18 years young, never shaven, completely unwise to the ways of University life. I chose Northern Michigan University or closer to the truth, It was the only school that would have me. NMU is in Marquette, Michigan, Deep into the Upper Peninsula five hundred miles north of Detroit, This was my first time away from home..
Day one....I arrive, My neighbor across the hall is loading motorcycle parts in crates and boxes into his dorm room, He says.."My name is Rich, Criminal justice major, Nice to meet ya".
The first Saturday morning in my new environment ,I discover fresh animal pelts hanging in the laundry room and "Rich" wearing a blood covered Carhart jumpsuit, He's wielding a large hunting knife and dirty animal traps are in the sink, The smell is ungodly, I ask "What cha doin Rich ?" , He say's" This is how I make my drinking money, Trapping and selling pelts", I nod, Say something intelligent like "Oh" and back up slowly, Politely smiling. Down the hallway I discover 3 upperclassmen watching cartoons in the TV room working their way thru a half gallon of very low quality vodka with a tang like mixer, Mind you it's 9 in the morning....
Being so far north and located on Lake Superior, Marquette, Michigan reaps snow averages well beyond 300 inches. It's not uncommon for 50 degree below wind chill factors during long winters from early October to mid April....As you can imagine dorm life was a bit Surreal with so many students suffering from cabin fever. We drank like Sailors on shore leave, Blend this with the creepy statistic of 5 guys to 1 girl .....It was like a Bizzaro version of Animal House directed by David Lynch
Third story window jumps into snow banks were a popular activity, until someone hit a bike rack, Criminal justice major "Rich" on the other hand would prefer to consume copius amounts of Yukon Jack and rappel naked in work boots,gloves and a hat, running across the side of the building over the windows of the women's floor trying to woo the ladies with his Wilderdude skills and furry physique...This would usually end up in a late evening of him piecing together his motorcycle from crates drunk as hell in his underwear covered in grease and oil listening Gordon Lightfoot, specifically the song "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" on endless repeat, mumbling incomplete sentences about those poor, poor bastards.
That winter thankfully became spring and Criminal justice major Rich and his bike in crates some how became a Harley Davidson and on that last day of school as we said our goodbye's, We helped him carry it down three flights of stairs and watched him ride away....waiving so long
1 comment:
"Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" is probably on the list of my Top 10 guilty pleasures.
It's soooo, so bad - like a Green Bay version of "Trapped in the Closet" but still it haunts me like a rusted out Old Style can floating in an eddy in Milwaukee Harbor. It captures "Rust Belt" better than anything, even a Ford Pinto broken down on the shoulder of the Skyway.
Go Gordon. Go.
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