nine years later to the month, I still wonder what Antonio had gotten himself into that day. What did he find that was so amazing? Was it some sort of Mississippi river pirate’s treasure? Or, perhaps he had found a mattress at the dump that was filled with hundred dollar bills. Or, maybe he had discovered a heap of jewels under a bridge. Did he witness a murder? He looked a lot like Huckleberry Finn with his straw hat and those overalls…I’ll bet he was down at the Mississippi and he had gotten himself into something fantastic.

Without me verbalizing any of these thoughts, Edmund said, “I wonder what that Antonio guy is doing right now? You remember him?”

“Antonio?” replied Merle as he crushed his empty beer can and threw it into the back of his truck, “Are you going to start in again about that crazy-man and his would-be amazing discovery? Do I have to listen to this story every time your truck needs a jump? You’re living in the past, man. Besides, he probably had just found some rusted-out washing machine or something, and he just wanted you two chumps to help him carry it up to his quote/unquote photography studio.”

“Perhaps, Merle. Perhaps. Unfortunately, we’ll never know. Will we?” replied Edmund. – KPT

The site of the old studio warehouse. In the fall of 2007, everyone was evicted and the building was knocked down.