Part IV (In Which Eric Learns a Valuable Lesson about People Riding Bikes While Drunk, Sees His Neighborhood Go Up in Flames, and Witnesses a Grown Ma

Part IV (In Which Eric Learns a Valuable Lesson about People Riding Bikes While Drunk, Sees His Neighborhood Go Up in Flames, and Witnesses a Grown Man Break Down in Tears—also in which Eric breaks the Ten Thousand Word Mark)

Just as I had began to find my place in the office and in my work, it was announced that a new intern would be joining our department. As he was down in HR received what was presumably the same ridiculous spiel I received on my first day, I wondered whether he would disrupt the power dynamic among the interns, disrupting the balance that John and I had created the week before.

The new intern was named Ygal. I disliked him immediately because of his name, that reeked of a kid who would be Jewish with a Vengeance. By that I mean the type of kid who has grown up in a small Jewish community, isolated within it, a small minority that is resentful and fearful of the larger society around it, but openly embracing of its culture. The archetype is proud to be different, but wears that pride in neurotic fear, always worried that the next pogrom is going to engulf his little shetl. This pride mixed with fear creates a type of self-loathing, but one that is not outwardly expressed as loathing, but rather (quite unwittingly ironically) as an aloof sense of self worth. He is affable, happy to glad-hand anybody he deems as being on his side in the fight. He espouses political views that are right wing, but he doesn’t view his views as being particularly right wing. His grand and great-grandparents were probably communists and would be disgusted with his drive towards material gain and egoistic advancement.

All of these anti-Semitic thoughts raced through my head before I even met Ygal, and I wondered how fair it was of me to be this prejudiced based simply on someone’s name. I wondered if I was simply fulfilling the anti-Semite’s view of being a self-loathing Jew. But then I realized that I loathe most groups of people much more than this harmless sect of people who are Jewish with a Vengeance, so I was probably safe. I also realized that he would probably have an instant connection with me and would also probably know some of the people that I had met in my travels.

Ygal came up to the fifth floor and was led around by Marty, circling the floor before he reached my desk. Ygal was shorter than myself, tanned and freckled, with short jet black hair. He looked kind of like Sal Mineo as Dov Landeu in the film Exodus, and had in fact just arrived in Omaha the day before from a two week long program in Israel, where he was taught how to defend Israel while on a college campus. He was friendly and happily shook his hand, and I was genuinely glad to have him in my department, it seemed like his outward attitude would open John up more and help build a stronger group.

Ygal was from Omaha, but went to school at the University of Texas. He was quick to inform me that he was a ‘frat boy’, a badge he wore with honor (a good way to way it); he informed me that he was a “part time student and a fulltime ZBT.” All in all, Ygal was good to have around, and I don’t want to sound too patronizing, we come from very similar backgrounds (so maybe I just don’t have much self-respect…).
The work week passed quickly, and before I knew it, it was Thursday. Caprice, Jess and I had made plans to go on what was called “The Taco Ride,” a twenty mile bike ride through Iowa that happened every Thursday. This week was supposed to be an even bigger event because it was right before the Fourth of July, and many more people were supposed to come out. There was even a local band hired to play music at the end.

While sitting at work, I got a text message from Caprice asking me if I was still going to go biking with them. I heartily responded “yes”, and waited for forty-five excruciatingly long minutes before I would be able to clock out and get home to prepare for the Taco Ride. Finally, I was able to leave my office and go home. When I got there, neither Jess nor Caprice was there, and I got a text message from Caprice saying that they were at the gas station putting air in their bike tires, but that I should go ahead help myself to a beer in the fridge. Unable to resist such an offer, I obliged Caprice, and waited for her to get back. When Caprice and Jess returned, I found out that we would be going over the river to Iowa in separate cars; I would go with Caprice, and Jess would pick up her friend Brooke and come after us. I got in the car with Caprice, and soon enough, we were in Iowa, ready to bike down the ten mile trail to the small hamlet that lay at the end.

Once we parked the car, Caprice took out her camelback, which she informed me was filled with Iced Tea and Vodka. She offered me a sip, and again, I obliged. She also informed me that the pack on her bike was full of beer, and that she expected us to have them finished by the time we got back later that night. The evening was beginning to look interesting.

We started off down the nature path, slowly at first, but then picking up speed. The path was built on what used to be a rail line, but, along with most small rail lines, had fallen out of us somewhere around the middle of the last century. After years of disuse and neglect, the tracks had been pulled up, and lo and behold, a beautiful bike path was ready for the general public. The path wound effortlessly through rolling plains of Iowa, fields full of corn passed as I peddled my way passed the rows and rows of corn that you could see clearly through for and instant when the angle was just right. There were barns too, not like the dilapidated, worn out barns of upstate New York or the commercial dairy farms of Pennsylvania, but large majestic Midwestern barns. Every once in a while, a couple on horseback would pass us, slowly trotting along in the opposite direction.

Caprice kept on telling me how good the Taco Ride was (as if I couldn’t already see that), and that once we got to “Margarita-ville,” we would be able to fully experience it. She said that Cole (our landlord) and his friends were already at Margarita-ville, and that we would meet Jess there. Caprice kept on repeating “Margarita-ville,” and it took me a while to realize that it wasn’t just a state of mind, but a name for the midpoint on the trail, the place where everyone stopped and began to enter the proverbial Margarita-ville. But, as it turned out, most people could not wait until the midpoint Margarita-ville to start drinking. As we moved on down the path, we began to see groups of people about every quarter mile stopped on the side of the road, chugging beers. Near one group that seemed friendly, but not boisterous, Caprice and I pulled over, and she opened up her bike-pack, revealing a surprising amount of Miller Lites. The people we stopped with ranged in age from about Caprice’s age to about 45, and we enjoyed a nice rest together before we set out, down the windy path towards Margarita-ville.

As we got closer, the road got more and more crowded, it was obvious that hundreds of bikers were now on the path, all with one common goal. Margarita-ville was nothing more than a clearing in the woods, where a couple of picnic tables had been set up, but a mass of bikers had transformed it into a meeting ground, a resting place where they could express themselves. Bikes lay strewn about the sides of the road, music blared from speakers that people brought, and people lit tiki torches they had brought with them on the back of their bikes. Almost as soon as Caprice and I pulled in, we found Cole and his friends, two of his fraternity brothers, who had had much more to drink than caprice and myself. What had really gotten to them was the concoction that Cole had in his camelback, which was an amalgamation of beer, lemonade mix, and vodka. Pretty soon, Jess and her friend Brooke came riding in, and we were ready to continue to the end of the trail.

Once we pulled out of Margarita-ville, we biked a lot harder. There were fewer people drinking on the side of the road, and everyone just wanted to get to the tiny town at the end where everybody would be congregating. At one point, Cole veered off the road and fell into a ditch, cutting his forehead on a branch, but for the most part, the ride went smoothly, and we were in town in no time.

When we pulled into town, (which consisted of nothing more than a bar and a small general store, real Wild West), bikes were everywhere. There were so many, that nobody bothered to lock theirs up, they just left them leaning against any free piece of wall they could find. The cover band was already playing, and bad classic rock streamed through the air. A large crowd of people in shorts and biking clothes was assembled in front of the stage, watching the younger and drunker people dive into a foam pit that had been set up directly in front of the stage, a giant bubble blower blowing more and more foam onto the kids. We parked out bikes and walked into the bar, where Cole had had some more of his fraternity friends waiting for us, saving us seats. The bar was packed, and even they, a cheap bar that was used to having crowds on Thursdays was not expecting this many people. We sat down, eventually, the waitress got to us, and we ordered lots of tacos, lots of cheese balls, and lots of alcohol: bad beers, bad margaritas, and bad tequila shots. The food and booze came eventually, and everyone gorged themselves. One of Cole’s friends went over to the table next to ours that was full of college girls and tried to pick some of them up and bring them over to us, but they politely laughed him away.

Eventually, we decided to leave, and after struggling to pay (it really was hard to give them our money, they were too busy to even acknowledge it), we stumbled out of the bar. The band was playing the last of its numbers, and someone in our group decided to lead us into the foam pit, where we proceeded to cover each other in foam. After five more minutes, the band left the stage and put on recorded music, we stayed in the foam pit, listening to Bob Dylan’s Mr. Tambourine man, and suddenly everyone was quite depressed and felt like they were somehow wasting their lives drunkenly frolicking in foam. Also at that point, someone decided to get a hose out and start spraying cold water on us.

Soaking wet with water and foam, we left the pit, and returned to our bikes. Somehow, on that way, we got split up, and I was left with Jess and Brooke, while Caprice, Cole and Cole’s friends were nowhere to be found. The three of us eventually decided to take off into the dark alone. Jess was the only one of us who had functioning bike lights, so she rode behind me, illuminating the dark path ahead of me as I rode on, into the abyss from which I had come earlier that day. Along the way back, fireflies dotted the path, leaving a small portion of the air, their own little world, illuminated around them. At margarita-ville, we found Caprice, who was being touched very sexually by a Spanish man on a bike. She looked very uncomfortable. When she saw us, her face lit up, and she informed us that one of Cole’s friends had locked his bike to someone else’s and couldn’t find the key; we should just leave without them. We finally got back to the parking lot around midnight, and Caprice decided it wouldn’t be a good idea for her to drive home, so she called her mother, who quickly drove by and picked us up.

By this point, Caprice was pretty drunk, and her mother could tell it. She was not angry or disappointed in Caprice, only kept chiding her for her use of vulgar language. We were low on gas, so we stopped at a gas station. Caprice quickly jumped out of the car and offered to pay for the gas. Her mother insisted that she shouldn’t, but Caprice wouldn’t let up, so her mother relented and said “only five dollars worth!” Caprice put thirty into the tank. When we got back in the car, Caprice’s mother thanked her profusely, and Caprice told her that with her new job, she could afford to do such a thing. Her mother agreed somewhat, but still didn’t like her charity, but then calculated how much more her daughter made than she (about two and a half times), and decided it was okay. We pulled into the alley of our house around 12:30, and there were children laughing and lighting off sparklers for the Fourth of July holiday weekend.

It was then that I remembered that the next day was “executive grill day” at the office, and my floor was having a potluck lunch, and I had signed up to make rosemary potatoes. I panicked, and began cooking, as the rest of my house continued to party (even Matt and Paul). By two, the potatoes were done, and I headed off for bed.

I woke the next day after my adventure, and walked to work, surprisingly alert and awake. Everyone was wearing casual clothing and was quite laid back. My potatoes were a great success and the entire floor ate together in the big conference room, laughing and joking. Phil, the big boss, questioned me in front of everybody, and I held my own, returning with wit and banter of my own. I arrived home in a mood ready for the Fourth of July.

Fireworks had been going off since Thursday night, and only grew in number and frequency as the weekend progressed. Technically, fireworks are illegal within the city limits of Omaha, but you would be hard pressed to find a family that didn’t launch them. Every house in the city limits had its own mini arsenal ready to go up when the time was right. The fireworks continued on intermittently throughout the weekend, until , at 9:30 on Saturday night, all hell broke loose. All around my house, rockets flared up to the sky, illuminating it in red and yellow tones for an instant. Gun shots surrounded my house, as I looked in awe at this great siege. The annual oblation to the great war gods of American society –Jefferson, Washington and Madison—had begun.

The Hispanics I live among celebrate America with a type of furor I had not seen. They celebrate it not in a cerebral or solemn way, but rather in a way which is alive and exciting. The pulse of their excitement could be felt in the air. From my second floor perch in my room, I could see the fireworks, but couldn’t feel them, the deep rumbles that emanate as they set off, so I stepped outside. I was greeted with a stench of sulfur, and a cloud of smoke that engulfed my view; the entire street had been transformed into a war zone. Black clouds lingered in the air like flak, the remnants of fireworks and glories past

The Hispanic kids next door set off fire crackers and roman candles in the street. Shrieks of joy and fear were let off by the children as the older men looked on with glee at the power they wielded. Every once in a while, a car would drive down the street, through the smoke that now engulfed it, a small convoy trying to find its way out of a street on fire. Every five minutes, a new family would begin its own display, trying to outdo the others The attacks were intermittent, with families taking the initiative when the explosions had stopped to launch their own rockets into the sky. Sometimes, I wouldn’t be able to see the blaze from the fireworks, only hear their violent shrieks as they were launched into the air. For a moment, I saw a rabbit sitting silently in the road, seemingly transfixed by this bizarre primate ritual of violence, before it scampered off. It’s odd how violence has been ritualized and reconstructed in a way that is peaceful and even aesthetically beautiful. There is a natural impulse to want to recreate the violent, after all, war is in many ways similar to many parts of our society, and is in fact a highly ritualized action (when not perverted by mechanized murder—war as a ritual can actually be quite beautiful and less physically violent than many other aspects of society). I was able to sit peacefully and calmly on my porch, listening to Woody Guthrie and watch as the world exploded around me. It seemed to me at that point that the problem with modern war was that the symbol had been removed from it. If only violence could be about aesthetics and honor, war would be quite acceptable.
The next week in work was rather calm. I was putting the finishing touches on two of the projects I had been working on, so not much new happened. I ended up having to present the projects in two different meetings, both of which went much longer than I expected, but I held my own, and they went quite well in the end. The week also welcomed in another new employee to the pricing department, a young man named Chris, who was taking over a job from Chris (yes), who had left two weeks earlier. On his first day, we all went out to eat lunch at a new pizza/sandwich shop that had opened up nearby. Ian was quite excited because he had read online that they had a gluten-free menu and pizza.

I introduced Ian earlier, but I will take this time to do so again. Ian is about 28, short, a little pudgy, but not fat, and balding. What hair he has left is ruddy, reddish-brown. He wears a chin strap beard, so he looks like an Amish or Abraham Lincoln. He is easily excitable and always ready for a joke, but more often than not, the jokes are at his expense. He is sweet, but easy to make fun of, and very often engages in self-deprecating humor (or at least humor that opens itself up to it). He likes it because it is his way of communicating with the world, and around the office, people like him because he lightens the mood up and he actually does his work quite well. Anyway, he was very excited about this gluten-free pizza, but when we got to the new restaurant, it turned out they didn’t have the technology for gluten-free pizza quite set up yet. In an instant, Ian went through a range of emotions, from rage, to disapproval, to a quite acceptance, back to a fit of rage. His face turned red, eyes watered up and he stormed out of the restaurant. Eventually, he came back in, sat down without ordering anything and attempted to joke his way through the meal to take attention away from his outburst against a society that wasn’t built for him. It didn’t work particularly well, and eventually Gina went over to comfort him. Such is the tragic life of a comic, the sad essence of the court jester.