The Case Of The Flyaway File

A few days ago I came across an envelope which was buried beneath a short stack of papers in our den.  I had used the envelope to stash credit card receipts until I received an actual monthly statement from the card issuer showing those charges.  My practice was to make sure the dollar amounts on the statement matched my receipts.  Then I would shred the receipts.  For some reason, I never shredded a particular receipt which now remained in the envelope.

The receipt in question is in the amount of $37.97 from the 212 Motel in Olivia, Minnesota.  The fading yellow paper bears the date July 28, 2006, exactly twelve years ago today.  I may not be able to remember what I ate for lunch yesterday, but I vividly recall the details of that evening.  It is a story I have never told anyone -- and I mean anyone -- but to mark the occasion of this twelfth anniversary, I am posting it today.

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July 28, 2006 fell on a Friday.  Momma Cuandito was spending the entire week at our Northwoods cabin, while I stayed home to toil at my job at Wells Fargo, drafting loan agreements, promissory notes, mortgages, subordination agreements, manure easements and other exciting documents.  Momma Cuan had asked me to switch cars before she left, because my Lap Of Luxury, a 2005 Toyota Corolla, had more trunk space than her Mellow Yellow, a 2004 Volkswagon bug convertible.  She needed the extra room to haul some odds and ends, most certainly including several bottles of wine, to the cabin.

I usually use the time Momma Cuan is away to attend movies and sometimes concerts which I know she would not enjoy.  For example, my favorite genre of music is classic rock, which would not be on her top five list.  Such an opportunity presented itself that Friday night at Jackpot Junction, a casino in Morton, Minnesota with a fairly big outdoor arena.  The headliners were REO Speedwagon and Styx, two Illinois bands which gained national fame and are among my favorites in the geezer rock category.  Opening for them was Mickey Thomas who at that time was a solo artist but who had gained fame as the voice of several well known bands such as Jefferson Starship and Elvin Bishop.  (If you listen to oldies radio stations, you have undoubtedly heard Fooled Around And Fell In Love several dozen times.  Although the credited artist is Elvin Bishop, the lead vocals are by Mickey who played in Elvin's band when that # 3 hit was recorded in 1975.)

Buying a single ticket for the concert was no problem, but the asking price for the cheapest room at the casino's hotel was over $125.  In those days I would have opted to drive back to Minneapolis after the show rather than spend that kind of money on a room.  But there was a better alternative.  A mere sixteen miles north of Morton was the little burg of Olivia, home of the 212 Motel with rates less than one-third of the casino's.  Thus, my plan was hatched: attend the show, then make the twenty minute drive to the 212.

I looked forward to the concert experience all week.  I ducked out of work at noon that Friday, which in itself was something to relish.  I figured I'd drive all the way to southwestern Minnesota with the top down on Momma Cuan's bug, but I only made it to Eden Prairie when I eighty-sixed that notion.  It was too windy, and the skies looked threatening.  I settled for driving the remaining route with the top up, listening to Styx and REO CDs with the volume turned up to "11."  (Thank you for the thought, Rob Reiner!)  By the time I got to Jackpot Junction, roughly one hundred miles from home, I was totally pumped for the show.

Mickey Thomas was one of the best concert openers I have ever seen, not just an undercard filler but a bona fide rocker whose voice I'd put up against anybody's.  My faves, besides the aforementioned Elvin Bishop song, were Sara and Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now, two Starship songs with Thomas as lead vocalist, both having hit # 1 on the Billboard chart in the mid-eighties.

Styx and REO alternated top billing on their joint national tour.  For the Jackpot Junction gig it was REO's turn to close.  Both bands have been around since the seventies, and claim repertoires which enable them each to play their own songs over ninety minutes without once having to resort to a cover or a song the fans had never heard before.  For the record, Styx has released sixteen singles which have cracked the Billboard Top 40; for REO, the number is thirteen.  REO's masterpiece album released in 1980, High Infidelity, is one of the most commercially successful LPs in the history of rock, with virtually every song, not just those released as singles, getting substantial radio air play.

Neither of the headliners disappointed that evening.  They gave everything they had for the Minnesota fans, even though they had probably grown tired of playing mostly the same songs at every show from year to year.  The only gripe I have, attributable to both bands, is that they are posers.  Think of every rock concert cliche, and those guys are guilty of all of them.  Windmill guitar strumming, a la Pete Townshend; jumping on top of an amp to get a silhouette in the spotlight; racing across the stage from side to side for no apparent reason; asking the fans to fill in with vocals on a chorus or two.  Still, I forgave them.  It's their music that mattered most, and these guys rocked the house.

What would a concert be without a brew or two to enjoy with the rest of the audience?  I was proud of myself for abstaining during Thomas' set, but made sure I had a pint for each of the following two.  The skies had cleared and the outdoor air was warm, perfect beer drinking weather.  At one point I wished I'd been extravagant enough to stay at the casino hotel; I could have pounded down a couple more cold ones and walked to my room instead of driving to Olivia. 

When the concert ended around 11:00 there was the expected log jam of hundreds of cars all trying to leave via the sole exit driveway.  Either the audience had been comprised of a lot of locals, or else there were plenty of cheapskates like me who were unwilling to pay the casino's exorbitant hotel rates.  I made the executive decision to drive to Olivia with the top down.  The weather wasn't bad, and I wanted to experience the bliss one gets from riding in an open convertible through the countryside on a starlit summer night.  I owed it to myself, especially after aborting my open air westward drive earlier in the day.  What good was it to have a convertible at your disposal and not put the roof down?  It would only be for sixteen miles.  What could possibly go wrong?

I found out the answer to that question within seconds after leaving the casino grounds and turning north onto U.S. Highway 71.  Although I had checked my bag at the 212 on my way down to Morton, I had left a small manilla file filled with papers in the back seat of the bug.  I had purposely put the file there so that I could look over its contents -- a combination of work-related documents and a few newspaper articles -- during an anticipated coffee break on my way home Saturday morning.  But being unaccustomed to driving a convertible, I failed to take into account that the file and its contents would blow around once I gathered speed on the highway.

I wasn't more than fifty yards beyond the Jackpot Junction exit when the file and papers did, in fact, start blowing all over.  I thought for sure they would escape the car, which at that moment was probably traveling only twenty miles an hour.  I foolishly tried to gather the papers by reaching back with my right hand while simultaneously steering with my left.  The first result was a swerve or two.  The second result was a red flashing light in my rear view mirror.  The Renville County Sheriff was lying in the weeds.

When you think about it, it makes sense.  What better place for the cops to set up shop for DWI suspects than at the exit of an outdoor venue which had just hosted a rock concert?  On most nights, it would be easy pickings or, if you prefer, low hanging fruit.

I immediately pulled over, then waited for what seemed forever for the fuzzy wuzzy -- thank you for the term, Detective Kojak -- to approach.  I had my drivers' license and proof of insurance ready to present.  He merely glanced at it, then asked me to step out of the car.  He took me to the space between my car and his, where an extremely bright flood light from the squad was pointing.

Kojak: Have you been drinking?

I had only a second or two to think about how I would answer, if in fact I decided to answer at all.  I had consumed only two pints, and I was confident that even having three would not have put me over the limit.  Nevertheless, I decided to lie.  "I had one beer," I replied.

He ordered me to stand on one foot and count to 30 by threes (three, six, nine, etc.).  Luckily I was wearing tennis shoes which afford much more balance than almost any other style of footwear.  I passed the test, no problem.  But wait... there was another part to the test.

Kojak: Now stand on the other foot and count backwards from 30 by threes (thirty, twenty-seven, twenty-four, etc.).  

I considered informing him that I taught eighth grade math for eight years, so he should really come up with something more challenging, maybe an algebraic equation.  That consideration was quickly abandoned.  No one else thinks my jokes are funny.  Why should he?  I did as told.

Then he gave me a breathalyzer test which involved blowing into some kind of apparatus which he took back into his car while I stood there in the flood light. Meanwhile, dozens of cars were exiting Jackpot Junction and slowly passing me by.  Gawkers!  What if someone recognized me?  What an embarrassment!  What if the whole ordeal was being filmed by a dash cam and would appear later on Spike TV?  What if I registered over the limit?  "No way," I convinced myself.  Still, I thought about the five grand an acquaintance of mine had to pay a well known Minneapolis lawyer to defend him in a DWI case.  I felt guilty even though I was not.

A few minutes later he came out of his squad.  "You are under the limit, although I think you did have more than one beer."  How did he know?  I was pretty impressed with the accuracy of his equipment.  As he returned to his car he called over his shoulder, "Drive safely."

Before I got back behind the wheel I gathered up the wind blown papers, stuck them back in the manilla file and threw it all in the trunk.  Crawling along the highway at 35 mph, it took me at least a half hour to reach Olivia.

Discovering the faded yellow receipt from twelve years ago has brought back memories, both good and bad.  It has also caused me to add something to my To Do List:  I've got to put the Uber app on my phone.