In 1997 I wanted to believe the maximum score on the MCAT was 25, but that is my memory altering reality to protect my ego. Actually, the total possible score was 45, three sections that total 15 each and the writing sample (scored from J through T). My score was a 17. Not so low that it was embarrassing (pretty close though), but not high enough for a medical school to ask me for an interview; even with two doctor’s as parents (and alumni). The writing sample was better, I scored a “P”. Still not sure how or where a “P” fits into the rest of the score, nor how a medical school board would interpret it. Maybe something to the effect of “well Tom and Jan, at least your son can write!” I was fond of the 17, it’s a prime number, and the “P” is the first letter of my name, so in the end I could live with that.
My MO would be to pout, hold my head low and wait for people to ask me what’s wrong. Very attractive huh? But I didn’t do that. I didn’t want to talk about it. It was a Friday night so I decided to have drinks with my friend’s. We met at W. A. Frost’s in Saint Paul. Dan, my good friend from the dorm days was tending bar there and we went to crash his scene. The evening was mostly a bust because Kara brought a girlfriend of her’s that was very manic. She was dancing all over the bar making a scene because someone had mysteriously paid off her student loan of $27,000. She assumed it was her estranged mother that was trying to make peace on a lifetime of feuding. Unfortunately, ‘manic’ would find out later it wasn’t her mom who paid the debt but rather it was a clerical error. But at the time we didn’t know, so we reveled in her lottery winnings. Eventually, Dan had to ask us to leave because we were being too loud (‘manic’ was being too loud).
I was quiet enough for Mark to notice because he asked me what was wrong. I didn’t want to talk about it so I told him that I didn’t feel well and wanted to go home. Not exactly the grandest of Friday nights, but under the circumstances I just didn’t have it in me.
I came home and looked at the piece of paper again. It had life that number 17 - it had longevity and meaning. I know it sounds weird to go for a run on a Friday evening but the route I take is beautiful at night and I needed to run fast and see the city and the river. I suited up in my tennis shoes and a jersey from my high school days. I stepped out in front of my building as I was lacing up my kicks, a car full of guys’ drove up. One of the guys rolled down his window and laughed and said, “hey guys it’s Richard Simmons.”
If you’re reading this and you know me, then you are aware I have big hair. Also, I’m a big guy. So, from a certain point of view, I could see where he was coming from. What could I do in a moment like that? Take offense? No. I laughed with them and gave them the six shooter finger-hand-gun maneuver and started on my run.
The route I would take was: across the James J. Hill Stone Arch bridge over the Mississippi; then along the West Bank of the river; back across the river via the Hennepin Avenue Bridge; and finally through Nicollet Island and Saint Anthony. It was a big square about 3 miles. The best part of a late evening run was the solitude along with a lit up skyline and the echoes of night life. No one sees runners and being invisible was exactly what I needed.
As I approached the pedestrian bridge I thought to myself what my parent’s would think running at a time like this. They would be worried I was going to throw myself over the bridge into the river. I laughed at the prospect. The thoughts of the test scores cleared from my mind as I looked up at the amazing skyscrapers lit up against the black clear night.
As I dropped down along the west bank I was surprised by a man on a park bench, his arms outstretched to the side. Then I noticed the woman kneeling and her head bobbing up and down over his lap. He was just as surprised to see me as I was him; I just did what anyone would do, I kept on running, although I did give him the universal hand gesture for ‘I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me’.
The Hennepin Avenue Bridge is a beautiful expansive structure linking the heart of downtown Minneapolis with the Northeast. It was a suspension bridge with lights along each curve. In the black of night it was like a spotlighted sculpture. The path continued up to the deck of the bridge via a spiral staircase. I liked to take those stairs like I was pretending to try out as a firefighter like William Baldwin in Backdraft; other times like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman.
I emerged onto the bridge to see a man running full speed in my direction. He was dressed in casual clothes not on a midnight run. I realized he was panicking. He started speaking very broken english, something about a girl on the bridge and then he pointed. I could see his Yellow Taxi Cab and then in the dark standing on the precipice was a young woman. I looked at him and said, “go call 911!” He sprinted towards downtown and I sprinted towards the girl.
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