Notes From Indy - A Story That Probably Happened - Chapter 1
A sane man should never find himself in a White Castle after three in the morning. Not in Indiana. There are worse locations to spend time, places that wouldn't provide warming sustenance to dry the lining of booze from a stomach. That much I'm sure of. Furthermore, there are worse neighborhoods in which I could be waiting for these greasy liver burgers. There's limited danger of having a knife pulled on me in the outskirts of this Midwestern city. Anyway I'm more concerned about the reason that teenage boy just entered the restroom with his mother. Someone in this place is getting traumatized tonight. I better get out of here before things turn savage.
"Take this twenty. Just fill a sack with cheeseburgers and chicken rings." I'm in no condition for calculations. If this clerk is as street-wise as her neck tattoo indicates she'll short change me enough to purchase herself a pack of smokes and a pint of plastic bottle liquor. Though despite her current state of sobriety, I don't believe she's equipped with the proper cognitive fitness for the required mental gymnastics. That ink is her lie to herself. A permanent reminder that occasionally we all fuck up and end up smelling like someone's late night snack.
She's staring at me with more confusion than vacancy. Is my request so unique for this hour and this establishment? A family situated in the booth next to the ordering station is picking through a cardboard case of fries like buzzards over a rotting carcass. I assume those kids don't know when they'll eat again. The counter girl remains puzzled, she hasn't yet pushed a button on the register. "Look, just give me five burgers, a few rings, and use the remainder to fill up the deep fryer with whatever those kids are hungry for."
As she types my mess of an order into the register, I'm curious to discover if she knows the definition of remainder. Why haven't those people come out of the bathroom? I'm beginning to worry that I may not escape this place with the tenuous respect for humanity I entered with. A fast-food restaurant in the early morning before dawn. This is where aspirations are served their last meal. No one in here has experienced a decent night's sleep in weeks. Some maybe even longer. How did come to find ourselves in this white tiled purgatory?
---
Just over twenty-four hours ago I was facing certain absorption into a human crush. Surrounded by a mob of LMFAO fans within an ill-conceived cattle pen designated for distributing branded intoxicants at twice the reasonable market value. Outside the metal blockade the enveloping crowd was corralled further by multistory brick buildings. The empty warehouses were plastered with NFL propaganda. The loft complexes were filled with twenty-somethings perched in the over-sized windows, surveying the scene. Those fuckers had the high ground and a firm grasp on the chic irony of sweater vests.
For three city blocks people compressed themselves against each other guaranteeing warmth, the closest possible proximity to the stage, and a form of mutually assured destruction if things went awry. Rising slightly above the masses, metropolitan police officers carried tear gas rifles. I felt little comfort in knowing that any perceived instability would lead to a portion of the crowd being incapacitated and trampled by their fellow pop music fans.
An opportunity to catch the opening act had brought me to this mayhem. The inability to carve an exit through the forward pressing onlookers led to my capture. But as I lingered among the bodies I imagined the coming morning's headline. It involved thousands of Super Bowl revelers crushing themselves in their own rapturous desire to witness live performances of lip-synched dance numbers. Death at the hands, or feet, of a mob sporting fluorescent sunglasses and flat-billed caps was not on my agenda for the evening.
I scaled the outer bar table which had penned in those like me who were unlucky enough to imagine it as an easy passage through the immovable crowd. Two women accosted me verbally as I barreled into their ever shrinking personal space. "I don't care about LMFAO," I shouted, "I was only was here for Fitz and the Tantrums." I continued to broadcast those sentiments as I dug my shoulders into the stagnant sea of people. A large gentleman sympathized with my plight and cleared a path for me to reach the alley.
My only means of escape was barricaded by state troopers and a metal railing. No one was getting out because security was too afraid to let anyone in. "Officer," I got the attention of a trooper leaning against the brick wall adjoining the makeshift fence. "There's a woman and her children weeping by the bar area. If you guys don't save them from this debacle they'll be driven mad."
"They'll get out when the show's over. Just like everyone else." His response was stern and deliberate. I could tell he had no love for the ensuing chaos which he likely attributed to promiscuous teenagers and rap music.
I formulated an argument to strike at his Midwestern sensibilities, "but sir, you know what these crowds are capable of. I've heard that fans of this music sell traumatized innocents to west coast concert promoters in exchange for back stage passes and marijuana cigarettes."
That got his attention. "You're full of it."
"I don't know if it's true. But I read it on the Drudge Report. Haven't you seen Taken?"
His eyes cringed and I watched the thrill of imitating an action hero overtake his common sense. "Yeah."
"Well then you're aware that all Liam Neeson movies are based on fact. I can't save that family. But you can." He began to wade into the crowd. I shouted, "don't let their demise rest on your dutiful conscience." As he entered the masses I slipped through the barricade and into the alley.
-----
I'm walking back to my hotel carrying a paper bag of Whiteys and a canned six-pack of 16-oz beverages. In my wake the sound of honking is coming from the restaurant drive-thru. A tourist has passed out in his idling rental car. If he doesn't wake up soon he'll be spending Super Bowl Sunday in the county lock-up.
There are fifteen hours until kickoff and I already know the outcome of the contest. What I'm not sure of is whether the preordained outcome was decided by fate, luck, or the financial priorities of the league's executive office. I have less than a day to find out.
"Take this twenty. Just fill a sack with cheeseburgers and chicken rings." I'm in no condition for calculations. If this clerk is as street-wise as her neck tattoo indicates she'll short change me enough to purchase herself a pack of smokes and a pint of plastic bottle liquor. Though despite her current state of sobriety, I don't believe she's equipped with the proper cognitive fitness for the required mental gymnastics. That ink is her lie to herself. A permanent reminder that occasionally we all fuck up and end up smelling like someone's late night snack.
She's staring at me with more confusion than vacancy. Is my request so unique for this hour and this establishment? A family situated in the booth next to the ordering station is picking through a cardboard case of fries like buzzards over a rotting carcass. I assume those kids don't know when they'll eat again. The counter girl remains puzzled, she hasn't yet pushed a button on the register. "Look, just give me five burgers, a few rings, and use the remainder to fill up the deep fryer with whatever those kids are hungry for."
As she types my mess of an order into the register, I'm curious to discover if she knows the definition of remainder. Why haven't those people come out of the bathroom? I'm beginning to worry that I may not escape this place with the tenuous respect for humanity I entered with. A fast-food restaurant in the early morning before dawn. This is where aspirations are served their last meal. No one in here has experienced a decent night's sleep in weeks. Some maybe even longer. How did come to find ourselves in this white tiled purgatory?
---
Just over twenty-four hours ago I was facing certain absorption into a human crush. Surrounded by a mob of LMFAO fans within an ill-conceived cattle pen designated for distributing branded intoxicants at twice the reasonable market value. Outside the metal blockade the enveloping crowd was corralled further by multistory brick buildings. The empty warehouses were plastered with NFL propaganda. The loft complexes were filled with twenty-somethings perched in the over-sized windows, surveying the scene. Those fuckers had the high ground and a firm grasp on the chic irony of sweater vests.
For three city blocks people compressed themselves against each other guaranteeing warmth, the closest possible proximity to the stage, and a form of mutually assured destruction if things went awry. Rising slightly above the masses, metropolitan police officers carried tear gas rifles. I felt little comfort in knowing that any perceived instability would lead to a portion of the crowd being incapacitated and trampled by their fellow pop music fans.
An opportunity to catch the opening act had brought me to this mayhem. The inability to carve an exit through the forward pressing onlookers led to my capture. But as I lingered among the bodies I imagined the coming morning's headline. It involved thousands of Super Bowl revelers crushing themselves in their own rapturous desire to witness live performances of lip-synched dance numbers. Death at the hands, or feet, of a mob sporting fluorescent sunglasses and flat-billed caps was not on my agenda for the evening.
I scaled the outer bar table which had penned in those like me who were unlucky enough to imagine it as an easy passage through the immovable crowd. Two women accosted me verbally as I barreled into their ever shrinking personal space. "I don't care about LMFAO," I shouted, "I was only was here for Fitz and the Tantrums." I continued to broadcast those sentiments as I dug my shoulders into the stagnant sea of people. A large gentleman sympathized with my plight and cleared a path for me to reach the alley.
My only means of escape was barricaded by state troopers and a metal railing. No one was getting out because security was too afraid to let anyone in. "Officer," I got the attention of a trooper leaning against the brick wall adjoining the makeshift fence. "There's a woman and her children weeping by the bar area. If you guys don't save them from this debacle they'll be driven mad."
"They'll get out when the show's over. Just like everyone else." His response was stern and deliberate. I could tell he had no love for the ensuing chaos which he likely attributed to promiscuous teenagers and rap music.
I formulated an argument to strike at his Midwestern sensibilities, "but sir, you know what these crowds are capable of. I've heard that fans of this music sell traumatized innocents to west coast concert promoters in exchange for back stage passes and marijuana cigarettes."
That got his attention. "You're full of it."
"I don't know if it's true. But I read it on the Drudge Report. Haven't you seen Taken?"
His eyes cringed and I watched the thrill of imitating an action hero overtake his common sense. "Yeah."
"Well then you're aware that all Liam Neeson movies are based on fact. I can't save that family. But you can." He began to wade into the crowd. I shouted, "don't let their demise rest on your dutiful conscience." As he entered the masses I slipped through the barricade and into the alley.
-----
I'm walking back to my hotel carrying a paper bag of Whiteys and a canned six-pack of 16-oz beverages. In my wake the sound of honking is coming from the restaurant drive-thru. A tourist has passed out in his idling rental car. If he doesn't wake up soon he'll be spending Super Bowl Sunday in the county lock-up.
There are fifteen hours until kickoff and I already know the outcome of the contest. What I'm not sure of is whether the preordained outcome was decided by fate, luck, or the financial priorities of the league's executive office. I have less than a day to find out.
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