Minding My Own Business

An afternoon coffee in St. Paul

My wife and I live in Rochester, Minnesota. We also have an apartment in St. Paul that we frequent. St. Paul, a much bigger city than Rochester, provides good people-watching opportunities and plentiful material for story writing.

Case in point. I am sitting on a sunlit bench in front of the St. Paul Dunn Bros. coffee shop on Grand Avenue about 3:00 on a late-October afternoon. We’re a dozen days away from the presidential election. I sip a dark roast while minding my own business. A disheveled man wearing a jacket with a Vietnam Vet patch on the sleeve shuffles by with his walker. His stooped body, frazzled hair, weary eyes, and unshaven face show that his war years (and most likely years after) have not been kind to him. The song “Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town” (Kenny Rogers and the First Edition) comes to mind.

Dunn Bros. on Grand Ave. in St. Paul

The man stops in front of me (sideways rather than facing). I sense his lack of movement, and my eyes glance up from the paper I’m reading. As if on cue, he begins a strange, circular wiggle with his hips, first clockwise and then counterclockwise, like he is trying to hula hoop. To my surprise, I see he is dropping his pants, and then “oh my gosh” his bare butt is exposed. I initially think he may be relieving himself, but the sidewalk remains dry. After a few awkward moments (for me at least), he tugs up his pants, looks over with a smile, and says, "You know, you've got to take things a day at a time.” Having not prepared to engage in conversation, I fumble for a response and blurt out, “You sure do!”

He stops, hula hoops, and drops his pants one more time on his way into the shop. He soon returns (pants up), plunks down beside me, and gazes off into the distance. He says not a word while he appears to drift off to sleep.

The man’s presence triggers another memory, but this time of a number rather than a song. Number 289. When I attended Iowa State in 1966, I joined ROTC (Reserve Officers’ Training Corps) at the start of my freshman year. My dad had endured combat duty in WW II and the Korean War, and I felt I owed it to him to take my turn in the Vietnam War. I did fine in ROTC, but the military way of life just wasn’t for me. As my second year of ROTC ended, I needed to decide whether to proceed and commit to multiple years in the Army following graduation or discontinue ROTC and take my chances with the draft. I’ll always remember Dad—my hero and best friend—telling me, “Mike, I’m not certain that this war is one you need to be fighting. If you want to drop ROTC, I’m fine with that. Don’t continue just for my sake.”

Given Dad’s approval, I ended ROTC after my sophomore year. In the draft lottery my senior year, my number was 289. I graduated in the spring of 1970 and began a fruitful career at IBM in Rochester shortly after and was never called to serve.

As the man snoozes beside me, I feel sorrow and guilt. Had my lottery number been a low one, I could have been him.

I look to my left and see a chubby little man with a cane, maybe a bit younger than the vet. He sits on a bench on the other side of the coffee shop door. He wears nothing to indicate he served in any war. His chin rests on his chest as he looks intently at his cell phone while he waits for his ride. He holds the phone with both hands an inch or two from his mouth and shouts loud enough for all on Grand Avenue to hear: “SIRI! … ARNOLD PALMER! … GENITALS!”

Siri is uncharacteristically silent as a Metro Mobility van pulls to the curb and its driver assists the man up the steps. As the van pulls away, I imagine Siri’s voice blaring her response to the man’s query (for all to hear) as he settles into his seat.

Things like these happen to me when I’m minding my own business. Thank goodness I’m a writer.