Authors: Chuck Stepanek
He signaled his lane changes with great deliberation. Turns; he executed slowly, providing a safe cushion between the sedan and
any other vehicles, and preventing inertia from sliding his cargo off the passenger seat.
Gus longed to free his right hand from the wheel to caress the package, even for a moment, but lower
Hennepin
County
was a tricky patchwork of roads. He dispensed with his original idea of finding a sleepy municipal park and stealing a few glimpses. Something in his gut was telling him that it would be safer outside the city. He would have to devote his full attention until he was on the expressway.
The expressway provided several turnouts for weary travelers, and at this early hour chances were good that the rest areas would be lightly used, maybe even unoccupied. There he could remove the getup and finally get his paws on the pictures (and maybe something else to boot) if the conditions favored him.
Sheridan
boulevard loomed ahead. Two miles of
Sheridan
would link him up with I-75 SW. He took the ramp and entered the thinning confluence of morning traffic.
2
Gus had been making semi-annual trips to the twin cities for the past five years. The sole purpose of which was to obtain fresh whack-off rags. And he could thank the Catholic church (in part) for his discovery of the material and the place where he could find it.
In 1971, having served the church for 20 years, Father Gustavus Milliken was offered a two month sabbatical. The conditions of the sabbatical were loose, take time off, go somewhere where you won’t be bothered by the parishioners, reflect, rest and recharge. If missionary work appeals to you, fine. If it’s quite study with the bible, so be it. Then come back ready to resume your marrying and burying.
Gus didn’t like it. Not one bit. He had a lot of little secrets hidden throughout the congregation. His absence could be just the opening some former (or current) altar boy may need to confide in the ear of whatever new seminary grad that would be taking his place.
But the sabbatical was not an option, it was deemed a necessary part of the job.
Reluctantly, Gus complied. He opted for the twin cities, close enough should there be a sudden need for ‘damage control’ and large enough that he could disappear should damage control not be an option. So he had packed his
civi's
, threw in one set of priestly vestments should the need arise, and found a room on the lower east side.
The Pioneer Motor Inn had seen better days, principally those that preceded the new expressway and rerouting of the majority of its customer base. Now it was simply PM-rooms by the week, and catered mostly to men who wavered just above the title of ‘homeless’ and well under the level of impoverished.
The tenants spent their time in their rooms, smoking, drinking, sometimes eating if their tobacco and liquor funds held out. Occasionally they gathered in little clusters of two or three on the cement surface that used to be the PM’s swimming pool. Quick glances around; then a silent huddle as cash and tiny wads of tinfoil changed hands.
They checked the job board in the lobby; looking for new postings. “Shoveler’s Needed.” “Tree trimmers wanted.” “Movers-Heavy Lifting.” All short term gigs from companies that paid poorly. And when they paid, they paid in cash to avoid bureaucratic nonsense like social security and unemployment benefits.
Gus regretted his choice from the start. But now that he was here, he was stuck with it. He had informed the church elders that he would spend his sabbatical ministering to the
downtrodden, and to do it effectively he would need to live among them.
Big mistake.
Gus sat in unit number 4 and watched as the men went about their day-to-day meaningless existence. He loathed them. These were the same gorillas who had ravaged him as a boy. These were the kind of men who occasionally stopped by the church for a handout so they could get a few more miles down the road. Translation: “I’m a hitchhiker and I sure could use a bottle of booze.” These were the men who, should he introduce himself as a priest, beg him for a couple of bucks because ‘it’s what Jesus would do.’
Mostly, these were the men, who, he himself would turn out to be, if anything happened in Elmwood while he was on this God forsaken sabbatical.
He stared out his window and fumed. His missed the comfort and privacy of the rectory. He anguished over the loss of his personal space. Would the seminarian have the nerve to snoop in his room? Maybe the parishioners were planning a b
ig surprise for him. “Oh wont F
ather Milliken be so excited that we redecorated—uhmm, what exactly is this?”
There wasn’t that much to hide (tangibles that is) just a few sexual aids, but they couldn’t be confused for anything else now could they. He thought for the 50
th
time that the gap between the drawer and its socket on his mahogany desk had been the perfect hiding place, but what if they decided to surprise him with a new desk for 20 years of service.
Christ! It was maddening.
And as much as the tangible evidence tormented him, the intangible tortured him. Any of a dozen altar boys could be crying out his story this very moment.
Enough.
Gus needed out of this hellhole; at least for a little while. A walk, a bus ride, passage on the Queen Mary, it didn’t matter, he just needed out. He undid the triple lock; deadbolt, security chain, door handle, and stepped into the cool air and fading sunlight.
The room had been stifling; when the air hit him, he could feel the sheen of sweat on his face. He groped for a moment and then found what he was looking for: a pale blue handkerchief, one from a set of pastels that had been given to him by some long forgotten member of the congregation. Christmas gift? Baptism thank you? Shit, he couldn’t remember. Over the years he had received a couple hundred such tokens of appreciation (most of them worthless trinkets) but the handkerchiefs were practical and he liked the colors (but only when wearing civilian clothes).
He mopped his face, and then stuffed the cloth in his left rear pocket, carelessly allowing a light blue tail to drape along his backside.
‘Let’s go before we get panhandled for a smoke or spare change.’ a disgruntled mutter. He had neither the smoke nor the spare change but was carrying $50 and a high limit credit card. Without sense of direction or destination, Gus started to walk.
PM-rooms by the week gave way to an abandoned Dog N Suds restaurant. Based upon the condition of the structure the only ones dining these days were the termites, and they had been feeding well. The Dog N Suds gave way to Strike it Lucky bowling and billiards. The business had fared somewhat better as there were three cars in the parking lot and a neon sign in the window flickering an appeal for Honestein beer.
A derelict gas station, then a theatre front with the marquee
COL
ECT BLES
BUY PAWN SE L
Then a series of unidentifiable buildings, possibly mom and pop retail establishments back in the day; now likely used for storage. Their owners long ago abandoning the hope to ever again turn a profit via the front doors.
The commercial district faded into a section of high density residential. From the looks of the apartments, the people who lived here might be paying by the month, but were no more than a paycheck away from joining the by the week crowd.
Gradually, as he covered more blocks, the surroundings began showing signs of improvement. Apartments became duplexes, duplexes - bungalows, bungalows - modest frames.
Gus was by no means relieved of all of his anxiety, but the change in environment helped distract his single minded thinking. At his back; the sun had fully released its hold on the day. Getting out had been a good idea. And he felt the further he walked, the more he would be able to cope with his predicament. ‘Temporary predicament’ he mentally corrected. Just tough it out these two months and then it’s back to business as usual.
He hadn’t a sense of how far he had come, but he lengthened his stride and took in full deep breaths of air. A nearby lilac bush sent its messenger to his nostrils, the aroma taking a great weight off his chest and mind. The first photoelectric lights began their nightly duty. Just ahead was a rather large cluster of them; far more than required by residential code. It must be another small business district, and at least from a distance, it appeared to be more prosperous than the one he had left behind.
Recharged, refreshed, and sensing the value of each step he took, he marched forward and discovered the suburb of Firethorn.
In the 1800’s, Firethorn had been platted 10 miles south of
Minneapolis
. The area was targeted for its rich salt fields and its proximity to serving the needs of the people in the big city. The
name came from the founders, eastern Europeans who fondly remembered firethorn plants gracing stone hedges and lattices in the homeland.
As
Minneapolis
grew, so grew Firethorn. By 1940, Firethorn was all of 2,000 residents. In 1950, 2,500. Then came talks of annexation. And as much as the city elders wanted to maintain their small town feel, they knew that the move was inevitable. In 1957 Firethorn was swallowed up by big bad
Minneapolis
. As their final act to maintain their identity, the city voted to erect an old world stone hedge around the city square and independently provide for the tending of firethorn plants to adorn it.
It was a wise move.
The flaming plants attracted people (in need of a cheap evening date or a Sunday afternoon day trip) to walk the square and then patronize the local shops.
As word spread, the area began to attract a more trendy crowd. New businesses opened providing curious things, wicker, ivory and art. By the mid sixties, the offerings began to have more of a hippie flavor. The old timers would have spoke out if not for the fact that most of the people now patronizing the thorn were of that same ilk. Business was business after all.
And quietly, underneath, a new element soon arrived. It was not uncommon to see young men walking together around the hedge, laughing and playfully patting each other. But it was the women who were the bold ones; holding hands the entire circuit of the square, whispering, embracing, sharing soft kisses on the check.
Sure, so they’re sisters after all, or best friends, maybe cousins.
Many suspected, but in 1968 it all became crystal clear when the Thorn got its first gay bar: “The Back Door Lounge.” So named because the main entrance was off the alley. At least that was how it was shared when in polite company.
Even in not so polite company the locals still held their tongues. They had endured the trendies, then the hippies, and now the fruities. The gays and lesbians who visited Firethorn, and the ones who had taken up permanent residence, were quiet, polite, didn’t cause any trouble and contributed nicely to the economy.
Live and let live.
3
Gus liked what he saw. Here was a bright little community that had kept its identity (not to mention its prosperity) in spite of the metropolitan spillage. He passed homes that were not in need of paint, their lawns actually covered with grass, not trash. Across the way a golden retriever was laughing his dog laugh; happily playing fetch with his master. And closer, on his side of the street, Gus could distinguish the aroma of barbeque ribs from an outdoor grill.
The sights, sounds and smells elevated his mood even higher, especially the ribs. How long had it been since he had real barbecue? A better question: when exactly was the last time he ate?
Suddenly realizing his hunger he moved determinedly through the charming residential area, his sights set on the cluster of photoelectric lights. Business section. Restaurants. Food.
He knew not the name of the bright little subdivision but it looked very promising, and, truth be told, a little out of place considering the land of the destitute from whence he had traveled. The business section did not meet him abruptly; the little residential community gently flowed into it. A quaint building on the corner spoke residential, the sign on the front relayed that the house had been tastefully turned commercial: