Please Come to Boston...

Locals know that you must drive cautiously along Minnetonka Boulevard as soon as you reach the Carson's Bay Bridge in Deephaven because of the hidden police speed traps. Unsuspecting visitors who come to Lake Minnetonka usually drive in from Highway Seven, traveling at fast highway speeds, then turn off on Vine Hill Road and, still accustomed to the fast highway tempo, are usually driving well over the 35 mph speed limit posted for Minnetonka Boulevard that runs over the bridge. Police cruisers are positioned at each end of the bridge at various times of the day, including weekends and holidays. One sits well-hidden from view, camouflaged by the trees and shadows surrounding the small public launch on the east side of the bridge, while the other is parked along the roadside on the other side of the bridge.

Wilbur Andersen had made the trip from south Minneapolis to Carson's Bay many times and he should have known better about the speed trap there but, sailing east on Highway Seven just before turning onto Vine Hill Road, this song, "Please Come to Boston...," came on the Oldies station. It is quite a long song and Wilbur hadn't heard it, he thought, in perhaps thirty years, when both he and the song weren't quite such oldies. He tried to remember who it was by, what it was called, and when it had come out. He couldn't remember anything about it or even if he had liked it or not. He decided it wasn't too bad and turned it up. The song went "Hey rambling boy, why don't you settle down, Boston ain't your kind of town, there ain't no gold and there ain't nobody like me...I'm the number fan of the man from Tennessee ..." It was that last part of the refrain, the part about the number one fan of the man from Tennessee, that sent him into a trance like a Buddhist monk. The next thing he knew, he was on the Carson's Bay Bridge with blue lights flashing behind him. He looked down at his speedometer. The needle indicated 50mph.

It was a warm, sunny June day, just after school had let out in the state of Minnesota. Wilbur was a school teacher with just one more year left before retirement and it was an annual tradition to spend that first glorious day of summer vacation fishing in his little boat on Carson's Bay on Lake Minnetonka.

A Deephaven cop stepped in front of his rolled down window.

"License and registration please, sir."

Wilbur handed the documents out the window to the cop, a burly young fellow with reddish hair. He vaguely resembled a kid that had passed through his thirty some year teaching career. He had been a nice kid, whoever he was. Wilbur saw from the badge that the cop's name was also Anderson, same as his, but spelled with an "o", which meant he was Norwegian or maybe Swedish. Wilbur's name, "Andersen," spelled with an "e", was Danish. It was a very common name in Minnesota, especially Anderson. Officer Anderson returned to the car, unsmiling, and handed Wilbur back all of his documents.

"Are you in a big hurry, Mr. Andersen?"

"Well, I'm a teacher and it's the first day of summer vacation. I always go fishing out here on Carson's Bay that first day of summer. It's a tradition."

Officer Anderson listened silently, nodding, as he completed the speeding ticket.

"It's the darndest thing, though," Wilbur continued. "One minute I'm driving the legal speed limit down Highway Seven, and then this song comes on the radio, you know the one, 'Please Come to Boston ...' or some damned thing. You know this song? It goes 'please come to Boston ...,'" Wilbur sourly warbled the song.

Officer Anderson's head suddenly bobbed up from his clipboard.

"Yah, I just heard it on the radio. On the Oldies station."

"That's it."

Officer Anderson's head fell back down to writing up the ticket.

"Who did that song and what the hell does that one line mean, 'I'm the number one fan of the man from Tennessee?' Who is the number fan of the man from Tennessee?"

"I don't know. Hank Williams?"

"He ain't from Tennessee."

"Then I don't know, sir. Here's your ticket. Please sign this..." Wilbur signed it. "Read the instructions on the back. Please call if you have any questions. Have a nice day, sir."

2.

Wilbur launched his boat and was soon drifting around on the sparkling blue waters of Carson's Bay. He had a cooler full of sandwiches and a six pack of Budweiser beer nestled deep in the ice. He had his bait in a bucket and carried the beef jerky and cheese and crackers he had bought from a gas station in his shirt pocket. He also had a copy of Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast. This was also part of the tradition. The edition was sun yellowed and water damaged from previous years on Carson's Bay. He usually fished seriously for a few hours and then took a break to have a Budweiser and read the book. He always started with the fishing chapter, "People of the Seine." He fished seriously this year for a few hours and then stopped to drink his beer and read the book but it was different this time. The speeding ticket didn't bother him. It was that line from that song, "...I'm the number one fan of the man from Tennessee ..." What the hell was that supposed to mean? And who did that song?

3.

Officer Carl Anderson was having the same experience. It didn't really bother him. It wasn't burning a hole in his brain or anything but the melody and the words of the song kept running through his mind. They kept returning like flies that you unconsciously swoosh away when they land on your hands or face. Who did that song and who the hell was the number one fan of the man from Tennessee?

He kept it to himself. He knew that his partner, Officer Jim Wilcox, would think he was crazy if he suddenly and very casually asked, "hey Jim, you know that song..." or if he knew who the number one fan of the man from Tennessee was. Wilcox was ex-marine, new to the Deephaven force and sometimes a little too gung-ho, especially when it came to the speed trap on Carson's Bay Bridge.

It was late evening now, near sunset, when they pulled into the Cit-Go station in Excelsior to fill up. Wilcox pumped the gas, a trim young man in a dark police uniform wearing black wrap around sun glasses. Anderson sat in the passenger's seat and wondered who sang that song and who the hell the number one fan of the man from Tennessee was. Then they drove off down Minnetonka Boulevard towards Deephaven.

"It's strange," Anderson said. "You never really hear what the difference is between regular gasoline and the more expensive grades."

"Super-Premium and Mid-Grade are higher grades of gasoline. They burn cleaner. Better for your engine," Wilcox said in his clipped ex-Marine manner.

"And they're more expensive than regular. That's the main difference. I've never heard anything about one type of gas being better for your engine except in the car owner's manuals. Hell, we never fill up with the expensive stuff."

"Too expensive," Wilcox said. "Couldn't justify it to the public."

"It's like my wife with olive oil. She sends me out to get olive oil and there's a million different kinds of olive oils. Cold pressed, regular pressed, olive oil from Italy, olive oil from Greece , olive oil from Lebanon , olive oil for cooking, olive oil for salad dressings...I always get what's on sale or what's cheapest and I always catch hell for it."

"Women," Wilcox said as they turned onto Minnetonka Boulevard.

4.

Wilbur Andersen was bobbing a little drunkenly around on Carson's Bay in his little boat. His fish stringer was empty. He hadn't had a bite all day, not even a snag. He was getting much more pleasure out of his Budweiser and reading Hemingway's humorous but sad account of the first time that he met F. Scott Fitzgerald in Paris. The only thing that marred his first day of summer vacation happiness on the lake was wondering who the singer of that song was and who the hell the number one fan of the man from Tennessee could be that had cost him a speeding ticket.

Wilbur found that he had to take a pee but that was all right. He knew Carson's Bay so well that he knew places where he could pull to shore for that kind of business. His favorite place was under the cover of a weeping willow tree that grew as a tangle of long, brown and olive tentacles that he imagined would grab him like the trees in Enchanted Forest in the Wizard of Oz. He was beached under the umbrella of the stringy branches, peeing back into the lake, when he another stream of piss, perhaps some ten yards away from him, shot into the lake out of a bank of cattails along the shore.

"Ahoy there!" a drunken man's voice called out. "Any luck out there?"

"Nope," Wilbur said. "I think the big boats are scaring them away."

"Well, I got a few. Snakes though. Too small. Had to throw them back," the drunken voice then turned into a belch.

Wilbur was done peeing and he shook the last drops of urine from his penis. The drunken man was also done peeing. Wilbur looked into the cattails but couldn't see him.

"What do you do if you have to shit out there?" the drunken man asked, punctuating his sentence with a fart.

"I don't know. It's never happened. I always make sure and shit properly before I come out here."

"That's a good plan, friend."

"Say," Wilbur suddenly said. "Do you know the guy who sings that 'Please Come to Boston' song? You know the one..." Wilbur once again warbled out the tune.

"Dave Loggins, 1974," the drunken voice said.

"How do you know that?"

"My ex-wife was an oldies freak. Knew every song and who done it that came on the radio. I guess I must have picked it up from her."

"Thanks, pal. It's been bugging me all day. You know, it actually cost me a speeding ticket today..." Wilbur told the entire story and then paused. He was met by silence and realized that the drunken guy must have gone off and that he had been talking to the cattails the entire time. Wilbur had intended to ask the drunken guy if he could reveal the identity of the number one fan of the man from Tennessee.

5.

It was getting dark now as officers Anderson and Wilcox were cruising the streets of Deephaven. People were still outside, taking last, late evening walks with their dogs or getting some fresh air before dinner. Some joggers were out in the cool of the evening and serious bicyclists were ending their tours before it became completely dark. The two cops had been riding in silence for some time. Wilcox preferred silence when they were cruising at dusk or after dark. He didn't mind talking during the day but he was very serious about maintaining a vigilant silence at night. Anderson assumed it had something to do with his Marine training and normally went along with it. But tonight, Anderson didn't give a shit.

"Say Jim," he said. "Who sang that song 'Please come to Boston...'? It must be from the seventies."

Wilcox continued his silent visual prowl of the streets. Anderson wondered if Wilcox had heard him or if he was intentionally ignoring him.

"I don't know," Wilcox said finally. "Kenny Loggins?"

"That doesn't sound right. Nope. It's definitely not Kenny Loggins. You know, it goes..."

"I know the one," Wilcox interrupted and sang: "Now this drifter's world goes 'round and 'round and I doubt that it's ever gonna stop, but of all the dreams I've lost or found and all that I ain't got, I still need to cling to somebody I can sing to..."

"You've got quite a voice," Anderson said.

"I used to sing in the Marine choir. Sang for the president and everything."

"Why didn't you make a career of it?"

"I wanted to be a cop."

Wilcox re-imposed silence.

"Still," Anderson said insisted. "I don't think it was Kenny Loggins. And who is the 'number one fan of the man from Tennessee'?"

Wilcox didn't answer.

6.

Lowell Jenkins was the guy peeing into Carson's Bay from the bank of cattails along the shore and the invisible voice that had spoken to Wilbur Andersen. He was an obese, functioning alcoholic and a heavy smoker. He had developed diabetes at thirty-eight, around the time of his divorce. He was now fifty-three and had two grown sons that didn't have much to do with him. Lowell owned a Bob Cat and could drive other heavy equipment. That's how he made his living. He liked it because the work was just regular enough to give him a reliable source of income and just irregular enough so that he had a few days off every week to go fishing or drinking or whatever.

You could tell when Lowell was very drunk because his suspenders got all twisted up and the beaked, greasy red cap advertising Peterbuilt trucks that he usually wore at a rakish angle would drop to a precariously rakish angle and sometimes fall off his head.

Lowell was very drunk from Schlitz Malt Liquor when he gathered up his fishing equipment from beneath the willow tree where Wilbur Andersen had beached his boat and pissed into the lake. He collected the scattered empty cans and put them in a plastic garbage sack. It was private property but Lowell didn't care. He figured he'd fish there until somebody kicked him off but nobody ever did. He staggered up through the weeds and then onto Minnetonka Boulevard. He walked over the bridge to where his pickup was parked at the public lot next to the Deephaven police station and where the town's fleet of garbage trucks was parked. He had to stop occasionally to pick his Peterbuilt hat up off the ground. He never operated his Bob Cat or heavy equipment while intoxicated but it didn't bother him to drive drunk. He had been driving drunk, sometimes blindly drunk, for years and nothing had ever happened.

He had just pulled out of the lot and was driving east on Minnetonka Boulevard, going towards the bridge, when he smelled the dog shit that he had somehow stepped in and brought inside the cab. The stench was horrible in the baking hot interior of the truck. He gagged and tried to remove the dog shit with an old news paper but it was so slippery that his big work boot slipped off of the brake and stomped down on the accelerator. Before he knew anything, the car was careening out of control. It crossed into the on-coming lane that, by some miracle, was empty, and smashed into the front end of Wilbur Andersen's tan old man's Lincoln. Wilbur had just finished loading his fishing tackle into the trunk and, by another miracle, was safely off to the side of his car, tying his shoelaces, when the crash occurred.

Wilbur looked up and walked around to the front of the old Lincoln. The hood was buckled somewhat but both the lights and the blinkers appeared to be intact. Lowell opened the door of his pick-up and was getting out when Officers Anderson and Wilcox, who had pretty much watched the entire thing as they pulled onto Minnetonka Boulevard from Cottagewood Road, pulled off the side of the road behind Lowell's pickup.

"I'm awfully sorry, Mister," Lowell, now bareheaded, said to Wilbur.

Wilbur recognized his voice.

"It's an old piece of shit. Insurance ought to cover it."

"Are you gentleman all right?" Officer Anderson stepped up to the scene with Officer Wilcox behind him.

Wilbur and Lowell both nodded.

Officer Wilcox collected both men's drivers' licenses.

"What happened?" Officer Anderson asked.

"Well," Lowell began, "I was pulling out of the parking lot there and I had this big dog shit stuck in my work boots here. It stunk bad and I was riding on the break, trying to get it off with a newspaper when my foot slipped off the brake and hit the accelerator..."

"Sir, have you been drinking?" Officer Wilcox asked Lowell.

"I had a few cans of beer while I was shore fishing."

"Do you remember how many cans?"

"Not exactly. Two maybe."

Officers Wilcox and Anderson looked at each other.

"Look, officers," Wilbur said. "It's just a little fender bender."

"You're the guy I stopped speeding earlier. Andersen with an "e", isn't it?"

"Right."

"The school teacher?"

"That's me. And that guy there told me who sings that damned song we were talking about earlier. It's Dave Loggins, from 1974."

"Oh, yah!" Officer Anderson slapped his forehead.

"You're wrong," Officer Wilcox said. "It's Kenny Loggins."

"Ask Lowell," Wilbur said.

"It's Dave Loggins from 1974."

"Well, then who's Kenny Loggins?" Officer Wilcox asked.

"It's Dave Loggin's second cousin. Dave Loggins was born on November 10, 1947 in Mountain City, Tennessee. Kenny Loggins was born on January 7, 1948 in Everett, Washington."

"Are you making this up, Mr. Jenkins?"

"No, sir. My ex-wife used to be a big Oldies fan. I know all this stuff."

"How many beers did you consume today, Mr. Jenkins?" Wilcox repeated.

"Just two, I think."

"Let's see that dog dirt on your work boots."

Lowell grabbed the side mirror of his pickup and raised his foot to expose a flattened reddish brown mass mashed into the cleated profile of his work boot. The mass was hairy with dead grass and pitted with gravel.

"All right, Mr. Jenkins. You can put your boot down," Officer Wilcox said.

"Well, the big question is..." Wilbur said and paused, "and I think the same thing may be on Officer Anderson's mind. Who is this number one fan of the man from Tennessee?"

"Elvis Presley," Lowell said. "Dave Loggins meant Elvis Presley with that line."

"Can't be," Officer Wilcox scowled. "Elvis is from Tupelo, Mississippi. Were you just consuming beer, Mr. Jenkins?"

"Yes, sir."

"How do you know the number one fan of the man from Tennessee is supposed to be Elvis Presley?" Wilcox persisted.

"Well, it was a trivia question on the Oldies station and my wife answered it correct and won free tickets to the state fair."

Officer Wilcox went silent and motionless behind his wrap around sunglasses. Wilbur, Lowell, and Officer Anderson glanced at each other.

"I don't know," Wilcox said at last. "I think we're going to have to have you blow for the Breathalyzer, Mr. Jenkins."

"Mr. Jenkins," Officer Anderson spoke up, "who does that song, you know, the one about Brandy?"

"Brandy? That's easy. The group was called 'Looking Glass.' It was a rock and roll quartet from New Jersey that formed in 1969. Ellior Lurie lead guitar and vocals, Lawrence Gonsky, piano, Pieter Sweval, bass, and Jeff Grob on drums. It was a number one hit in 1972."

"I think Mr. Jenkins is in control of his faculties, Jim."

"Well," Wilcox said, "all right. You guys settle things between yourselves and Mr. Jenkins, I want you to drive directly home and sleep it off. Where do you live?"

"Just in Excelsior."

"All right gentlemen," Officers Wilcox said and walked away with Officer Anderson.

7.

Wilbur grabbed some scratch paper and a pen from his car and exchanged insurance information with Lowell.

"I'm real sorry, Wilbur," he said.

"These things happen. I'm not upset about the car or anything. Like I said, it's an old piece of shit. Hell, maybe I can just get an old hood from the junk yard so we don't have to muck around with the insurance."

"Well, whatever you decide to do is fine with me. I was at fault."

"Don't worry, Lowell. It was nice to meet you. I'm glad you knew all that stuff about Dave Loggins. It was driving me nuts all day."

"I guess I'd have to thank my ex-wife but she won't talk to me."

"Take care, Lowell," Wilbur said and drove off.

Lowell walked down to the shore of the lake. He scraped the dog shit off the bottom of his boot with a stick and washed it clean in the water. Then he dried it in the grass as he walked back to the pick-up. The cabin still smelled of dog shit. He dug some napkins out of a Burger King bag, sprayed the brake and gas pedals with Justice Brothers fuel additive, wiped the pedals clean with the napkins, and then stuffed them back in the bag. The cab now had a pleasant, clean, automotive chemical fragrance to it. Lowell then started the engine and switched on the headlights. He settled down in the seat and sat for a few moments, looking off across Carson's Bay. The sun was nearly down and the coppery orange glow of the lake horizon was fading. He put the truck in gear, looked for traffic, and executed a U-turn onto Minnetonka Boulevard, heading west towards Excelsior. A Deephaven police cruiser came from the other direction and he waved at it but he couldn't see who was inside. Holy shit, Lowell, thought to himself. Holy goddamned shit was I lucky or what? Well, at least I got something from the divorce, he thought. This calls for a celebration. He decided to head down to Haskell's for a brew or two