A Walk Downtown

I went into downtown Saint Paul the other day. I didn't really have a reason for it; I've just been walking around my own neighborhood so much lately, I wanted to change things up.

I spent four summers of my youth downtown working in an inner-city art program called ArtsWork. Considering that I loathe summer, those were some of the best ones I ever had. Our little group would pound the grayish-gold pavement, writing thoughts and observations in our notebooks. Then we'd head back to the air-conditioned central library and refine them into memoirs and poetry. In the burning afternoon heat, we would unleash our words on EcoLab Plaza in of high-energy poetry slams, sometimes aiming for prizes, but often just for fun. Other times we would take our stacks of brain goo over to Landmark Center and run its old copy machine to hell and back, assembling booklets to sell in the company shop. I did that until 2004, when I became too old to be hired.

After that, my excuse for going downtown was only to visit my friend Evan. When he lived at home, we would bus there and amble through the skyways and chow down at the food court, chatting about life and politics, work and art, this and that. He got an apartment a few years ago, so now I drive there in a car.

After that, my trips downtown were limited only to events: graduations at Roy Wilkins Auditorium; operas at the Ordway; or seeing an exhibit at the Science Museum. There simply wasn't much going on to justify spending my time there.

That Monday, though, I had seen enough of my own neighborhood for a while and I had plenty of free time. I still had money on my bus card, so I waited at the curb and hopped on. It wheeled me through the park, through Frogtown and finally to West 7^th Street, where I always get off. Saint Paul is small for a major city— I can walk around the downtown perimeter in 45 minutes—but that day I felt like sticking to my old haunts.

Mickey's Diner was on the corner, an old streetcar turned into a one-of-a-kind greasy spoon; I thought about trying it, but the lunch crowd was in full force. Maybe next time, I decided, as I had many times before.

I walked a few blocks and into Landmark Center, the headquarters for Compas, which sponsored ArtsWork. I thought something might be going on; it's often used for parties, weddings and art shows. Not as such. The main room was silent and empty, save the janitor preparing a carpet-cleaning machine. There was a big display in the entrance about the negro baseball leagues of old (Indianapolis Clowns; what a name!). I mused over that for a bit, then left out the other side of the building.

Landmark Center empties onto Rice Park, a pleasant patch of greenery home to a gorgeous fountain, a hot dog cart, and a few homeless men. Beyond that is the library I spent so much time in: the ArtsWork, home base, and the spot where Evan and I talked about superheroes and waited for rides. As I tried to go in, though, the present reared its ugly head; the door was locked and wouldn't be opening until noon. I should have expected that; the library near my house had its hours cut, too.

Instead, I took the underground path, which oddly enough turns into the skyway system, and wandered through the modest buildings. I smiled to see places and signs in the buildings looking as I remembered them, and turned glum when they didn't. There used to be a sweet shop with a popcorn machine in the Pioneer Press's building, but it's gone now. I never went in there, and now I wish I had.

The next building over always had a high-class feel to it, but the times seemed to have gotten to it. When I worked at ArtsWork, there was a wooden statue of a butler standing near one of the entrances, and now his spot is vacant. Further in, one of its grand wooden doors had disappeared, replaced by a small red rope barrier like the ones in movie theaters. A laminated piece of paper on the molding read: "Do not enter. Alarm will sound." Humorously, scrawled under it was the response I myself would have given: "then get a door!"

Another building after that, I reached EcoLab Plaza's food court. Thankfully, the economic downtown hadn't managed to get its hooks in Pino's Pizzeria, my favorite downtown eatery. They even still had their best deal: when you buy two slices, you get a free drink. The pizza felt thinner than I remember, but it tasted just as good.

When I left through another skyway, though, a gruesome sight almost made me wish I hadn't eaten. Smeared at staggered heights along the windows were ghostly visions of wings, chests and foreheads, the remains of pigeons that hit the glass. Below the marks were drapes of spattered white where the splattered birds had loosed their bowels, flowing out like an angelic gown. I stared at the shapes for a few moments, wondering how something so sad and gross could look so divine.

Turning away, I headed for EcoLab Plaza's entrance. Nothing had changed there: the Hallmark store, the deli stand and even the popcorn cart looked just like they used to. I walked through Macy's (used to be Dayton's) and into the World Trade Center, a place that used to house a food court similar to EcoLab's. When I was a telemarketer in the summer of 1999, I would stop in at the Hardee's before going home. Now all that's there is a Subway, a McDonald's and a Chinese place... and with the clientele being the screaming runoff from the Children's Museum, I don't like to stick around.

Deciding that I had seen enough, I went outside and headed for a bus stop. I went to the one right by the old Science Museum, which was briefly the Minnesota Business Academy. It's now empty and cluttered with road construction gear. I heard the scientologists bought it a few years back, but they haven't done anything with it.

The Number 3 came quickly, and I headed for home. Downtown St. Paul isn't somewhere I go on a regular basis, nor do I plan on going back soon, but I'm glad it's still a place I can recognize.