I’m sitting at the counter in a dive bar in Worthington, Minnesota.  It’s 11:00AM on a July, Tuesday morning.  In a bar like this, at a time of day like this, you’re not going to find the sort of people who can actually help you out when you’re in a jam, but for a twenty four year old Irishman, when you’re out of your element, then a bar is always the best portal into your new world.  Twelve hours previously, myself and my fellow-traveler were zooming along Interstate 90, delivering a car from Boston to Seattle; well, a Ford Escort, if they’re actually considered cars; and even if so, in all honesty, Escorts don’t zoom. 

It’s for sure a dive bar; no windows; ashtrays heaped with last night’s cigarette butts; a smell of piss doused with chlorine permeating the blue-red flickering, neon darkness.  But where else would you find talkative humans at this time of day?  And it’s a real bar: No food, just booze, and boozy, morning drinkers; the sort of people who, even at 11:00AM, are happy to dish out slurred, clichéd advice that they, not even once, attempted to follow.  

But these morning drinkers do know their surroundings, and for sure they know who, outside their narrow universe, can be trusted, because, running low to the ground with all that left’s after drinking every penny you’ve got, your survival often depends on knowing who’s trustworthy and compassionate outside your world.  

Sitting next to me at the bar is a man who left Worthington some time back in the late 60s or early 70s, to take a little US government funded trip – to Vietnam.  He’s been back now in this classic, Midwest, small-town-America, small town, for close to twenty years, but he can’t seem to shake off that trip.  Under his military-green, “US Army” soft hat, his forty-something-year-old face is crisscrossed with a seventy-year-old’s wrinkles.  Sown onto one pocket of his sawn-off denim jacket, is an olive-green shield, centered on a large red “1” – the Big Red One of the First Infantry: On the other pocket, the black MIA-POW “YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN” shield.  

He’s nursing a bottle of bud; next to it, an empty shot glass.

The barman, a bearded, tattooed, self-confident, chatty fella, plunks down two bottles of Budweiser: One for me, one for my fellow-crossing-a-continent-in-a-red-Ford-Escort-traveler.

“There ya go fellers.  Normally that’d be $2.40, but this morning, seeing as how you Massachusett-ians is jammed – is that what y’all calls yerselves?”

“I think they call themselves ‘Massholes,’” I offer.

“No,” my fellow-traveler contradicts. “We call ourselves ‘superior … New England fuckheads.’”

He raises his free bottle of Bud to our new best friend. 

At this point in my twenty-four years of having years, I’ve spent three of them in America.  All the cool Irish people – like the singers; Christy Moore and Paul Brady – seemed to spend their time in America hanging around the Lakes of Pontchartrain, trying get the Creole girl, with “jet black” hair, to marry them.  Though, in all honesty, I’m fairly sure Christy wasn’t thinking yer one’d was going to be in it for the long haul; spending forty years in a tiny, semi-detached in Monasterevin, waiting for Christy to fall in the door, dead drunk, every a Saturday morning around 2:00AM; and him still trying to slide the last few curry-chips from the bottom of the bag.  

But all a gobeshite like me could do in America, was hang around Boston; working long, hard days on construction sites; and spending the weekends waltzing in and out of pubs along Dorchester Ave; with the odd sally downtown, to some “fucken rip-off bar” in Faneuil Hall.  I’d been to New Hampshire and Vermont skiing (actually, falling mostly), NYC for a mad weekend (to sample 4:00AM closing time – not to be fooled with!), Rhode Island, twice, playing rugby (all of 50 miles from Boston), and now I find myself in Worthington Minnesota (1,500 miles from Boston!) on a Tuesday morning, in what my father would’ve called “a back streets’ pub.”

A Minnesota fly walks along the counter next to my bottle.

My hand moves with more speed and intent than I knew was in there, and slams down on the unfortunate insect.

“Oh man, that’s the owner’s pet fly!” the barman chuckles, flicking the insect carcass out onto the bar floor.

 “I wouldn’t want to get in no fight with that guy,” the veteran next to me stands up, gingerly takes hold of his bottle between two fingers, and moves to a table in the middle of the floor.

“Oh, it’s ok, I was just … ,” I start to say, but stop when I see the barman wagging his head.

“It aint you Massa…chusetts.  Freddy jus’ aint liked nuthin sudden to happen in he’s life, not since seven’y-one or seven’y two.”

Up until about twelve hours before our sitting down for a Bud next to Freddy, things had been going along ok; well as ok as things can go for two humans trying to drive three thousand miles in a red Ford Escort, with no radio: Yeah – the cruelest part of it all, the radio was busted.  By the time we hit the Ohio border, there was a firm “No Fucken Singing!” ban in place.  

We left Boston on a Saturday mid-afternoon; eight hours later, the signs for Niagara Falls were dismissed as “stoopid tourist shit!”  We kept going, stopping around 1:00AM at a paper-thin-walls motel just off I90 somewhere in Ohio, for few hours of fitful sleep.  The next day we drove across Indiana, which is really not a state at all; it’s just one never-ending cornfield.  We blew through Chicago; despite my urge, when I saw the signs for the South Side of Chicago, to go see if I could find “Leeroy Brown, the baddest man in the whole darn town.”  Suppressing the urge to sing, I kept driving, the engine in the little-red-Escort-that-could getting hotter and hotter.  

The engine cooled just a little when, somewhere in Illinois, we saw a sign at a rest area for “FREE COFFEE AND HOMEMADE DONUTS.”  Pulling in, I had to slow down behind a motorcycle gang riding in pairs.  On the back of the denim jackets was emblazoned “The Highwaymen:” A graphic of a malicious winged-skull, wearing a Garda hat; well probably more an SS hat, but, you know, the same general shape.  The bike gang pulled up, impressively still in formation, and I very deliberately drove on to the other end of the lot.

The “FREE COFFEE” was being offered by a local Boy Scout troop, their earnest, excited eyes shaming you into the “SUGGESTED DONATION – $0.50;” and the “HOMEMADE” had to have been intended for the barely tepid coffee, because clearly Mamma and Papa Entenmann had baked the good-for-ten-years-in-the-package, sugared donuts.  But what pressured me the most into donating, was that the Highway Men were pawing at their stainless-steel chains as they fished wallets from their grease-stained jeans to stump up their, literally, hard-earned money!

On we drove, the little-red-Escort-that-could eating up, well nibbling, the miles.  We departed Illinois, crossed Wisconsin, where, for reasons unknown, people drive the speed limit in pairs, so you can’t pass them!  Then we moved on into the large corn field that is Minnesota.  With enough Mountain Dew (for the record, the best, or worst depending on your situation, source of caffeine available over the counter) in our system, sleep seemed passé, something for others.  Unfortunately, the little-red-Escort-that-could had a little-engine-block-that-couldn’t, and after a disconcerting, even to the overcaffeinated, bang and a cloud of steam gushing from the engine, we were lucky to get from the fast lane over to the breakdown lane.  Thereafter ensued fifteen minutes of entirely clueless staring through the darkness at the still hissing, odd smelling, engine, before we came to the conclusion that we might just be fucked.

Once again, luck was kinda-sorta with us, as we weren’t too far from an exit.  On shanks mare we made it to town, and found a motel.  There we used a heavy thumb on the bell outside reception to wake the owner; a beer-bellied, thick forearmed, man, whose stone-faced look belied his helpful nature.  A few minutes of confusion on the phone with the Minnesota State Patrol took care of getting the Escort towed to a mechanic’s shop.  

The next morning, we met the mechanic, a portly, red-faced man who was equal parts helpful and evasive.

“That’s yer all veh…icle, with the Mass…ah…chusetts plates, this fer out?” he asks, his thick eyebrows knitting together.

“Er, yes, kinda-sorta, … .,” we collectively kick at the dirt forecourt of his shop.

“Head’s cracked.  I kin show ya.”

A few seconds of watching coolant squirt from a clearly visible crack at the top of the engine block confirmed our hypothesis from the night before: We are well and truly fucked!

There was nothing left but for the mechanic to see how long it would take to get a replacement part, and then spend hours – “it’s a job, I aint for kiddin’ you fellers, it’s a goin’ a be a job” – replacing it.   

For us, it was obvious that our job was to go and get further fucked up!

Around mid-afternoon, with $24.00, plus tips, less cash in our wallets, we wander out of the dive-bar and into Minnesota summer sun.   We need to get to the mechanic before he closes, see how he’s making out.

“Parts is coming tomorrow fellers,” he says cheerily, his face falling at the look on ours.

“Tomorrow?  Isn’t Detroit just down the road?” I start to feel panicky at being trapped in the middle of a continent.  “Don’t ye have warehouses full of them parts and pieces below there?”

“Fellers, just look on t’bright side a things,” he holds out his hands to the sky.  “Y’all got ‘nother day in sunny Minna…sota!”

The next morning, we resolved to be better behaved, and thus went to the Y not the dive bar.

Refreshed and back with the mechanic mid-afternoon, again expecting to pick up the car, with got another healthy dose of Midwest-chill-the-fuck-out.

“Sure, parts arrived by U…P…S, about an hour ‘r so ago, but that’s too big a job for me’s to be a starting in an afternoon. I’ll git right on it – first thing tamorrow.”

“But we could pay you overtime to stay tonight,” we’re talking big now; we haven’t actually thought through paying for anything yet.

“Nope.  I got a farm as needs a tendin’ ta,” he says, staring hard at us.  “But that brins’ up a point: You fellers got the four hunderd or so … in cash, that this is gonna cost.”

“Sure, … I mean, I got a check,” my fellow-traveler offers.

“Come on now fellers, I wouldn’t hardly take a check from ma pappy.  Can’t take one from some guys … like five states away,” he fake-laughs, but still stares hard.

He’s made his point.

We head back to the bar for advice … and soothing.

The next morning our, large-forearmed, motel manager suggests we get a check cashed at a local bank.

“That’s what an’ they’re fer, aint it?”

The logic sounds good, better than the advice we got from Beety, a purple faced drunk down at the dive-bar: “Jus’ wait ‘til dark; pop a back windaw in t’car, hotwire that bitch, n’ zoom off.  Worked twice fer me, but I done three months down Nobles County fer t’secund un.”

So, we dressed up in “our cleanest dirty shirts” and headed off on shanks mare to a local bank.

At the counter, the cashier, an already old, Midwest-plump, twenty-something woman, all but broke out in hives when we tried to cash a $500 check from a Massachusetts bank.

“Y’all gonna need ta talk ta th’manager on this un,” she says, her multiple-double-chins twisting side-to-side so rapidly, I felt an urge to hold my hands out for fear her head would come unscrewed.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re waved into a faux-dark-wood paneled office.  

Behind the desk stands a tall, nervous, forty-something, man; already staring hard at us.  He’s got a long, gaunt face; glassy eyes; and tufts of thick, dark hair either side of a smooth bald scalp.  A brass nameplate on the desk declares: “NILS LARSON”.

“Howaya,” I stride forward, with faux confidence, holding out my hand.

Nils, without moving from behind his desk, leans his tall frame forward, shakes my hand weakly, his eyes averting.

He wordlessly waves us toward the two thick-wooded, black pleather upholstered, guest chairs on the domineered side of his desk.  

He stands, hands on hips, staring at us, until we’re sitting. 

“Now, … young men,” he sits stiffly down into his high backed, black pleather chair.

His glassy eyes dart quickly from me to my fellow-traveler.  

“Stella, my teller, she’s a b’en with me for five years, an’ knows a thing ‘r two,” he stops for a breath, leans forward, places his elbows on the desk, staring at us over tented fingers.  “So, she …, Stella, that is, indicated y’all have a check that’s … problem…attic.  Not sure as my bank can help y’all ou… .”

“See, I got my check book,” my fellow-traveler starts, holding up a slim volume of sky-blue checks, “and I got plenty of money in there.  And you’re a bank, right?  So you cash checks, right?”

“Well, we don’t … not usually, or at least … I … have not had to cash a check, … a per…son…ell check that did not originate from a bank account registered in the state of Minnesota.  It’s just not that usual here.  Not something we come across, not in my twenty three years a banking.”

“Ok, but you could call my bank in Brookline.  It’s right there on Beacon Street.  They’ll tell you the money’s there.  You cash the check, and that’s it.  Right?  That’s how banks work.  See we need the cash to pay for getting the car fixed.”

“And what happened yer’s car?”

“Head cracked; we probably should’ve mailed the fuc…, the Escort to Seattle.”

“Heh?” Nils’ eyes flash from guest-chair to guest-chair, his significant forehead creasing.

My fellow-traveler leans forward and drops the check, already made out to “CASH” in the amount of $500.00, onto Nils desk.

Immediately he pushes his high-backed chair a few inches from the desk, raises both hands, head shaking a-la-Stella.  

“Nuthin I can d… .”

“Don’t worry sir,” I wade in, trying to keep this alive.  “Would it be helpful to phone the bank in Brookline.  We’d be happy to pay for the long-distance phone call”

“I never heard of Brookline and anywa… .”

“It’s right beside Boston,” my fellow-traveler says, nodding sagaciously.  “Only it’s nicer, though boring, … sort of.  Well, the Tam is fun on Sunday evenings, but otherwise, you do gotta head into Boston if you’re going for beers.”

Nils’ eyes slow down a little.  His shoulders rise as he draws in a deep breath; runs his hand down from the top of his head and across his face.  When his hand reaches his chin, he sits up in his chair, and shuffles himself back to his desk.

“Well fellers, I’m sure yer decent folk n’ all.  I mean, I hope y’all are.  But my fiduciary responsibilities to the good men on the board of this here bank is a tellin’ me, that cashing that check is not a something I ken do.”

He stares down at the small rectangle of sky-blue paper.

“Just call the bank in Brookline … the money’s there!” my fellow-traveler’s voice starts to rise.

“But now fellers, what’s to stop y’all from having a friend waitin’ outside that there bank in Brook…line,” he leans forward toward us; his face animated now; eyes darting.  “An’, … an’ as soon I give y’all my cold hard cash, then that there friend goes in an’ cashes yet another check, that y’all gave him, and takes that account to zero in deposits.  Cleans it out!”

His eyes slow down, as he stares first at my fellow-traveler, then at me. 

“No, fellers, I can’t do it,” he shakes his head slowly.  “No, fellers, I won’t do it.”

An hour and a half later, we have our $500 in cold hard cash: Western Union to our, costly, rescue.

We forsake a boozy farewell at the dive bar, for a good-old-fashioned-Midwestern-diner-nosh-up; check out of the motel; go pay for the car; and start heading back towards I90: just 1,500 miles, in a red Escort – with no radio – to go!

As we’re driving outta town, we approach the bank again.  

Nils is standing in the tiny patch of green out front of the bank, fussing with the flagpole lanyards, as he lowers the American flag.

“Slow down,” I say, as we pull close.

“Hey Nils, … Nils,” I have to yell a couple of times to get his attention.

He stops, squints, hands moving immediately to his hips, back swaying just slightly as he peers to see who’s calling his name.

Then his glassy eyes fall on the red Escort.

“Hey Nils, thanks,” I lean my upper body out the window, both arms extending, palms up, toward him.  “Stella cashed the check for us on the way out.  Thanks so much.  Whatever you said worked: You’re the best!”

His face is still pointed in our direction, but his eyes are darting all over the street.

We tried to zoom off, but in all honesty, Escorts don’t zoom.