“So how long are you here for?”
I heard the question a thousand times. Day after day. I felt like I was a shortstop taking grounders. The ball never took the same hop every time, though. Continue reading
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Chapter 8: Bob Seger Comes to Visit
25 Nov
“I’m at dinner with Emily and her family, what’s up?” Joe said.
I called my best friend and old roommate Joe Sweeney in an emergency. He didn’t answer. I texted him, “Call me back. It’s important.” So minutes later he finally called back.
I hastily explained the situation and he empathized, agreeing that truly was a dire situation. I could only imagine the scene of him returning to the dinner table and explaining that the emergency phone call he just made was about a Bob Seger T-shirt. But this wasn’t just any old T-shirt. Continue reading
Chapter 7: Northern Lights, Midwestern Naiveté
28 Oct
“Is this ok to eat?” I asked the chef standing near the grill.
He snickered to himself, and said, “Oh yeah. It’s good isn’t it.”
“Mm hmm,” I murmured mid-bite.
It was terrific. It was salmon. Fresh North Atlantic Salmon to be exact, and it was delicately seared on the outside and raw in the middle. The chef told me that’s the best way to serve it. He could tell I wasn’t from around here, and that I’d been eating less-than-fresh and overcooked seafood all my life. It made the three-hour stop in Portland all the more worth it.
It was the major stop on a six and a half hour drive from Boston to Presque Isle, and just the welcome to Maine moment I was looking for. Although, the billboard just across the border was a tremendous sigh and sign of relief as I entered the Pine Tree State. Continue reading
Chapter 6: Fourteen Hours to Foreman
21 Oct
“Could you turn that off?” the girl asked.
“Sure, we’ll turn it down,” I replied.
“NO. OFF!!!” she loudly rebuked.
Ok. Fine. Off. And we turned the iPod speakers off.
Gabby, Foreman, and I had been on the roof of Gabby’s Beacon Hill apartment in Boston jamming out to tunes until 12:30 in the morning. We’d just listened to a monologue on my iPod by Jean Shepherd (writer, narrator of A Christmas Story), which we had to turn way up because of its soft-spoken nature. Immediately following on shuffle was Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re an American Band” which came through the speakers admittedly way too loud for that setting at that time of night. It was like unleashing an air-horn in the middle of church. And the reaction we got was the same.
So we turned the music off and turned in ourselves for the night. It was the right call. I had another 400 miles to go in my trek. Continue reading
Chapter 5: Head East
14 Oct
“Have you ever fired a gun before?” Alex asked.
I’d never seen a gun discharged before, let alone held one and unleashed its force.
Hesitantly, I accepted the invitation to head back to the range and fire a few rounds once I reached my cousin Rachel and her husband Alex’s house just south of Detroit. I was to spend the night there before continuing on to Boston the next day. In six hours, I’d be bustin’ caps, as the kids like to say.
That thought wasn’t really on my mind, though, as I began my 3 day 1,400 mile journey from Chicago to Presque Isle. I was more worried about the canvas-covered load of furniture and possessions that was in the truck bed of the Ford F-150 I was driving. I had about 19 bungee cords securing the tarp, so I figured my coffee tables and Rubbermaid containers would be ok. The important stuff I had packed in the cab anyways. And boy was it full. Continue reading
Chapter 4: ..3…2…1… BLATZ OFF!!
7 Oct
“Well, is it a pull or a tear?” I asked Gen.
My sister had become a wife and a licensed doctor of Physical Therapy in the same week. I was putting her training to the test already to diagnose my dancing injury from the night before. Plus I was family, so the consultation was free.
“No bruising, it’s a little swollen. You probably just pulled it really bad,” Gen told me. Thank goodness. I couldn’t take time to have any kind of procedure. I have to get to Maine soon. I hoped. If not, I’d just keep on applying.
Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, that’s what I always say. Continue reading
Chapter 3: The Delay
30 Sep
“Well can’t you just go the next week?” Gen asked.
The answer was simple. I don’t want to let some oblivious putz come in, interview before me and get hired just because he had a whiter smile. So I told her that.
“Ok. Fine,” and she hung up abruptly. If she were on a rotary phone I’m sure she would have slammed it.
It’s her wedding. She only gets one. She’s entitled to her Bridezilla moments.
I don’t know what she was so worried about though. My flight was scheduled to land a FULL HOUR before the rehearsal. Like the name of my favorite friendly neighborhood-“I’ll just stop in for one…”-Irish Pub, it was Plenty O’Time. Continue reading
Chapter 2: The Interview
23 Sep
“May I give you a blessing for your travels?” he said.
I was about to embark on quite possibly the most significant trip in the quarter century I’d been alive. I needed all the good graces I could get.
“Absolutely!” I replied.
This is a Cassock
So the young ex-marine-turned Catholic priest from the Order of St. Peter laid his hands upon me in Terminal B of Charlotte’s Douglas International Airport and asked the Lord to give me a safe and successful journey.
I spotted Fr. McCambridge hours earlier in his long black cassock while we were standing in line to board at O’Hare. I didn’t much care that I cut a few folks in line to seek him out. Etiquette be damned, I was on a mission. Continue reading
Chapter 1: Fielding the Call
16 Sep
“Hi is this Jacob?”
“Yes,” I replied in a puzzled half-asleep stupor. I was just waking up and the call was coming from a 907 area code.
“Monte Bowen, KTVF in Fairbanks. I’ve got a couple questions for you…”
“Uhm sure”
What’s going on? Who’s Monte Bowen? Why is he calling me at 11:15 on a Monday morning? Where is the 907 area code? Wait a minute, Fairbanks… Alaska? Holy crap, those were call letters weren’t they. Is this a…
Before I could even grasp what was going on Monte bombarded me with questions. How’d you become interested in Alaska? Do you do sports or just news? Does the cold bother you? When can you move up here? Would you be bringing a spouse, significant other or pet with you? Would you expect us to pay for the move?
Whoah, whoah, whoah, Monte. Slow down. I don’t think you realize that I have no idea what’s going on. Continue reading
Preface: The Maine Storyline
9 Sep
“Are you lost?” the cashier asked.
Being a guy who prides himself on navigation, whether it be country roads, touchscreen menus, or trains of thought, that was not a question I was used to hearing.
“What in the hell are you doing all the way up here?” was the follow up question she asked as she glanced again at my ID.
I knew exactly where I was and what I was doing. I was at the Circle K in Presque Isle, Maine, buying a six-pack of Sea Dog Wild Blueberry to celebrate a successful 3-day, 1,400 mile journey and christen apartment C4 at 53 Dupont Drive, my new home address.
But most residents of Presque Isle had trouble grasping why a clean cut, modest looking 24-year old kid from the South Side of Chicago would move to their quiet corner of the country. Continue reading
Jake Berent 