The theater was sold right then and there. Immediately, Pilsner and Peterson, embarked on a lifetime dream to build a theatrical showcase for the Arneson Family Band.
As the music director Al and Rick installed Hieronymus Trollope, a one-time composer of children's follies and jingles. The dashing and debonaire Trollope had developed a cast of patrons throughout the Kenwood, Prospect Park, and Golden Valley quarters. He was a man of all seasons at the musical salons held by the eminent daughters of Plymouth. Amidst the cooing and sighing of his flock Trollope might offer an extended rhapsody on a theme of his own devising. His reception was practically evangelical. In short he was the Cotton Mather of the piano. The MC of the show, a former public radio jock, Harrison Smorgasborg, had this really distinctive voice, like someone with a constant sinus infection. But he was perfect for the show because he knew a lot of rye-soaked satirical jokes and knew how to talk to the bluehairs in the second row.
They cast Corrina Arneson as the lead act. Well not quite Janet Jackson, she was a tough act to follow, as they say, though she never flashed the crowds at the Dome during Vikings games. While she had a good singing voice, she was especially good at standup comedy. And her large feet and exceptional height of 7’ 3” made her a natural crowd pleaser and an impresario's dream. Her main number in the show was the Fats Waller/Louis Jordan medley “Your Feet’s Too Big/Barnyard Boogie.” Corrina also could play the alto saxophone while juggling apples. She was quite a showgirl.
Next, Pilsner had the bright idea of casting the youngest Arneson, nicknamed Beaver, to play drums. Beaver Arneson had those gosh-darn good looks that only a rosie-cheeked Minnesota boy raised on freerange chicken, biscuits and milk, could have. Problem was Beaver couldn’t reach the high-hat pedal, so Pisner and Al rigged up a wooden extension for the pedal; it worked like a charm.
And Al made the brilliant suggestion of casting Barbara Arneson as the Femme Fatale. She had that knowingly coy sideways glance that suggested much but promised little. The audience would love the way her jet black hair would dance off her beakish aquiline nose, as she jumped up on the riser doing a frenzied frug during Beaver’s spectacular drum extravaganza. It was a smashing bit, I admit. Nobody had the Watusi go go bit more refined than Barbara.
Even more stunning - if that is possible - was the appearance of Anne Marie Arneson as the blues singer. Anne Marie was something else, altogether. She had had a victorious career in music as the band singer in the Airmen-of-Note; she had sung at the White House for President Reagan, and had partaken of a whirlwind USO tour of the Middle East during the first Gulf War. The GI’s had a thing for Anne Marie, that was clear. She managed her heft delicately, swinging her girth with its fulsome confessional to Aphrodite, in an altogether (sometimes literally) sensuously seductive twisting rite de’acrobat that stirred the lowliest prostate. Her rendition of Bessie Smith’s “Gimme a Pig Foot and a Bottle a Beer” sent more than one GI to the showers, and there’s very little water in the desert.
To fill out the rest of the troupe de’concert, Pilsner made the appropriate suggestion of assigning Anders Arneson, the oldest boy in the group, to the standup bass. Anders had charisma to burn and found himself to be quite a ladies man; stories abound of his devilishly mischievous exploits and conquests. One enchanted evening during the sultry summer dog days, Anders had swept the Marquese de au'Revoire—the heart-throb of the footlights, as she was known—away to Minnehaha Falls at midnight, where they frolicked ferociously under the dewy stars until the ravishing of twilight was consummated. Never had the laughing waters of Hiawatha been so reverberant. Father H, Michel Aco, and the Ojibwa of Gitchie Gumie were pleased.
The Marquese had been a fashion model before she discovered her voice as a jazz chanteuse. And she had the looks and poise for the role. High triangular cheekbones lined her blond-framed smooth-skinned faced. And that exquisite visage had been sustained by the grace of nature such that the bow line of her rear deck parted the seas more cleanly than a spinnaker-rigged sloop running the channel off the straights of Rio de Janeiro or Madagascar. All told, she had a sleek and shapely hull that begged for Gulf Stream waters, and Anders' mast was square-rigged for full sail and the spray of the white caps. Anders' strong athletic physique could manipulate the thick strings of his upright instrument with amazingly deft fortitude. His strokes were pliant and technique nimble. He had a confident presence, too. Many of the students from the Academy of Art would ask to paint his portrait, and he gladly sat for them in full detail, hours at a time, while they painted and played jazz records on the Victrola.
Al had the wonderful idea of casting Denardo as the guitarist. Denardo had been in the thick of things during the emerging of the so-called Minneapolis sound. Denardo had been part of Ponce de’Leon’s group The News Boys. Although he was the member of the group who was white, he had complete mastery of the nuances of rhythm and blues; he had the dialect, too. Most important was that he had a completely natural feeling for the inflected rhythmic accents of professional basketball. Denardo’s NBA-based backbeat made his guitar strumming a perfect repetitive complement to any neo-soul sex drone. All told, Denardo Arneson had a natural adeptness for funk. And he was very good looking in the wholesome way that the rest of his kin had; he had, in short, been graced by nature and good dentistry.
Father Hennepin was mighty pleased by the Arneson’s performances. His long absence from the Land of Sky Blue Waters had made him weary, and the changes that had come across this land of Hamm’s and Caleb depressed him. Although he recognized the weird irony of bartending at the Fine Line, given his reputation as a scout, missionary, and tribal negotiator, he did feel some vindication in that implicit hypocrisy since many of the tribes now sported casinos with well-stocked bars. But he so wanted to love the night life on First Avenue; he wanted to boogie on with a reggae woman down at that funky town, but it was neither to be or not to be; that wasn't the question. It was those wacky kids from Edina who would roll passed the Fine Line window at all hours in fits of stuporous gaiety, which confused him; the young pertinacious blonds with the tattooed black-vested beaus were refreshingly innocent, he thought prematurely, compared to the buried bones of settlers at Fort Snelling. Little did he know, seeing as they had just come up from Sex World.
One night, after a late nighty-night crowd had stayed at the Fine Line until two, Father Hennepin was hungry. All that was open was the Edina Perkins. He got in his Dodge Omni, rode over there down Hwy 100, and ordered a cheeseburger from a big-boned young man in a black vest whose close shaven block-shaped head seemed to somehow harmonize with the lip rings and tattoos that adorned his his rather average visage. The punctilious young man of dubious masculinity brought him a few leaves of iceberg lettuce. Hungry and tired, Hennepin was disappointed. “You call that a salad,” cackled Hennepin. The surprised and obligingly deferent waiter retorted, “It weighs one ounce; that’s the regulation size, do you want to talk to the management?” Hennepin was getting mad. “Did you weigh it, you twerp?” he demanded.
Not knowing who he was contending with the clumsy waiter threatened to phone the police. Just then the pertinacious blond, who had been up to the Fine Line an hour earlier, said “why don’t you leave the poor waiter alone.” Hennepin turned around and peered into her frigid pale eyes. Suddenly, the Jesuit understood. It was the girl’s beau waiting on him. In Minnesota, women often defend their men or just about anything else they set their minds to. “We don’t talk to blonds,” Hennepin ejaculated. “I am a Jesuit missionary with the indigenous peoples of Minnesota, and your ruthless Viking ancestors wiped them out! Now they have to scrape by up at Red Lake and commit suicide and all,” he added.
Just then Pilsner and Al came up to the table. “Hey daddy-o,” said Al, “The show was great over at the Schubert. You shoulda seen Barbara Arneson swish her hair and dance the Mashed Potato during Beaver’s drum solo. It was way cool, man.”
"Yeah," iterated Rick, "git em up, ride em in rawhide." He went on, exitedly, "she did the bony moroni, and shook a tail feather; she was twisted, she did the loop di lou, you know."
"Call Maury Slime," said Al, "he got all the good gigs...Hey Rick, there's gotta be at least a dollars worth of banana ice cream in that chick's dish."
Al exclaimed: "We've been in this dump for less than 10 minutes and the rest of the Arneson's is in the parking lot with their stuff; this Dr. No ain't no monkey. There ain't no ghost riders in this storm." Al's euphemisms were confusing everybody.
Rick chimed in: "I'll stand by the man; Hennepin, everybody needs somebody to love, in the mornin' time, good God!" Pilsner was twistin' put on the floor. "I need you, baby," he said to the ice cream lady. "Come on, squeeze that special something," he winked.
Then in a move that mustered great dignity, Pilsner offered an arm. “Father, into my hands you must now commend your spirit. It is written that I, Rick Pilsner, should assist you in attaining the epitome of refreshment. Thou must needs come with us to our humble house in Uptown and swill golden Pilsner Urquell until the hours draw near for our departure to other, more prosperous lands.” The three rose and majestically tread ever so slowly toward the door of that fitful Perkins. The idiotic waiter stood with his bulbous lips parted letting flies into his mouth. The blond could be heard cursing under her breath as she swallowed big chunks of banana ice cream. Over by the door the three chief-like emissaries from ancient Itasca passed the hoarding queue at the door waiting in the blizzard for a one-ounce salad. With them they held aloft their gifts of golden Urquell. The police had arrived, but upon seeing Father in his flowing black robe and long grey beard, they parted their nightsticks and let the three pass on quietly and gently into that good night.
The next morning Father Hennepin awoke early. From his garrett in the turret of the north tower of the Minneapolis Club, an ancient structure known to the old money as the House of Seven Gables, he peered out beyond the wrought iron gate. The imposing grey-stoned building was erected by the grain barons almost before the Mill City ground its first meal. The building was constructed of the most rugged and precious limestone that could be quarried in the bowels of the Mankato mines. Hennepin peered out across 8th Street to the Lutheran Brotherhood. It was 4:30 and still quite dark. The grey dawn would be cold and gloomy. Most February mornings in St. Anthony were like that. It was Sunday, God's day. Hennepin got up stiffly and wondered how the Indians managed to live in such weather; he was exhausted by the events at Perkin's earlier that morning. He walked barefooted on the cold slate floor down the hall to the water closet. He stepped in and raised his wool night shirt. He shook his genitals briefly before the stream of urine ran out into the toilet. He made a quiet sighing noise and farted a few times, then washed his hands and lowered his smock. He walked back down the hall to his small dark room and looked lovingly at the Crucifix and Madonna on his bare cement wall. He prayed, remembering his admonishions to the Indians: "Domini, Domini, You're all Catholics..." "Father I repent for all my sins. I was so sinful last night at Perkins, thinking that I was superior to that waiter. Please punish me." He pulled on his flaccid member wondering if it would ever be useful. Ah yes, he thought. I use it to to drain large amounts of Pilsner beer. He put on his black robe. It was dusty and smelled of perspiration. No one would notice from the floor of the church. Hennepin, left the Minneapolis Club. He walked passed the infernal Lutheran Brotherhood. "Those damnable Protestant dissidents and their infernal double predestination and 95 Theses," he muttered to himself. He couldn't help thinking of that waiter from the night before. Somehow, he thought he might save his soul. His mind wandered and he imagined the two of them locked in an embrace in the stall of the Perkins bathroom. "No, that won't do," he thought, "we'll be caught. Better to sneak into the rectory behind the cafeteria at St. Thomas College." The plan became set in his mind. It was almost light, and he walked quickly since it was so cold. He reached the St. Thomas Chapel shivering. He wrung his bony hands, which almost stuck to the frozen brass door handles on the heavy oaken doors. Inside, it was still cold. He looked at the steam of his breath as he ascended to the pulpit. The church filled and he looked at these Americans and felt sorry for them. These materialistic suburbans with their SUVs and pornography. "My Children," he began, "You will be saved by his Holiness Jesu if you can see your most Holy responsibility. We must, in this time of terrorism and wanton physical sin, denounce our worldly selves and endorse the patriarchy, the patriot act, and our most good president and Supreme Court. We're fighting a war with the powers of the most evil and bad people of the heathen east. These evil doers want to take your wives and children, they want to steal your gasoline, and they want to eradicate Disney and shut down nuclear fuel repositories." Then the organ music began to swell. Hennepin's groin began to warm as he remembered the waiter.
Some years later, behind the iron barred windows of Stillwater Penitentiary, Hennepin scratched at the band around his ankle. The snow was blowing wildly out in the prison courtyard. He lifted his course wool shirt and scratched his balls. "Shoulda stayed with the Chippewa," he thought. "We've civilized this place a bit too much."
