With my son Kevin riding shotgun, I wheel Dirks giant Oldsmobile away from the curb and head out for some fear and loathing in Davenport. My apologies to Hunter Thompson or to anyone who finds my analogy presumptuous or tired. We carry nothing heavier than diet Mountain Dew, though the can does promise “tuned up taste.” I call first dibs on the cd player and at the end of the of the block, John Lennon is crooning, Mr. Moonlight. I tell Kevin the organ solo reminds me of all-skate at the Prom roller rink and he looks over at me with a raised brow as if to say, “as your son, I advise you to exercise some of that grooviness you claim to have.” Dirks dashboard bobblehead Jesus nods silent agreement and I don’t even bother to consult with the magnetic Mary affixed to the glove box. I find no humor or coincidence when the next song up is, It’s a Good Life If You Don’t Weaken, by The Tragically Hip. We are on a day out and not a mission, and if the transcendent cares to speak to me I will tune in some other time. We make our way down the hill and turn to the right past the absurdly mismatched Chamber of Commerce visions of urban glory, then even farther, past the aging hoodrats and muddled tweakers. I finally I maneuver the behemoth around a large pothole and into the lot of a speck of a place called, Eats and Sweets. The building itself is one of those old time cracker box sized gas stations. Somewhere along the line somebody called Skipper converted it into a popcorn palace and in its latest reincarnation it serves as a taco stand. Whatever reputation it had earned in the past will be forever overshadowed by the reputation of its current owner, the ex Chiropractor, James Klindt.
Locals know the story well. The good doctor took a chainsaw to his wife and then dumped the pieces somewhere in the Mississippi River. Some were found and others weren’t, and out of town rock and roll outfits for years have fallen victim to unwittingly announcing from the stage, “Mrs. Klindt, we have a note here that your trunk has been found.” Of course others find no humor in the situation and question why a man who was called by the county attorney, “the most cold blooded killer in Quad City history,” is free from prison and peddling tamales after only twenty years. The only question Kevin and I have is deciding from the menu whether we should have “premium” or “regular” pop?" Dr. Klindt settles that by announcing that because of a cooler malfunction he shifted both grades to the freezer and all but one flavor has frozen solid. There is only a walk up window to order from and when the doctor inside leans down to take your order your first thought is that maybe he is standing on a milk crate. A double take makes it apparent that he is a very large man, and this only adds drama to the strange recognition that you are face to face with an anomaly of human nature; a man who could pull a cord and crudely dissect another human being. Oddly, that perception quickly erodes as it becomes apparent that he is a remarkably affable fellow and eager to have you enjoy his culinary offerings. They say that he picked up the skills of his new profession from the Mexican inmates while working as a cook in prison. I find it odd that his better than average tacos probably come from a recipe that was handed down from someone’s grandmother, perpetuated in a prison kitchen, and then found its way to this unlikely storefront to be served by this unlikely purveyor. Klindt passes us our order, says goodbye, and then reminds us to come back to tell him, “what we thought?” I assume he means the tacos.
Its back to the Olds and off to a gazebo on the bank of the Mississippi to try our tacos and drink our "regular" black cherry sodas. We have the place to ourselves, so I leave the car door open and turn up the volume to finish off the last of my cd. A few bites in we hear a scream, presumably from the skateboard park up the road, but Kevin offers up that it’s the ghost of Joyce Klindt. The Dead wafts through the door, “Ripple in still water, when there is no pebble tossed or wind to blow.” The tacos are good, but the story grows old and we move to toss pebbles into the river and decide to venture to the Coffee Dive, a downtown place that is the anti-Starbucks. I don’t like coffee, but I do like the atmosphere and order a vanilla Italian soda. Kevin is mellow enough by nature to handle the strongest coffee they have to offer, so he is set up with that and we make our way to a booth to sit and listen to Retro Ronny strumming Beatles tunes from the corner. There are three women in the booth across from us, too young for me and too old for Kevin, but yet we both catch each other slyly casting our eyes in that direction enough times to know it would be an embarrassment for either of us to directly acknowledge any of that. We come to an implicit compromise and claim to be studying the chalkboard menu above them, though we both know that the blond in the tie-dye Dashiki and hemp skull cap is a lot more appealing than any multigrain muffin. Kevin pulls me to my senses and reminds me that we need to get moving if we want to get to the gymnasium on time.
We have tickets to see Barack Obama speak at Kevins high school, so we rejoin Jesus and Mary, Kevin inserts his jam band cd, and we are serenaded by Umphrey’s McGee as we motor to the left and back up the hill. I find a parking place a block away and we are met at the corner by a small group of smart-assed Republican protesters who ask us if we need any help in crossing the busy street. I surprise them by accepting their offer, but on the condition that it will be an act of charity rather than welfare. They laugh as they lead the way, and on the other side we shake hands, but they shoot down my suggestion that they skip their way back across. Inside the lobby, I am amused at a banner saying red ticket holders should enter through the door to the right and blue ticket holders to the left. Kevin has a blue ticket and I have a red, but nobody checks as we enter to the left. Democratic political rally’s are often described as rock concerts, and that fits to a point. There is a loud mix of classic rock and Motown echoing from the rafters and the energy in the room is unambiguously positive. Obama operatives ply the floor passing out signs and prompting cheers that wane and are revived again by the rhythmic beat of the Metro Youth drum corp. We arrive too late to find a bleacher seat so we make our way to the rear edge of the crowd on the floor. Kevin leads the way and settles on a spot behind a group of young girls around his own age. I elbow him in the ribs and ask what looks good on the menu. He replies with a sheepish grin and a nod to the front of us. The space behind us quickly fills in, and as the time passes, the Obama signs are put to use as fans. There is a loud cheer and then some groans as a party bigwig comes out to acknowledge the local dignitaries in attendance, including the county attorney who put doctor Klindt away. More drums, more U2, more fanning, and then another round of groans as a second warm up act takes the stage. But she hits the right notes and presents a proper build up for the star to come to the spotlight. The first thing we noticed from our vantage point was Obama’s youthful appearance, but that was quickly put aside when he began to speak and his charisma floated out over the audience. With no teleprompter, and with a statesmanlike presence, he played the riffs that everyone had come to hear. Though he had likely given the same basic speech in Dubuque and Clinton earlier in the day, he was quick on his feet to ad lib in response to shout outs from the crowd. They say that Bill Clinton has a presence that enthralls even his harshest critics when they see him in person and I sense some of that in Barack. Kevin didn’t even notice when the buffet in front of him left to snake their way closer to the stage. That’s some powerful stuff when politics holds sway over hormones. We exited the gymnasium through the door to the left and made our way back to the Olds, with Kevin flippantly skipping his way back across the busy street unassisted. I turned the engine over and the cd player picked up on Phish as I wheeled from the curb. “Good day?” I asked Kevin. “Yeah, good day.” Jesus nodded in agreement and magnetic Mary remained silent as usual.
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