Douglas Dorow - The Ninth District

At the commercial break, after the news and before the weather, the man swallowed the last mouthful of his favorite Merlot, cleared the dishes from the breakfast bar, and put them in the dishwasher before calling his dog.

“Vince, come on, let’s go for a walk!” The golden lab trotted in from the other room where he’d been sleeping and headed for the door, the word “walk” his signal for action. Bending down to scratch Vince’s neck, he whispered in the dog’s ear. “There you are. Are you ready to go, my friend? Did you hear the news? They’re calling me The Governor.”

Vince was a recent acquisition from the Hennepin County Humane Society. A two-year-old golden lab who was mellow, loyal to whoever fed and paid any attention to him, and the perfect cover for somebody who wanted to walk through neighborhoods or along River Road without drawing any attention from local residents. If you had a dog, walked it on a leash, and picked up after it, you were assumed to be a nice guy. The Governor had grown to appreciate the unwarranted affection and the company of somebody to listen to his plans, dreams, and accomplishments without interrupting; and he appreciated that he could live without fear of his companion telling anybody else.

Out on the street, Vince sniffed at the air and they headed out on their walk. The wind from the river was warm with the unique smell of the Mississippi, and flowed between the buildings, pushing discarded plastic bags along the ground. “Vince, you know where we’re going, right? I just had to get a closer look tonight.” As they crossed the Hennepin Avenue Bridge and walked beneath the superstructure, the Governor’s pace quickened, along with his heart rate. Vince sniffed his way across the bridge, meandering where his nose took him, marking his territory along the way. As they got closer, the Governor stared at the Federal Reserve building, dreaming of the riches it controlled, both inside and moving between banks. It was an impressive, beautiful building. Its greatness more than beautiful architecture, it also represented money and power.

Arriving on the west bank of the river, they turned to the north, the Governor unable to take his eyes from the building. They didn’t linger long. Even with the dog, the Governor didn’t stop long enough to draw attention to himself. They had to keep moving. Only the homeless men that hung out on the benches along the bike path were invisible, unregistered by the rest of the population as long as they didn’t bother anybody.

“Come on Vince, let’s go home.” They turned around and headed the other direction to complete their loop.

They headed south to the Stone Arch Bridge to walk back across the river. The bridge was a relic from the days that trains dominated transport of goods into Minneapolis, now converted to a pedestrian bridge. The Governor was deep in thought with his plans on how to penetrate the fortress. Starting across the bridge, Vince pulled on his leash and whined, breaking the Governor’s trance.

“Hey, quit pulling.”

Vince strained at the end of the leash, pulling the Governor to the side of the bridge, and peered through the railing at something down below. Three figures were clamoring along the bank towards the mill ruins. The Governor and Vince watched the trio dressed in dirty coveralls and tall rubber boots as they disappeared into one of the openings in the riverbank. “Where did they go?”

The Governor completed the loop with his dog and returned to the condo. He gave a couple of Milk Bones to Vince.

“OK, buddy. Take a break. I’ll be back in a little while.” Vince took the treats over to his dog bed, did the little spin dogs do before they lie down, and finally flopped down to eat his treat. The Governor locked the door and headed down to his car in the parking garage.

Firing up the Mercedes SUV, the Governor headed out and followed almost the same route he had just walked. He parked along the curb on West River Road, just south of the old mill buildings, got out of his car, and pulled a backpack out of the rear of the car. Flinging it over his shoulders, he headed down the bank towards the Mississippi, following the route he’d seen the trio from the bridge take. At the riverbank, he clamored along the edge and entered an opening that looked like a tunnel entrance. Inside, he flipped on his flashlight, shed the pack, pulled out a pair of dirty coveralls, and struggled to pull them on over his clothes. With assured movements that came from frequent practice, he zipped up the coveralls, grabbed a helmet out of his pack, put it on his head, and turned on his headlamp. Leaving his pack and coat along the wall, he looked into the tunnel and proceeded, following the lighted path from his headlamp and the flashlight in his hand.

Even though he was an experienced caver, he always had to focus to get himself to enter a cave, especially alone. He knew where he was going; he’d explored the maze of caves and sewers beneath the city many times. The draw was the beauty and quiet below the streets and buildings of Minneapolis. It was a pleasant place to explore. In the summer, it was cool and in the winter, it was warm with a temperature a constant fifty-three degrees Fahrenheit. Alone in a world of flowstone, mineral deposits, stalactites, and other beautiful, natural geological formations, he was a world away from any problems he had on the surface.

As long as he stuck to the naturally occurring tunnels and stayed away from the sewers, he could have been an explorer in one of any caves around the world. It was the sewers that let you know you were beneath the city. The smell always hit you first. The toilet paper, condoms, cigarette butts, and other junk flowing by in the sewer were additional reminders; that, and the rats.

He walked to the end of the cave, the circles of light from his headlamp and flashlight leading the way, and peered down into the hole he needed to squeeze through. After a couple of deep breaths, he bent over and entered head first, arms over his head, wiggling and pulling his body through the tight opening. He bent his body around the bend, squirmed, and turned, repeating the process until he wiggled his way through. Now, he was ready to belly-crawl through the tunnel. His headlamp lit the path ahead, but he couldn’t see more than ten or twelve feet because of the bends in the tunnel. He dragged himself along with his elbows and pushed with his feet and his knees. The tunnel wasn’t tall enough to allow him to crawl. He hated this part — the feeling that the ground was pushing in on him with him having nothing other than experience to gauge the distance he had traveled or how much farther he had to go.

With about thirty feet to go, he heard the muffled noise from up ahead. He shuffled and squirmed further, thankful for the noise and for remembering to put on the knee and elbow pads. With ten feet to go, he could see the light and he was able to hear the voices. His helmet bumped and scraped on the top of the tunnel, reminding him he was still in its grip. With five feet to go, he could hear the laughter, see the light, and smell the sweet, distinctive aroma of marijuana drifting up into the tunnel. Finally, he had reached the exit into the larger chamber of another cave. He stuck his head out and looked down. Twelve feet below were the three men he and Vince had seen earlier climbing along the riverbank. They sat on the floor of the cave passing a joint between them.

“Hey,” he shouted. “What are you guys doing?”

One jumped and swung his flashlight up and shined it into his eyes. “Christ, you scared the shit out of me.”

The others pointed their lights up. “Hi boss,” they yelled in unison.

The Governor rolled onto his back and reached up to grab the handles affixed above the hole in the wall. He smoothly pulled himself up and pushed his hips out of the hole until he stood on the lip of the horizontal shaft. He found the ladder rungs below him with his feet and started down. At the bottom, he shook out his arms and legs, brushed off his knees and elbows, removed his gloves, and walked over to the trio.