College scams and caffeine induced writings...

The three of us climbed into the car and drove through Mankato while Tick stayed behind to finish a few things he was working on. We were heading up to Minneapolis for a few days out of boredom and to keep ourselves from being a burden on Tick's family. It was two days after the planes hit the world trade center, and the news speculated there was going to be a possible gas shortage. It triggered a panic that was evident even in this small town, and cars lined up around the block at every gas station. People were waiting an hour or more stalled in the traffic, trying to fill their tanks and save a few bucks. The shortage never happened.

It was fortunate that we had filled up the tank the night before, and we left Mankato without having to wait to get gas like everyone else. Two hours later we were in Minneapolis. We visited an art gallery on the University of Minnesota campus where a friend of Tasha's worked. He gave us a list of places to find out what was going on that weekend, and tipped us off to where we could get free food.

The free food was a nearby dorm called the Centennial Hall. Centennial Hall was one of the dorms on campus that included a cafeteria in the basement where residents could swipe their card and fill their trays to their heart's content. Of course the cafeteria was for dorm residents only, but that didn't stop us. Upon entering, we reached a fork in the hallway, providing us with two options. Go to the right and pay the cashier. Or go left to the dining tables where we could easily double back around, and pick up a food tray out of the cashier's sight. Therefore freeing us to gorge ourselves on whatever delicacies we pleased.

Food is a great thing, but there's just something about food that is free that makes it taste that much better.

We continued this feeding frenzy for the entirety of our stay in Minneapolis, gorging on two to three meals a day. With full bellies, we would waddle over to the Hard Times Cafe to read the local news and get our caffeine fix. Although the thought of paying seventy-five cents per refill irked me slightly, Tasha and Starr were kindly footing the bill, easing my mind. I pulled out the notebook Tasha had stolen for me from a local Target. It was about time I started to pen down the first pages of Squat The Planet.

Six hours later I was fairly loopy from all the caffeine, and became a bit of a social butterfly, starting conversations with neighboring tables and feeling like a jerk every time I bummed a cigarette from Tasha. I could see her irritation growing each time the question was asked. It was nearly two thirty in the morning and burnout was starting to settle in. We needed to find a place to sleep. My answer was to find a nearby bridge to sleep under. It was warm out even this late at night, and I wasn't up for another night of sleeping in Starr's cramped car.

We drove a few blocks south to what I believed to be the washington street bridge. There we loaded up our packs and walked down to the river passing under the bridge where there was plenty of room to sleep without being seen. It was the first time Tasha and Starr had slept under a bridge, and I had to practically drag them down there kicking and screaming. They were afraid of a serial killer finding us under the bridge, and made me sleep in the spot furthest outside our group so he could "kill me first."

I woke to a cool mist in the air, and tiny droplets of water beading on my face. Looking towards the river, I was rewarded with the most interesting view I had ever seen under a bridge. Fog surrounded us, hanging low over the water where I could see someone kyaking through the mist in the distance like a vague dream...

We toured the Arise! anarchist bookstore that morning, drooled over Extreme Noise Records' impressive collection of records and three dollar bootleg punk tapes and went to Dinkytown to sell some books that I had obtained from a Barnes & Noble in Mankato several days before. The small influx of cash fed our caffeine habit while lounging at Hard Times once again.

Tasha and Starr went for a walk around town while I continued my shakey, caffinated writing. The returned a few hours later asking me if they could borrow my camera. "Why?" I asked.

"Cause we found a voodoo doll tied to a sign!" I was sure they were exaggerating, gave them my camera, and continued writing. They returned with the proof: two pictures of a voodoo doll with a two dollar bill tied to it and what looked like human hair on its head. I asked why they didn't take the money.

"Fuck that!" Tasha replied. "That would be really bad luck." I didn't blame her. It looked like the type of doll used to create good luck and wealth, but I wouldn't have touched it even then.

We met a nice anarchist kid that invited us to stay with him. We accepted and spent a pleasant night in a warm house. It was our last night in Minneapolis.

The next day we drove back to Mankato to pick up Tick... but he still hadn't gotten his affairs in order, and Tasha was particularly irritated. So irritated in fact that she decided we should leave without him back to Michigan. I agreed. I liked Tick but I didn't feel like waiting around for another few weeks for him to get his shit together. I felt bad for him at the same time because I thought Tasha was being a bit harsh, but oh well, we had to go. We packed up the car and drove the six hours to Lansing, Michigan.