Stuck inside of Bloomington with the no-car blues again

Blogger's preface: I came up with what I thought was a catchy little title for this post on the way to the bank, which I talk about in said post. I'm not really unhappy living at home for these few weeks, I just feel that such an inspired title deserves an inspired post to go along with it. So some things may be a bit exaggerated here. Some are not, however, so be on your toes when reading. Re the title, well, I just finished watching the two-part Bob Dylan documentary No Direction Home, by Martin Scorsese, in which they talk about the song, Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again (see! it's catchy!) and am finishing reading a Dave Eggers book, which somehow compels me to become more self-referential in my writing. Although a blog is already pretty self-referential. Some would say solipsistic. But when you realize how bored I am, you'll understand. And you'll realize how bored I am by reading this post. In sum, this preface is pretty useless and I'm sorry you had to read it. Stop being such a lemming! Skip to the good parts. Maybe that's assuming too much here. Better yet, go read a book or browse CNN.com. Plenty of good stuff there. But maybe wait until after you read my blog... It's up to you, really.

Approximately 95% of my fond memories, especially ones that took place, say, from 1990-1997, took place in my hometown of Bloomington, MN. Bloomington is a suburb of Minneapolis and really has no distinguishing characteristic save for the Mall of America and the airport. Both of which, and especially in the former's case, Bloomingtonians (?) would rather not associate with. Maybe it would be better if we gave this "Mega Mall" to Richfield. But the point is that Bloomington is a rather nondescript suburb of a rather nondescript city of Minneapolis (though I'm rather fond of it).

But it was a great place to grow up. We live across the street from Brye Park which was, in the 90's, the outdoor recreation mecca for a youth into sports such as I. In the spring, of course, was baseball. I only played there once with a team, I think, but I likely hold the record for appearances at the baseball diamond there. Every night after dinner, my dad and I were out there, shagging fly balls or taking batting practice (until I began hitting balls into the street and onto peoples' yards). I was the Cal Ripken, Jr. of Brye Park -- any suitable night, I was out there. Baseball occupied my spring, summer, and fall but winter brought something even more magical, if only for its fleeting nature. That's when the city flooded the ice rink. Each December morning as we awoke for school the pump trucks would be out there, dutifully jettisoning their stores onto the frozen gravel. Every afternoon, a thorough inspection of the growing ice was in order and timetables were set and skates were sharpened in anticipation of the skating season. A warm spell or freezing rain was, and still may be, in some quarters, considered a disaster. But we'd usually get a full 6-8 weeks of hockey in before a February warm spell ended the season, always prematurely.

The suburbs were a great place to grow up. They are, I assume, a great place to raise a family. Or to retire. But they are not a great place to live when you're 23. Especially without a car.

Such is my current life. And I can't complain too much (see preface) as I am moving to the city in a few weeks and starting school. But it would absolutely kill me if I was jobless and sitting around here. Due to the family car shortage, the people with jobs get the cars most days. Which makes complete sense. But it doesn't change the fact that suburbs make those without cars feel very, oh, inadequate. In the week I've been home, I've made a few major excursions on foot to destinations near the Vessey Rd. compound. One, a rather fruitless trip to the Movie Gallery store, which was oddly hot and in disrepair. The other, which I will detail now, to the bank, Wells Fargo, up the hill.

I have some stock - no big deal - in a few corporations. No, really, it's no big deal; it's often more of a hassle because I have so little stock that the dividend checks I get in the mail (not direct deposited, mind you) are usually on the order of $0.94 or, if I'm lucky, $3.07. They find themselves all too often wedged between books or at the very bottom of the pile of junk mail that ultimately gets tossed. Yes, I know, money is money, but I feel like such a tool depositing pocket change. "And would you like this in checking or savings?" [snickers] Haha, very funny, Bank Teller. But, um, well how much do I have in checking? "Let me see, looks like, $150- no, $15.05, Mr. Dammel." Let's just do checking, then, I go for the big percentage gains!

But this weekend, I also decided to cash in some bonds I got from my grandparents when I turned 18, so I felt less demoralized when I went to make the deposit. Another personal insight: I was looking forward to making this deposit a little too much. I don't know why, I guess because it gave me some structure in life. I was about to go Saturday afternoon before I was informed by a bemused mother that banks weren't open on Saturday afternoons. Good to know. I did know that banks are closed on the Lord's Day; of course they would be! So it would have to be Monday, then. My date with destiny.

Monday, of course, I was car-less (see title!). And that was fine with me, I do like walking, did a lot of it in Washington, and wanted to keep my walking muscles in fine shape. And it was a sunny day and I hadn't really been outside yet, so I'd make it an event. Maybe get dressed up (like change into shorts with pockets.

After a few hours of sitting in the middle of the living room, listening to LP's (got through Thelonious Monk w./ Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, Muddy Waters, Led Zeppelin, Bruce Springsteen (of course!), Neutral Milk Hotel, Wilco, and Paul Simon) I decided it was time to start my journey. It was mid-afternoon, around 3:30 when I collected the various checks and bonds, put them in an envelope, and set out to grab a bike to cut down on the time. Well my mountain bike had a leaky tire and my fixie's chain was orange with rust and brittle looking, so I decided to hoof it as I had planned all along.

In cities, it's not weird to walk places - it may be weird not to. Especially to places mundane and ubiquitous as banks. But I felt so odd walking to the bank, which is about a mile from the house, on a busy road (Normandale Blvd). The streets close to home are wide but lacking in sidewalks. And I always veer when I walk, even sober, and so was accordingly afraid of inadvertently playing a game of chicken with oncoming motorists. I was wearing what I thought were pretty normal clothes -- some khaki shorts and a Boston College Law (fittingly ill fitting, I might add) t-shirt with socks and running shoes. Maybe it was the sock/shoe combination that made me feel out of sorts, but I felt like one of those dads, well all dads, really, who seem to go back time and time again to this combination. I admit, they were comfortable, but I prefer sandals. Young people should show their feet, socks and shoes be damned! But, I reminded myself, I was walking, so function over fashion became my mantra.

This self-consciousness was magnified when I started to think about what other people would think when they saw me walking around at 3:30 in the afternoon. Most people my age are working or otherwise preoccupied at this time so I imagine parents, too hardwired to the Dateline mindset, thought I was a molester of some sort and kept their children close at hand. Yard after yard there were toys, some with moving parts still slowly moving, and slammed doors and pairs of eyes about knee height and taller, angrier eyes looking at me as I ambled past. A nameless, senseless danger averted by vigilant action, BRAVO parent or caretaker, BRAVO! Not really, but that's how it felt. Maybe it's because I have an uncle who aimlessly walks around his parents' house, to the mall, to the library, everywhere and nowhere. Maybe that's why I don't like walking in the suburbs, I feel it's the first step towards something much worse. Like marijuana as a gateway drug to heroin. But creepier.

Another thing about walking in the suburbs, now as I turn onto the busy road, is that the car:human ratio is all too askew. I'd say it's close to 300:1. Ridiculous. And the cars all seem so menacing as they fly by just feet from the sidewalk (the crummy, afterthought sidewalk with weeds slowly overtaking the blacktop). I walk up the hill, which seems like it extends forever, and think about life. And exhaust. And apartments with ponds. And how the sky isn't really blue, it's more blueish-gray, as if the contrast was turned up too high and blue was washed out by some giant dial unknown to human intellect.

I finally reached the top and found myself in the strip mall parking lot. My next obstacle, once looming, was now upon me. It was time.

Again, the lack of sidewalks or marked walkways for pedestrians was distressing. I made my way around the back of the bank, by the drive-thru lane. A car was approaching and, since there was no sidewalk, I found myself balancing, arms outstretched, on the curb. I must have looked like an idiot, because what right-minded twentysomething does a thing like that? When I realized this, I promptly (and awkwardly) jogged across the lawn into the bank. So now passers-by thought I was robbing it. Great.

I guess it wasn't as cool outside as I had thought. This, coupled with the fact that I sweat even thinking about sweating made me a mess when I walked into the air conditioned bank. There was a small line, but I loitered by the paperwork desk for a few minutes to stop sweating. There really isn't any reason to sweat when not doing athletic activity, but I manage to find some reason all too often. So, if I didn't look like I was planing to rob this bank when I ran into it, now, I most definitely did. I could see tellers eying one another, with subtle nods, that seemed to say, "Yeah, I see him too. I'm fingering the BIG RED BUTTON if he makes any sudden moves. -Ok, me too"

But soon I stop sweating, put on a smiley face, and deposit my things. As I stood there, an annoying, entitled teen casually approached the teller next to me and said, "Give me all your money, this is a robbery."

Not really, but he just kind of demanded his money to be deposited and I don't believe he had an account there. The teller was more than a little flummoxed when she explained to him that yes, he could open an account, but that it wouldn't be available until the next business day, etc. He just kind of muttered something and then asked for her to make some change. She obliged and then asked in what denomination he would like to receive. "Oh, twenties would be awesome."

Again, after this teen hands her a wad of bills, a flummoxed look crosses the teller's face and she says the best thing I've heard in a while, "Um, sir, it appears as though you only have $19 here. Um, so do you just want a ten, a five, and four ones?" I mean really, how can you be that off in your estimation, kid? Really? Ok, I could understand if we're talking a cash roll here, but he probably had 10 bills in his hand at most. I guess if you assume they're all $100 bills, that's one thing. But that's not going to get you too far in life, I'm afraid.

I smile and, along with the tellers, the other customers, and the bankers who walk out of their offices with this crazy exact timing, as if it was all planned in advance, we all exchange knowing glances, we cock our heads to the side, shake them side-to-side and put our hands on our hips -- tsk, tsk, kids these days, we all say. And we laugh and laugh and even the people in the drive-thru get patched through the intercom and they're laughing too! We're all laughing and having a jolly good time at the expense of this cake eating brat. Hardy har-har.

After many a back-slap and recountings of this hilarous episode in our all too exciting lives, I reluctantly leave, back into the afternoon heat. The walk home is equally mundane as the walk to the bank and doesn't merit the free space of my blog to write about it. Oh, life in the suburbs, I shall miss thee. That is, until I return.