Saint Patrick's Day
Minneapolis, The Tempo Bar, 1975
I had been working "Police Hours", an odd rotating shift, days-evenings-nights, six on three off, clerking in the MPD's property and evidence unit. It was a strange life, the relationship I was in was suffering for it. I found the handwritten note in an open drawer, atop of a pile of underwear. She was a Medievalist, into symbolism. It basically said what I already knew but refused to acknowledge. We were finished. It was a Monday, Saint Patrick's day, and I didn't have to work until Wednesday. I went out.
Some of my old high school buddies had a R&B band and were playing in a nightclub in South Minneapolis, not far from the University district. The groove was on by the time I got there, it was one of those places with a dance floor right next to the low stage, the line between the musicians and the dancers as to who were the actual performers woud blur at times. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, except me.
Gradually I thawed as I looked out on the crowd and began to see that there was still joy to be found in the world, even in a tacky nightclub. That was the day I began to live again, to be in the moment, and to finally let the fear subside.