The First 12 Memories That Make Me Smile

by G. Sax

One: Listening to my Sony Walkman cassette player while I delivered newspapers, particularly one sunny day on the front stairs of 1054 Norton Street while flipping to Side 2 of the Talking Heads’ Little Creatures.

Two: Crossing University Avenue at Victoria in St. Paul at the age of 6 when I missed my school bus home from Maxfield Elementary but missed it with some other kids who were older than me. Mind you, Maxfield was K–3. Whoever these mystery kids were, they were just babies themselves. But I still remember how exhilarating it was to cross that busy street without an adult present.

Three: Ditching Murray Jr. High on a snowy winter day with Cameron Blackmore. I rarely ditched school, but that day sticks out as a singularly great event of junior high. It was probably one of the only times I did anything alone with Cam. We went to the University of Minnesota’s St. Paul Campus Student Union and ate vending machine food. We walked all the way to Bandana Square, which was still a viable mall at the time. Then we went back to his house near Como Lake. I eventually made it the extra couple of miles home, all on foot. Cam’s dead now and has been since high school. But I have that day as the one memory of me and him when it was just me and him.

Four: Feeling the wind in the air as I digested burritos in Novato, California, on a semi-busy street while realizing that I was in love. I wasn’t supposed to be in love, but I couldn’t help it. The food was so good, and the company was so exactly what I wanted my company to be for the rest of my life. I can only hope that every day is exactly like that day, and, guess what? It usually is. My happiness continues to be a curse to my better writing instincts, but it is the antidote to my being. And I can’t write at all if I can’t be.

Five: Singing “It’s just another one of those boring days…Dragon Snake, Dragon Snake.” This lyric will make sense to only one person in my life. He is Jon Lewis, and I spent the most formative moments of my youth with this cat. And then 30 years later, I took his wife to the Minnesota State Fair and we judged horse-and-carriage shows rather well for a couple of admission fee cheats.

Six: Reviling Mr. Muller, my uncle-bad-touch 6th-grade teacher who took me and Anthony Dent and Cory Cox and Roger Lynch to the Science Museum of Minnesota’s omni theatre to see “Genesis” on a school night. We ate dinner at his house, and the entire proceedings felt semi-formal. The other three boys were black and I was still white, and I got the distinct feeling that this weird man took pity on us as “underclass” although I already knew that I possessed superior intellect, that Anthony and Roger had superior talent, and Cory had superior cuteness. We would all be fine in life. At least until death. I don’t know what Cory and Anthony are up to these days, but Roger is gone as of 2003. I just found this out a few months back, and it really fucking bummed me out. Roger was my yang for a few years in elementary school, and I will always miss him, even if we hadn’t spoken in 20+ years and will never speak again.

Seven: Watching “The Benny Hill Show” with my great-grandfather. Watching “The Love Boat” with my great-grandfather. Watching “Fantasy Island” with my great-grandfather. Listening to an Angels-Twins exhibition game on the radio with my great-grandfather. Playing frisbee on the side of the house on Charles Avenue with my great-grandfather. Putting random bits of metal in the vise in the workshop of the basement of my great-grandfather. Playing Rummy 500 in the kitchen of my great-grandfather. Being mesmerized by the compass bobbling around on the dash of the vehicle of my great-grandfather. Quietly watching the thermostat from the hide-a-bed in the living room that would inevitably be changed in the middle of the night to a different temperature by my great-grandfather.

Eight: Enjoying rainy, dreary days in Milwaukee. Bike rides and car drives with Hunter S. Sax to parks on the East Side, playgrounds on Lake Michigan, cheap food places on North Street and Oakland Avenue, zoos in Racine, and wherever else our adventures would take me and my 3-year-old son.

Nine: Working “The Night Shift” at the snow fort on Mackubin Street, which I romanticized as far more than the snow-plowed pile across from a second-tier frozen lake and third-tier apartment complex. Oh, the way the light hit the shining snow at 9:30 p.m. on those rare, quiet nights as I sat sentry prior to the inevitable vandalism.

Ten: Getting ready before my TRUE night shift at Clean Power, a janitorial service company in Madison, Wisconsin. I generally worked three jobs at a time throughout my college experience (in bare feet, uphill both ways!), and for a time I would pump myself up for the night job with one of two polar opposites: Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence” or Public Enemy’s “Brothers Gonna Work It Out.” Either way, I’d pump that shit loud and sing it louder, and then I’d vacuum and trash like a fucking demon.

Eleven: Smoking cigarettes on the windowsill of my apartment-with-a-view in Montreal, Quebec. I don’t smoke as a rule, but as an American living in Canada, I smoked my share of Du Mauriers while watching the twinkling lights of my new downtown. Then I’d go read The Trilogy ’til I fell asleep.

Twelve: Driving on I-95 in Baltimore while listening to a lyric in Q-Tip’s “Vivrant Thing” that mentions I-95. Feeling like I had it all. Feeling like I was starting a brand new day. Hearing Sting’s “Brand New Day” while driving the same stretch of I-95 and thinking Sting and I could be pals in optimism. Thinking I could write an award-winning screenplay at the Royal Farms on Key Hwy long before some chick did it in a Target in Crystal, MN.

I got memories, yo. They’re all up in here (pointing at left temple). And if I did my job, you love the way I wrote about them, even if you don’t know them. But maybe they pinch something similar in you and you stop and think and remember a piece of your life the way it should be remembered—not in crisis but in private, otherworldly elation.

One Exit

G. Sax

Have I mentioned that I work one exit away from my apartment? I hop on Hwy. 169 and right the eff back off. Five-minute commute. Almost as good as working from home. I shouldn’t brag too hard. Carly’s not thrilled with her length-of-the-metro commute to St. Paul. We’ve done a role reversal from our Novato, CA schedule. It’ll change again someday. Here’s to hoping the new digs fall somewhere in the middle for once. (2008 Update: Not even close. We moved to St. Paul. My commute is near its California levels. Carly eats lunch at home everyday, and I’m boondocking. At least the weekends make more sense.)

My Neighbors

by G. Sax

Everpresent, shuffling Michael…who used to cough a lot, and then he didn’t, but now he does again.

The holistic health woman who listens to AM talk radio in her bathroom. The man who plays with his wide-eyed son on the stairs.

The scuba diving man who occasionally has his teenaged son who plays football.

The Hispanic family with the crowded back porch.

The caretaker woman who assures us without actually saying so that we won’t see much of our rent deposit returned.

The woman who smokes cigarettes on her balcony while her little dog Nitro plays sentry.

The Mexican dude with the fancy red sports car.

The Mexican men who drink Pacifico near a truck with the hood open.

The black woman with the dog that rarely barks, but when he does it is always a jump shock.

The $50,000/year country club across the street.

The ultrarich behind the dry creek bed with the pampered children that stay up past their bedtime.

Apartment complex people tucked safely behind many trees.

Tree rats.

Little birds.

Wild turkeys.

The beautiful tree, older than me and you, which offers protection from the sun and the elements.

The moon—up from east to southwest.

These are my neighbors.

I like them all.

Small Things

by G. Sax

“Breathe fresh air if you can but do not forget the small things. They go to make up the large life.” — Elaine Lewis

I agree with all my being. I say add up the small pieces to create a wonderful whole. Just this eve, as I was driving toward my tiny apartment in Novato, I stared in wonder at the fog being sliced so beautifully at the peak of Mt. Tamalpais. I rarely tire of such things.

I went jogging tonight. As I stretched in a neighborhood park, I watched little kids of five and six years old practicing soccer. It was so unbelievably amazing. If you have children, you already know. The grin stretched, uncontrollably.

At the halfway point of my run, I ended up at an empty but lush soccer field at the College of Marin (Indian Valley Campus) tucked between gorgeous, rolling hills forming a little valley that seemed built specifically for me to enjoy a moment of solitude.

I hope to never forget the small things, even as the larger things tighten the muscles around a man’s shoulders, and even as things beyond his control cause disaster both natural and man-made.

Much love.