The Witching Snakes pt. 1
In which we meet Paul's father before meeting Paul - dreamer, musician and slacker. Paul meets a strange woman in a sleazy place.
Book 1 - Paul
Near the shores of Lake Superior in a two story house with a paid mortgage, dwelled Anders Gustofson. He was blessed. Life had given him a career, a wife and children. Even his name suited him.
Anders Gustafson was born in Duluth. He earned his Bachelor's degree at Moorehead State. He had intended to study Chemistry, but majored in Sociology. Within four years, he graduated and returned home. In 1967, he started his career. With a wife and a first son, he bought the house.
If you asked, he would say that he was happy. He held a management position in a sales division of an office supply firm. His benefits paid for medical, dental and retirement. He could still mow his lawn through summer and shovel the walk in winter.
In 1993, Anders was a widower with three adult children. His parents were both dead; he missed his father most. His best friend from high school lived three houses away. Many friends had died. Most lived with relative satisfaction. After decades of marriage, his wife had drove the family car into a tree. She was always reckless. She didn't mean it. He never told his children about her depression naps.
Anders Gustafson had two sons and a daughter. Thomas, the oldest, was industrious. He could bench press 300 pounds and drank Scotch single malt. When he was a teenager, Thomas worked for a lawn care service. When he graduated from college, he obtained employment at a moderately sized real estate agency, selling commercial real estate. He never took the LSAT. Anders' daughter married a very stable boy when she was 19. They moved to a town near Mankato.
Anders worried about his youngest son. Paul was a dreamer. Anders wondered if he had spoiled him. When Paul was eight, he wanted to stay up on New Year's Eve. He watched the ball drop, and then stayed up another hour for Minnesota midnight. Paul had spent his adolescence drinking vodka out of Pepsi cans. Recently Paul had written to say that he was a Buddhist. Anders never once threatened to cut off Paul's money, despite Thomas' objections.
In a city of progressive values and lakes, Paul Gustafson was a student, a musician, a slacker, a prophet and a laid off coffee shop worker. Paul played saxophone in small bars and seduced women with a playfulness that marked him as a boy easily traded for a more serious model. Paul hid his hard blue eyes behind thick yellow hair. His scowl made women and men sigh. His father had worried that Paul would become a poet or an actor. When Paul declared a Religious Studies major, his family believed that he would become a minister.
Paul's city life remained unimpeded by expectations. He worked many jobs, took classes, and played the saxophone. He sang folk songs on sidewalks near pizza shops. His life teetered between the nightly drinks and boring work at copy centers or retail stores.
Paul found revelation on an evening toward the end of September. The sky was clear with stars. Cold lingered in the air. His walk from Dinkytown became a stroll through the warehouse district. He reached Hennepin Avenue; winds slapped him. Clouds gathered. His fingers grew numb.
The rains came fast and violent. He crouched near a movie theater and contemplated marijuana. He saw the abandoned Orpheum and remnants of Block E. Moving, always moving, his feet took him to a black door of strip club.
A broken man with gray skin said “ID." Paul nodded with an exaggerated enthusiasm as he pulled out the fake. He was 22 and had no reason to keep it. On random Spring days, Paul would see Toyo, the pale Japanese engineering student who had conveniently 'lost' the identification for $50. Paul always wanted to thank him, but Toyo never said hello.
The bouncer grunted. Paul assumed that he meant to say “Welcome to our home of mirrors. Please find a seat where you may find rest.” The bouncer might have been remembering a summer day when life felt endless, with a woman that still loved him, the way her dress came off and how happy she seemed for those twenty minutes on his futon. Else, he might have been bored.
In a room of semen stains and sweat, a lone dancer gyrated on a stage. Her stretch marks swayed with her. Glum men in suits and leather jackets sat with their drinks, waiting for the evening.
He had a ten dollar bill in his hand and the skinny bartender's attention when he heard a woman in the doorway.
“Sorry, but can we just stand here? The rain is strong."
Her voice held a desperate anticipation.
Paul saw her white rain coat before spying the woman's companion - a small girl in a green leather trench coat. Both women had long hair with bangs just above their eyes. Small noses and high cheekbones made them seem like twins. They had applied make-up with the precision of models. The woman was about Paul's age, maybe younger. The girl in green seemed no more than fifteen. Her leg twitched and her hand moved in circles.
Every word came out round and complete. He thought she was blonde until the light betrayed no yellow, only white. The bouncer allowed them in without ID.
“What brings you here?” said Paul as if to charm. He heard himself saying that she was too beautiful for the Midwest. Did she go to First Avenue? Could she get him into Paisley Park? She looked at him – shyly at first – then with the confidence.
“Can I buy you a drink,” he said. The club encouraged cocaine in bathrooms and fellatio in the private rooms, but Paul still hoped that the woman wasn't offended.
“Just for a little while, thank you,” she said. Paul tried to ignore her sister's glare. The bar stools were small and the woman sat precariously.
“Where are you from?” he said.
“Where do you think I'm from?” she said.
Read Part 2
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