This morning as I clicked and skimmed my way through CNN.com, I found this tale of a town shocked by a recent "racial shooting." The town is Moorhead, Minnesota, and I'm not totally sure why it's shocked. Right there in the second paragraph of the story it says that James Waltz, the accused, told his neighbor he wanted to shoot a black person. It seems to me that the most shocking thing about his shooting of Ricky Davis, the unfortunate black person who made Waltz's aspiration a reality, is that shooting a black person was the dream he shared with his neighbor. How did that conversation go?

NEIGHBOR: You know, Jay, I've always wanted to have sex with a black chick.

JAMES WALTZ: Yeah. I've always wanted to shoot a hole in one.

NEIGHBOR: I didn't know you golfed.

But that's not what really caught my eye about the story. What set me adrift in a memory bliss, as PM Dawn would say, was the mention of the town of International Falls, Minnesota.

Why? you bleat like a chicklet after some regurgiworm.

Because when I was younger, I spent a good deal of time with a nanny who hailed from International Falls.

That's right, fans. Pull up a mat and shift on your ass uncomfortably, because it's time to delight at the tiniest taste of True Tales from the Author of The Spoonbender's Past.

It was the summer after my sophomore year of college, and I was unemployed. I'd been able to convince my parents that a three-week job as an orientation counselor at my college would prevent any local employers from hiring me. Supportive and kind people that they were, they suggested that I go to bartending school -- drinking being something that I clearly enjoyed and was good at. As you can imagine, the bartending school schedule is one that allows plenty of time for other pursuits. For me, these included smoking pot in the afternoons and drinking prodigiously in the evenings.

My companion in these pursuits was a fine fellow named Kevin. He'd recently left Penn State for reasons I never entirely understood, though I suspect it might have had to do with the violent menacing of a black roommate who insisted on listening to Janet Jackson's hit "Again" again and again. Other than a one shift stint at Arby's, during which I visited in time to hear him snarl venomously, "Do you want horsey sauce with that?" at a drive-through customer, Kevin was also unemployed and made for a fine and willing cohort.

At this point in the story I think it's important to point out that, though Kevin and I were only about 20, our lifestyle did not help my self-image. Nor did it his. We enjoyed ourselves immensely, but weeks of being surrounded by friends rushing off to one job or another made us feel like unambitious and lazy burn-outs. In retrospect I understand that none of my friends were interning in Congress or anything, and that the opportunity cost of working a minimum wage job that summer would have more than negated the money we'd have earned. But young and stupid as we were, our unemployment was the topic of many reflective, stoned discussions.

Until, that is, the nanny arrived.

It should be understand that nannies weren't common where I grew up. It was hardly a poor neighborhood, but it was decidedly working class. It was the kind of place where the hiring of nannies or maids was considered the foolish extravagance of the rich and idle. Or perhaps of the gays. In any case, it was frowned on. Which is why the nanny's arrival was immediately noticed by Kevin and me.

Of course, she worked for the family that lived directly next door to Kevin, so proximity helped in the noticing. And I think she introduced herself to us one day, which also kind of brought her to our attention.

I can't remember her name now, nor what she looked like. She was attractive-ish, but nothing all that special. And neither Kevin nor I were after her in that way you'd guess we might have been. She always seemed vaguely interested, but in both of us equally. Which, looking back now, is kind of creepy if not unexpected from a nanny who spends much of her time with a couple of unemployed stoners. What really fueled our friendship with the nanny was that she was always willing to drive us places and buy us drinks. I guess you could say she was a born caretaker.

The last time I saw the nanny was pulling out of my parents' driveway. We'd spent the evening at a horrible local club called Rumours. After making out with her in the women's bathroom, she and Kevin pulled me, toes dragging, out to the car at the request of the management. During the drive home I vomited blood onto myself -- the one and only time in my life I've vomited blood.

As I said, the nanny was from International Falls, Minnesota, and she used to tell Kevin and I how cold it got up there. In the years since I've wondered what it's like to make out with someone, and then to have them vomit blood on themself. It must be awkward.

Analogcabin @ 11:07 AM
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