Dipsomapolis: a wrecked promenade through horrors of the North



  Dipsomapolis:

  A wrecked promenade through horrors of the North

  Copyright 2014 Gari Hart

  Cover art by

  Alex Khunprachansri

  Names have been changed,

  but the fear and bewilderment of what follows are verbatim

  Ten years had passed since I had last been within the Minnesota borders. I spent several early teenage summers vacationing there, in both the North and South regions, but the populace and I did not part amiably. When an assignment was offered to assess the economic strain in Minneapolis however I couldn’t contest, largely considering my own wavering financial stability. I agreed to the assignment, even though it meant going straight into the heart of where I was not welcomed anymore. Four days in a once hostile environment, with a free hotel and per diem for lunches and dinners. It had been over a year since I had an opportunity to step out of Chicago anyway. I agreed and drove the tumultuous rode to the unsuitably nicknamed North Star state.

  My arrival was poorly timed, coinciding with the Vikings inexplicably losing to the Cleveland Browns in their first home game of the season. If you know anything about football, you know it is NOT acceptable to lose to Cleveland, especially on your home turf. The penalty for doing so is long-standing ridicule, and total loss of credibility as a sports team and the fans of said team. This hypothetical humiliation was becoming a reality spreading over the streets of Minneapolis as I was pulling into town. Between inhospitable Football fans, superstitious hotel clerks, and sour dealings at some bar called Turner’s that double-botched my dinner order, Minnesota failed to reclaim any appeal it lost on years before. I already could not wait to leave for home, Chicago. The assignment was scheduled for four days, and I knew it was not going to be done without Herculean intakes of alcohol; which I initiated immediately, while still at Turner’s. I noted the desolateness of the city streets when stumbling back to the hotel. I was accustomed to Chicago, where you typically reach your destination by ricocheting off other pedestrians like a pinball. The sun was just retiring and Minneapolis had become a ghost town. Ever more curious, I noted that all I could see one direction was a stretch or bars and taverns, and the other was a stretch of strip clubs and sex shops. None are establishments I am opposed to, but it is a problem when the only choices for activity are booze & grease food or booze & breasts. Both options are going to be detrimentally expensive, and neither was anything more long term headache disguised as a potentially good time. But of course, none of these places appeared to have any sign of life in them.

  Although I felt opaque the next morning, I got straight to work. Interacting with Minneapolis daytime citizens was equivalent to taking census from zombies. Even when they did reply, it was brief, nonsensical, and hasty, as if they were afraid. Something was definitely wrong in Minneapolis, and the whole place felt unsettling. Whenever I was off duty I drifted from bar to bar, drinking over-priced cocktails and discovering greatly disconcerting establishments. Every place was filled with listless, almost hypnotized patrons who did not eat their meals or drink their drinks; or meals and drinks were served to empty tables. Even stranger was a Jazz club called the Last Stop. I found it at an intersection I passed several times during the day, but it was not visible in the sunlight. With large windows and purple neon light projecting through them, it should have been quite easy to spot someone inside. I went to open the entrance door, but it was locked. Roaring and vigorous tunes could faintly be heard coming from inside, so I assumed they were open or getting ready to. I stepped up to one of the windows and looked inside. The chairs and bar were set up for service, but no one was around – or not visibly at least. Staying there for a moment, I heard the distinct blare of crowd chatter rise up to blend with the music. The auditory evidence of life inside notwithstanding, the place was empty, without presence. I backed away slowly, not wanting to disturb whatever haunted the Last Stop.

  Immutably, once the sun was down, the streets became deserted. Minneapolis is a lonely place. despite the incredible crime rate, Chicago is a more welcoming city than any other I have been to. I searched for anything that felt homelike, and surprisingly I came upon one to far East side of the city limits.

  It was called Skyway. An enormous Iggy Pop poster hung behind the bar, and David Bowie played on the stereo. Skyway was a diner by day and bar by night, furnished with red vinyl booths and barstools with silver chrome lining. Dust and dirt caked over the glittery floor, and the lights were dim enough to cause accidents. Like everywhere else, few people were inside. At the bar sat at dazzling redhead reading a newspaper and drinking vodka neat. Even without making eye contact and only seeing her from the side, I sensed her ethereal aura. She dressed simple, in jeans and t-shirt, because her presence was sufficiently impressive. I could not help but sit down next to her. She looked up, and with a sigh dropped the newspaper on the counter, then grabbed her drink as she walked behind the bar. She turned out to be the barkeep, and asked what I wanted to drink. Her name was Belle and she was extraordinarily exquisite, with a voice like wind blowing through autumn leaves that had fallen to the ground. I told her I was from Chicago, which thrilled her as she wanted to visit there for years. Our conversation was interrupted when a skeletal figure materialized through a wall in the back corner and started strutting noisily around the place, sitting at booths or on stools for seconds at a time and then moving to another spot. At one point, he stood very close to me and talked to Belle. From their exchanges, one could easily see he was a gentle, old soul. I introduced myself, and he cordially asked me to call him J. Then he chattered his teeth ghoulishly, cackled wishes of pleasant evenings to Belle and calmly left. Belle said J was an artist who worked on a barter system, and that he never paid for anything around town if he could trade some of his work for it instead. Subsequently, she said that his appearance was the signal to close up. I said goodbye to Belle respectfully - a truly remarkable person in an unremarkable town.

  Having few other options, I continued drinking at the hotel bar, where I spoke with an androgynous figure who called themselves Sydney Curie. They looked like they came off a Punk rock line of a porcelain doll set, and insisted I visit a place called D.D.’s. Sydney bought me whiskey on the rocks until I blacked out.

  When I regained consciousness the next morning in my hotel room my eyes were bloodshot and my tone was pallid. I was starting to resemble the locals. This neglected to make transacting with them any smoother. In fact, it appeared they were getting worse: incomprehensible and hostile. That day was long and turbulent, and I was losing care for my assignment. I gave it little thought and effort by this point. Giving up early that evening due to lack of progress, I decided on dinner at a Tiki bar and grill I had read about in one of the hotel brochures. It was called Bettie’s Asylum and was said to serve paramount burgers and remarkable cocktails. The place was located on the other side of the river, so I would have to take my car.

  The Asylum’s parking lot had “10 Minute Parking Only” signs in every space. It made sense to me though: Anyone who wanted to venture this far out in town had to be quick. They didn’t have time to say hello - nor had the capacity to, I would guess. They walked in, were served, and ran out before finishing their meal…before the sun went down. Oddly enough, all spots were occupied, and I ended up having to park on the street a block up before making my way for the patio section. Two servers escorted me to a table in a far corner. The formation of one of them in front and the other behind me might have seemed like I was a prisoner b
eing escorted into a cell. Although, I do not believe anyone noticed this. I did not hear any conversations as I trailed passed the packed establishment. People were there, just not interacting with each other. After I was seated, I noticed the large spider-web just off to my side, one I somehow missed when walking by. There was another web, an immense one, over the head of a woman at another table. That web housed an alarmingly big