Read Online A Hard Ticket Home by David Housewright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Housewright
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expected Merci to deliver my message, but you never know. Stranger things have happened. While I waited for Jamie to call, I listened to Curtis Mayfield and read the sports page. Jazzman Art Blakey once said, “Music washes away the dust of everyday life.” So does sports. I only wish more pro athletes were like trumpeter Freddie Hubbard. He once told an audience, “I want to thank everyone for their support and for helping me make a living,” then gave us two and half hours of pure, straight-ahead jazz. Could you see Barry Bonds doing that? Or Randy Moss? Or Shaq?
I rarely eat breakfast—yes, I know it’s the most important meal of the day—and by ten-thirty my stomach was grumbling about it. I strolled down to Como and Carter in the heart of St. Anthony Park and had a cherry munkki and cafe mocha at the combination Taste of Scandinavia bakery and Dunn Brothers coffee house. On my way back I waved at a retired gentleman who was watering his lawn a couple blocks
from my house. He waved back even though we had never laid eyes on each other before.
I was back in the house by eleven forty-five. There were no messages on my voice mail, so I checked my e-mail. The Department of Motor Vehicles reported that “JB” was the registered license plate of a 2002 white BMW 330 Ci convertible owned by Bruder, David C., of St. Paul. I had heard the name before. It danced in the back of my head for a few moments, but I couldn’t place it.
I now had a name and an address but no handle on Jamie. Was she married to this guy? His mistress? Employee? I was guessing wife. To learn for sure I drove to the Ramsey County Court House on Fourth and Wabasha in downtown St. Paul, first floor, room 110.
The clerk there regarded me with practiced indifference. She was one of those faceless foot soldiers often found inside the bureaucracy who struggle above all else to remain anonymous, to avoid the attentions of supervisors, coworkers, and clients, who have no desire to distinguish themselves from their fellows, who are little more than government statistics and like it that way. When I asked about marriage records, she quickly led me to the county ledgers. “No smoking,” she said quietly. I thanked her and she moved away just as quickly, relieved that she didn’t have to make a decision.
Marriage licenses in Minnesota are not available online. Nor have they as yet been gathered in a central location. Each county keeps its own and possibly some of them even use computers. Ramsey County was still living in the last century. To locate Jamie’s marriage license I was required to search several large and unwieldy ledgers—one page at a time. Of course, Jamie could have been married in Hennepin County, Washington County, Dakota County, or any of Minnesota’s other eighty-seven counties, for that matter. Only she apparently lived in St. Paul, which is in Ramsey County, so I took a shot. After ninety
minutes and two paper cuts I discovered that Bruder, David Christopher had married Kincaid, Jamie Anne, on June 20th two years earlier.
I left the Ramsey County Vital Records feeling pretty smug—Bobby Dunston had nothing on me. I sequestered myself in an old-fashioned telephone booth, the kind superheroes change their clothes in, and searched the St. Paul directory for Bruder’s number. I punched it up on my cell phone. A voice as pure as sunlight told me that David and Jamie were unable to come to the phone, but if I was kind enough to leave a message, they would call back. I declined.
I was hungry again when I left the courthouse and I wasn’t in the mood to sit alone in a restaurant. Instead I stopped at the gleaming hot dog cart on 4th Street.
The vendor was named Yu, a soft-spoken Korean immigrant, who wore a bright red T-shirt and a tan and black baseball cap with JOE’S DOGS spelled out above the brim. She knew me well enough to wave, but not to give me priority over the customers lined six deep in front of her cart. When
I rarely eat breakfast—yes, I know it’s the most important meal of the day—and by ten-thirty my stomach was grumbling about it. I strolled down to Como and Carter in the heart of St. Anthony Park and had a cherry munkki and cafe mocha at the combination Taste of Scandinavia bakery and Dunn Brothers coffee house. On my way back I waved at a retired gentleman who was watering his lawn a couple blocks
from my house. He waved back even though we had never laid eyes on each other before.
I was back in the house by eleven forty-five. There were no messages on my voice mail, so I checked my e-mail. The Department of Motor Vehicles reported that “JB” was the registered license plate of a 2002 white BMW 330 Ci convertible owned by Bruder, David C., of St. Paul. I had heard the name before. It danced in the back of my head for a few moments, but I couldn’t place it.
I now had a name and an address but no handle on Jamie. Was she married to this guy? His mistress? Employee? I was guessing wife. To learn for sure I drove to the Ramsey County Court House on Fourth and Wabasha in downtown St. Paul, first floor, room 110.
The clerk there regarded me with practiced indifference. She was one of those faceless foot soldiers often found inside the bureaucracy who struggle above all else to remain anonymous, to avoid the attentions of supervisors, coworkers, and clients, who have no desire to distinguish themselves from their fellows, who are little more than government statistics and like it that way. When I asked about marriage records, she quickly led me to the county ledgers. “No smoking,” she said quietly. I thanked her and she moved away just as quickly, relieved that she didn’t have to make a decision.
Marriage licenses in Minnesota are not available online. Nor have they as yet been gathered in a central location. Each county keeps its own and possibly some of them even use computers. Ramsey County was still living in the last century. To locate Jamie’s marriage license I was required to search several large and unwieldy ledgers—one page at a time. Of course, Jamie could have been married in Hennepin County, Washington County, Dakota County, or any of Minnesota’s other eighty-seven counties, for that matter. Only she apparently lived in St. Paul, which is in Ramsey County, so I took a shot. After ninety
minutes and two paper cuts I discovered that Bruder, David Christopher had married Kincaid, Jamie Anne, on June 20th two years earlier.
I left the Ramsey County Vital Records feeling pretty smug—Bobby Dunston had nothing on me. I sequestered myself in an old-fashioned telephone booth, the kind superheroes change their clothes in, and searched the St. Paul directory for Bruder’s number. I punched it up on my cell phone. A voice as pure as sunlight told me that David and Jamie were unable to come to the phone, but if I was kind enough to leave a message, they would call back. I declined.
I was hungry again when I left the courthouse and I wasn’t in the mood to sit alone in a restaurant. Instead I stopped at the gleaming hot dog cart on 4th Street.
The vendor was named Yu, a soft-spoken Korean immigrant, who wore a bright red T-shirt and a tan and black baseball cap with JOE’S DOGS spelled out above the brim. She knew me well enough to wave, but not to give me priority over the customers lined six deep in front of her cart. When
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