The Graduate

It was the spring of 1987, when I graduated from Macalester College in St. Paul, Minnesota. In a way it seems as though it was a million years ago; yet at the same time, it seems as if it were only yesterday. The morning of graduation I woke up to the annoying clatter of bagpipes billowing up through my dorm room window. It had been a restless night of sleep so my head was pounding from the droning din from the music below. It had just stopped raining so the air smelled of ozone and I knew that the memorable day ahead needed to be preceded by something. So I got up and took a walk.



I strolled past the dormitory where my parents had dropped me off freshman year; the same dorm that a couple of years later had housed her, the glue dissolver, the string unraveler. I moved on or at least tried to. I walked past the library, past Old Main, past all the classrooms, past hundreds of memories. I walked down Snelling and breathed in the fumes. Down past Saga, where I had dined not one decent meal. This was the day. I walked past the shell and seats where the ceremony would take place if the rain didn't fall any more.



Before I knew it, the festivities began. It was all a blur. I put on my gown which included my Twins' cap. Soon enough the ceremony itself began. My classmates (many whom I never saw in my entire four years at the college) and I, marched in. I received my diploma (which I later returned), handed the Prez in return, a baseball that I had caught off the bat of Phil Roof during batting practice at the Dome. Hi-fived Ted Hovet. Caps were thrown toward the sky. Bedlam. I made my way through the crowd back to my dorm to check out and meet my family. People came from out of nowhere to slap me on the back and smile their smiles-people I had met during the past four years, but never really knew. We were sharing in the moments, lamenting the time that had been too brief, and that would be no more. Happiness next to wistfulness. Everything seemed to be closing in, I found it so difficult to breath, the end seemed all too near. My head felt ready to explode from the pressure both outside and in.



Months later I found myself starting at Cheapo West. Shelter from the storm. It wasn't exactly what I pictured in my mind's eye during those dreamy days of college, but it was a job. Off and on for the past seven years, I have held various positions for this company. Yes, I landed on my feet, although at times it hasn't always felt that way.



All this is mentioned because I just spent my last whole Saturday pricing green tags at Landfill. Another shift in responsibilities. Seven day work weeks, turned to six, now down to a possible five. WOW! SKIPPO! In a way it will be missed. The peaceful sound of the blowers, and moving furniture up above. The ominous looking pool players who sometimes drifted in to look at scratched Ohio Player records. The child underneath a fixture. The regulars. The dust and mold. Al's booming, "Hey Buddy!" in the morning. Just think of the thousands of records and books I've sifted through and processed. Think of the handful of people I've seen. One of the first weekends I spent reading a book about a little girl named Alex who suffered from Cystic Fibrosis. And on my last Saturday, I reread bits of the story. Cried both times. For a couple of reasons. The eternal circle. It was during my junior year at Mac when we picked our numbers for room draw to determine what room we'd get the next year. I got a great number and was all excited when I met my dissolver, tear wise and otherwise. She said to me, "You'll just get one of those isolated rooms, sit alone. You really depress me." Kind of put a damper on my enthusiasm. Years later, another friend thought my move to Landfill fit the same bill. Writing means solitude. Yet it has been a pleasant enough experience although I'm more than ready for the next phase. All I can promise is the newsletter should get even better as we devote more of our attention to it. Or maybe not as it could become even more focused on Dave dwelling on his own neurosis. Who can tell??? All I can say, is thanks to Al for all the opportunities, the chances, the job for the past seven years. Thanks to all you, my coworkers past and present who have been friends and readers, who have made the past few years fun to the extremis. Cheapo/Applause will forever flow inside my bloodstream the rest of my life. And I truly appreciate that. This company has grown so far so fast and I can't think of another one I'd rather be a part of. Who can tell where we are headed?

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I sat inside another movie theater and endured Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers. Although admittedly a masterful piece of filmmaking, it wasn't exactly an enjoyable movie going experience. Yet, during the middle when I asked myself if I wanted to continue watching, out drifted an all too familiar, distinctive voice singing Pee Wee King's classic You Belong to Me. A definitive version as this fella's usually is. I wasn't expecting this voice but it was comforting inside a collage of unforgettable images. Bob seems resigned these days to singing other people's songs. Which is O.K., yet our era's greatest songwriter still has a lot to say, and one wishes he would at least give it a try. Still, to hear him sing so effectively, is constantly a treat. See the pyramids along the Nile, watch the sunrise from a tropic isle, just remember darling all the while, you belong to me. The guitar solo is simple, sad and Dylanesque. He molds the lyrics to fit career long themes. I'll be so alone without you. Maybe you'll be lonesome too. Making sense out of chaos. Too little time to do too much. Lord it is beginning to feel a lot like a Merry Meek kind of Christmas...