"A Day in the Life" (9-Part Story)

Part I. "Groggy-footed Hot Coffee Shuffle"

I woke up early, groggy yet excited to be heading back down south for the day. I knew I had some things to complete off the bat, so I was up and going around six.
I packed in some laundry and updated my on-line correspondences before enjoying a few quite cups of coffee and the newspapers with my parents. I debated on taking a shower, and made the decision to avoid it and just press on towards the rest of my day.
I decided to go into work in Britt, an opportunity that would give me enough time to finish up a couple stories I had been procrastinating on. I switched between listening to the newest Fabulous album on my iPod and Fox Sports Radio during the drive over, but I couldn't focus on anything really.
I spoke on the phone with Marissa, and she was anxious about me leaving and going to Pella, I did my best to calm her nerves and then hung up slightly irritated, but more bummed because I knew she would be down all day with me gone.
Once I got to Britt, I banged out the remaining interview and two stories I needed to finish.
One concerned a program that has recently passed the Britt City Council and will provide every business and residence within city limits a NOAA Weather Radio. The radios work during tornadoes and have the national threat assessment color chart constantly being updated on several channels. The propaganda that has been dispersed to promote the idea says that the radio will protect you no matter what. I would be interested in hearing what the national threat assessment reads after the continuing tensions in Afghanistan spill over and cause one of three nuclear armed neighbors to launch a plethora of radiation clouds into the international wind patterns.
The project is frivolous, especially at a cost of roughly thirty dollars per radio, and should be handled by the private sector. After I finished with the story I had a hard time getting the urge to go purchase a second hand radiation suit out of my mind as I left Britt and headed south towards Kanawha on R35.


Part II. "Southern Swing"

Traffic was light and matched the precipitation that was slowly splattering my windshield as I drove towards Ames and what would hopefully be better weather. I pulled out my telephone and checked the hour by hour for cast along my route, first looking over Story City, Ames, and Collins before moving on to Colfax, Prairie City, and Pella. It appeared that we had the typical Florida forecast that is customary for Iowa during the late summer months: high humidity, chance of showers or thunderstorms, mostly sunny and a chance of vagueness.
Just north of Kanawha I became jammed between an overly excited Dodge Caravan and someone who was apparently holding some sort of hay rack ride for ghosts judging by the layout of the bails and the lack of riders.
As we passed through the speed reduction zones I looked and jumped on my first available right turn. The road lead me down a few blocks before terminating into a left, taking my by a dumpy 1960's community swimming pool, and then back to the main road. I managed to beat the specter hayrack ride to the corner, all though I ran a longer course, so I turned out in front of him and headed on down to Clarion on Highway 3 before jumping over for the trip through Blairsburg, Jewell, and Story City on my way to Ames.
As I got closer and closer to the city which is feared by many rail riders because they run trains through town at incomprehensible degrees of speed, I telephoned an old friend of mine. He had recently moved to Ames in order to pursue a degree in Journalism through the Greenly School located at Iowa State University. His parents had recently acquired a condominium, so I was interested to have a look.
He gave me directions to his residence, and I assumed I would be all right finding my way. I had fairly good background knowledge of Ames from previous visits, and I had Goggle Maps to back me up in case anything were to go a rye. I began pacing through the city, making laps that grew smaller with each trip around. I narrowed down the area within one might find his house for nearly an hour before pulling over, spotting a business address on Somerset Drive and typing in my friend's address. As it turned out, I was less than three blocks away. I pulled back out and found the place with relative ease.
The condo was set inside a large complex, with maybe eight to a building. He came tumbling out of the front door and instructed me to park and meet him out back. I did so, and then we slinked to his garage parking space for a bit of tobacco and some conversation.
We hashed over old friends and their current predicaments, something that would no doubt be a constant topic throughout the rest of the day as I returned to Pella for the first time in several months.
I followed him across the parking lot and up the stairs to his door, and then took in the condo. It was a really classy place with faux granite countertops, a stackable washer and dryer, and immaculate details down to door stoppers to prevent wall damage. I complemented him and suggested that we go downtown and grab a late lunch.
We split hairs over who would drive, and I eventually was the more adamant. It gave me the opportunity to get first hand recognition of Ames that could benefit me the next time I would make it down.
He took shot gun and we rolled out, making the easy transition between Grand and Lincoln Way, him showing me the errors that had plagued my early circling.
We stopped at Jimmy John's and I fed the meter a quarter. He was searching his pockets for dimes and nickels that would pay for a time more equal to our stay, but I told him to not worry about it, the extra thirty or so minutes might keep the meter alive for someone else. In this economy, if I can help someone with 25 cents, I try and take the chance. It may not be much, but at least it is something.
We enjoyed our lunch, going silent as we devoured our sandwiches. The conversation picked up once we had finished and we discussed his move to Ames from Algona and various other topics that tend to flow out of one's mouth during a leisurely afternoon.
I refilled my soda, a root beer, as we headed back out to the curb. I checked the meter as we walked by, and it still read 43 minutes, plenty of time for us to move on and someone to come in and replace us.
I had another friend recently relocate to Ames as well, so I decided the two should meet. I pulled out my telephone, placed a call, and then we were on our way. Thanks to some faulty directions, we ended up circling for a short time before eventually finding the right course to take. We arrived at our destination, went inside, and made the decision to melt into the sofa for a short while before continuing on our way.
The three of us spoke slowly and knowledgeably, discussing even more old friends, current entertainment trends, and various other subjects that would randomly emerge from the depths of self-conscious to overtake our voices. By the time we left, I was feeling contented and filled with communication and fellowship.
I quickly paced back to Somerset Dr. and then made my turn onto Aspen in order to drop of the friend with the condo. We said our good byes and good lucks before he headed back up the stairway to waste the day away playing Gamecube and drinking Kool-Aid.

Part III. "Remembrances"

On my exit, I cut through Ames with precision after resharpening my navigation skills throughout the previous few hours. I have always had a great sense of direction, and if I have the opportunity to acclimate to a place for a few trips around town I can usually work the geography out from there.
I made it over to Duff and headed south, looking for an out-skirt Casey's on the edge of town.
I arrived as the only customer in the parking lot, no traffic on the very southern beginning of the constantly busy street. I filled up my tank and purchased a king-size Reece's along with a Starbuck's Double Shot Espresso. My girlfriend constantly warns me about sugar content and caffeine reliance, but I rarely drink soda, and by that time I needed the energy to make sure I would be able to make it through the rest of the day.
She was on my mind as I made the purchases, and I called her once I was back in my truck heading south once again on Highway 69 this time towards Huxley.
She was still down, but she was managing to be productive while I was gone. She was as happy as I expected, but sadder than I had hoped. I began to really miss her and wonder what would happen when she left for college in Cedar Falls the following Thursday.
We eventually hung up, her frustrated with me being gone for the day, me concerned that she was upset.
As I drove south, making sure to catch Iowa 141 to Maxwell, I contemplated how funny life and love can be. Just six months ago I was reeling from another epic love story failed, and now, at the end of the summer I was contentedly in love for the first time in my life. I felt as confident as I ever had about our relationship that day, even though I knew she was unnecessarily fretting about my absence.
I knew things would be okay, and they were.
I caught a glimpse of Collins to the north as I banked right off 141 onto Highway 65 South, chuckling to myself as I recalled that just hours before I had been on the same road several hundred miles to the north in downtown Mason City.
I crossed 330 and disappeared into the foothills that surround the Des Moines River as I neared Colfax. The geography in the southern part of Iowa is something I have grown to respect and value since leaving there. The hills stack upon one another, covered in dense foliage, protected by a thick and changing growth. The sun had begun to come through the spotty cloud cover, and it warmed my arms as I swerved and curved through the river basin towards the Interstate 80 crossing at Colfax.
I passed on south, having memories flick through my head as I went by the corner ice cream shop in Colfax, the foothills of Prairie City, and then eventually down 163.
I always enjoy the drive down that stretch between southeastern Des Moines and Pella; it has always had an indiscernible visual familiarity each time I return. It always looks like another time. It always reminds me of things that were on my mind when the road was still new to me. I don't often awake those things that lie beneath, but sometimes that road can stir the rivers held captive inside my skin.

Part IV. "An Arrival"

I began the process of notifying the people who had expressed interest in seeing me while I was going to be in town. I have tried to keep a low profile since I moved north again, and this trip was no exception.
A few voicemails, several cohorts deeply immersed in their jobs, and my dinner plan conspirator deciding to go "shoot guns and stuff" left me both devoid of further contacts and plans. I decided to go park at the local watering hole and see if any of the regulars were around that I have gotten to know over the years.
The place is dark, not poorly lit, just filled with darkness. Light streams in from elevated shoebox windows down one wall, but the exposed brick just hungrily devours it especially when paired with the deep color palette of the tables scattered across the polished wood floors.
I worked there briefly several years ago before allegations were made as to me possibly shortening up the cash register. I was never prosecuted or found even remotely guilty, but I resigned my position following the acquisition because I was looking for an easy out in a job that was slowly eroding my soul.
I pulled back the heavy green door and was welcomed by an old friend who was working behind the bar. We talked briefly about how good it was to see one another, our immediate future plans, and any other number of bases that are usually covered throughout the course of such conversations. He was going to be playing the concert I was attending later in the evening and he told me about the voice lessons he had been taking in order to improve his musical act. I wished him good luck and promised to speak with him more later that evening before heading out the front door and back onto the street.


Part V. "Film Production"

The sun was fully out so I flipped on my imitation Ray Ban sunglasses and decided to cut across the town square in order to get to the venue where the show was to be held.
If you have ever been in down town Pella you will not misunderstand that it all looks as though a very clever movie director has had the entire downtown area professionally designed and engineered to appear perfect in every small way.
With the sun shining, the streets relatively vacant and the normal amount of destruction in my mind as usual, I fantasized about being eighty feet tall and crushing the buildings as I pillaged through the perfect movie set small town.
I have thought about this on several occasions, normally during breaks from the stuffy air of the Wolf Hangar in the middle of a whiskey night when the downtown really takes on that old time movie set charm.
The air stands so still, broken only by the hum of the far off coal-burning electrical plant, it seems like everything is cast from wax. There is no movement in those times, just the stillness of well-lit sidewalks and shade drenched trees that sleep on the secrets gossiped between friends beneath the branches during the slow summer afternoons.
The unearthly silence makes it unique, the stillness makes it eerie. There is a loveliness to it though, the kind of loveliness that comes from desperation, cosmetic improvement, and decay beneath the exterior.

Part VI. "The Mem."

I snapped off my train of thought as I gave a hard pull to the metal handled glass door at the Pella Memorial Building. It was locked, but I could hear ambient guitar tones drifting out past the heavy oak doors that led to the main staging room. The glass on the door shook with the subtle vibrations, numbing my hand before I pulled it away.
I made my way down the block, turning at the corner and keeping my head down, hoping no one would notice who I was. I had been gone for about year in all reality, but I was too vain to realize that no one cares to really know you once you have kicked rocks and found pavement. I wore my sunglasses like a mask; I ducked my head like a criminal.
I hooked a Louie into the alley and saw that the backdoor to the Mem. was propped open. The music I had heard out front was streaming out of the open doorway, filling the air and my head as I jumped the two-slat fence and I headed into the building.
The kitchen was dark, and so appeared the main hall, but when I burst through the door into the open air, I was greeted by several old friends.
They were running through a set to be performed later in the evening that was the brainchild of Cameron VanBerkum. I was impressed to say the least, mouth agape as I tapped my foot along with the beat. I was proud of Cameron and excited for the rest of the evening.
As they wrapped up, I grabbed a good friend from another and coaxed him into going on a bit of a walk with me.


Part VII. "Block Walk Mirrors"

My legs were still cramped up from the time spent in the car throughout the day, and I wanted the opportunity to visit with him one on one.
I wish we could have stacked up our former selves and had them walk in front of us. They contrasts would be day and night, as would the ideals, the morals, and the outlook for the future. He told me of a glam rock band he has been playing with as I noted the length of his hair and the manner of his voice. We had grown up since the last time we had spoken; the time had sanded us down.
We ran into his girlfriend while we were out and about and she was friendly. They got together shortly before I moved out of the area, so I have only briefly ever gotten to know her.
It was apparent that the days of early morning whiskey had taken their toll on each of us. I was reminded then of a day several summers and seasons ago.
We had gotten into the habit of holding band practice each morning at roughly eleven o'clock. We practiced in a basement owned by our drummer's dad, owner of the guitar shop next to the house. My longhaired friend lived two houses away and was one the guitarist at the time on the project. I recalled a morning that I had ventured over to his house and down the cellar steps to make sure that he would be functional after a night that had been filled with hard drinking, singing and carrying on until the early hours of the morning.
There were no lights in the basement to speak of, excepting one pull sting job in the extreme corner from the stairs.
As I came down the stairs I was enveloped in darkness and called out to him. He replied by strumming his acoustic loudly from somewhere in the darkness and then breaking into a late 80's dance hit complete with falsetto.
I eventually found the light and showered us each in it's warmth.
To no surprise he was sitting, still tuned up from a continued morning of drinking. We made it to practice that day, and we made it through practice to the point were we collapsed sweaty and shirtless onto patio benches and lit up the cigarettes that we considered cures in those days.
He and I walked back to the show, quietly exchanging job misfortunes, tales of future successes that was just on the horizon, and exchanging complaints and insights into the timely death of Les Paul, the father of multi-tracking.

Part VIII. "The Show"

We arrived back at the venue and headed out back. Hellos were said and menial conversation ensued. I saw many old friends and took in the concert, snapping pictures as I went.

(I would tell you how it went, what stars shined the brightest, and what a deep sense of comfort and contentedness I was granted by being in attendance, but if you are interested in knowing those things you should have been there yourself and formed your own opinions.)

It was an okay time, and many of the photographs turned out excellently.


Part IX. "Memorandum (The Important Part)"

I spent the majority of my time in the back parking lot, fraternizing with the same guys that I started going there with as boys, and now we still were making appearances as men.
There were beards, rent payments, bad luck and worse women that brought us all down there to complain and see how everyone else was holding up; before, it was just the want to be there that brough us in.
When we were young, it seemed to be that the entire world centered around that building on those nights.
We would pull up and pick our way through the crowds gathered on the handicap access ramp outside the front door as hugs were exchanged, glances were avoided and scene politics took center stage. There were always the usual fights and gossip, there were always the girls that were pretty enough to try and make them stare.
There were brothers and sworn enemies, there was true animosity and hints at love.
I used to come alive there, started up by the rhythmic chugs of Jessica Wyoming, turned and moved by Among the Living.
Maybe it was all glorified in my mind, glossed over by years and forgetfulness, but in those days something was golden. I never could grasp on to what it was exactly, but I knew it was there and that it fueled me to live and love.
Now that drive is gone. It has been removed from that place by the inspectors time and trial, scrubbed out and sterilized. They came in heavy and removed whatever it was a while ago, now we reassembled in the ruins to reminisce about the time when that was truly where we wanted to be.
It used to be my life, and the memory of that sense of gratification alone was enough to make me want to stay away. It was the force that fuels my constant absence from that place. New faces have enveloped what was once my great work and passion, new patrons have handed their crumpled bills to the girl at the door.
There were days when I would know every single person who walked through those heavy oak doors, and there were days when there were more of them. I feel like I left that great chapel of my childhood abandoned, and now the school children come play their games in the dusty ruins.
The acoustics do not resound to shake my soul, the underfoot passion of the constiuants does not make me dream.
Every time I arrive I feel as though I have come to view the continued burial of what I always hope to glimpse. That place, that town, that intellect has left me dead on my feet, running to find something that no longer exists for me. The option has passed, my time in the sun has been finished.
That is what drove me out early, as I loaded up and headed back onto 163, the realization that the past was still playing as the present, and I had been removed from the cast.
Torrential rains engulfed me, cutting down my visibility and slowing my pace. I drove back in silence, no radio, no music, no comedy, just the sounds of wind blowing and rain falling, covering me in the realization of renewal and change.