Category: Article

Hugely respected by his peers and routinely showered with accolades in the form of rave reviews and literary prizes, Ron Carlson remains a largely unknown writer to the sort of folks who pluck their reading choices out of the new arrivals pig pile at the local [sic] book behemoth. There’s no particular reason to expect this to change any time soon, but that’s a dirty, rotten shame. Carlson is good—very good—a truly first-rate craftsman and storyteller, and a master of the short story form. Five Skies is Carlson’s first novel in more than two decades, and Publishers Weekly has called it “a tour de force of grief, atonement, and the cost of loyalty.” 3225 W. 69th St., Edina; 952-920-0633; www.barnesandnoble.com

The character of a city is largely shaped by the extent to which it can nurture grand and modest dreams in equal proportion. Everybody, of course, has their own notion regarding what constitutes a grand or modest dream. But to be truly interesting places, a city’s neighborhoods need small businesses that manage to conflate both sorts into singular brick-and-mortar entities that, over time, become important landmarks. A truly useful map of any great city would reveal a galaxy of such essential places—places like Tom’s Popcorn Shop in South Minneapolis.

Located since 1971 on Cedar Avenue just north of Minnehaha Parkway, Tom’s is the kind of quiet institution that has somehow survived the myriad changes and challenges that have claimed so many small businesses in recent decades. The continued existence of the place feels frankly improbable, and represents something of a litmus test: When you visit Tom’s Popcorn do you see a grand dream or a modest dream?

Brian Goetz, who has been behind the counter at the shop for almost three decades, is the sort of entertaining curmudgeon who instinctively hesitates to call his family business any kind of dream (unless he’s being sarcastic, which he pretty much always is), even as it’s clear that he loves his job and somehow belongs exactly where he is.

Goetz is a burly, deadpan character who always seems to be doing two or three things at once. His dad—that would be Tom—bought the shop from the original owner in 1979. “I’m not quite sure what he was thinking,” Goetz said. “He’s never had a good answer for why he bought the place, but I went to work for him right away—not very happily, I can tell you that.”

Goetz is running the place today because … well, because a number of other things didn’t work out. “I worked at Shakey’s Pizza doing food prep for a time,” he said. “And then I went to Normandale to become a copper. I actually got my license and worked up in Dakota County for a while, but I didn’t much like it. What a crappy job. Too much paperwork, and I was making peanuts. My dad was an electrician, but he had to punch a time clock, and I knew that wasn’t gonna work for me either. I guess you could say I’m kind of anti-bureaucracy. So here I am, for the rest of eternity. I have no backup plan—this is it, baby.”

Tom’s Popcorn is a tiny storefront jammed into a seriously truncated, early strip mall tucked into the middle of a neighborhood. It shares the real estate with a defunct Chinese restaurant and a convenience store. The shop is pretty much a one-man operation; Goetz drives in from his house near Hastings six days a week. He works alone, which is how he prefers it. “Having someone else here annoys the hell out of me,” he said. “I like people on that side of the counter.”

While fresh, buttered popcorn remains the staple of his business, Goetz also peddles ice cream, and upwards of fifty different versions of flavored or “enhanced” corn. He’s always experimenting. On any given day you might find grape, lime, peanut butter, chocolate, caramel, or hot and spicy varieties alongside such mainstays as caramel corn, cheese corn, and Goetz’s signature TC mix: a caramel/cheese combination.

There are also, somewhat curiously, chainsaw sculptures for sale (the proprietor’s sideline), as well as, occasionally, bundles of firewood.

Over the course of several visits, Tom’s Popcorn was bustling with business. Everyone who came in the door received a robust greeting, a greeting that was inevitably followed by some sort of hard time—good natured, it seemed, although with Goetz it’s not always easy to tell.

An older fellow requested a large bag of buttered popcorn with extra salt, and as Goetz prepared the order he shot the man a stern look and said, “Got a death wish, do you?” Two teenage boys ordering malts got grief for dawdling, but seemed to take Goetz’s ribbing in stride.

“I’ll pick on the customers,” he said a few moments later. “Sometimes I might really be hacked off, but I’ve learned that you can get away with almost anything just as long as you say it with a smile on your face.”

There’s not much of a safety net for a small operator like Goetz; he has no health insurance, but despite a recent broken ankle he doesn’t seem much concerned. “I always tell the wife that if things get too bad she should just roll me in a ditch somewhere and be done with it.”

Though the winter months are a challenge, Goetz continues to make the drive to Minneapolis from his home. “January, February, and March are terrible,” he said. “It’s just bleak. Really, really bleak.” When asked whether he ever considers closing up shop for a few weeks or months, Goetz answered with almost alarming rapidity. “No,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to do that. The wife’s at home. I come here to hide out.”

As one visitor prepared to leave, another customer entered the shop. “How’s it going, Brian?” the man asked.

“Living the dream, as always,” Goetz said, clearly in jest. It was obvious, though, that this was one of those jokes that, however unconsciously, harbored a good deal of truth.

Citizen’s arrest is no joke, as fans of The Andy Griffith Show can attest. In a memorable 1963 episode, Barney Fife issued Gomer Pyle a ticket for making an illegal U-turn, and then, as Fife was wont to do, began philosophizing. “It’s from little misdemeanors that major felonies grow,” Fife said, adding that even citizens have the responsibility to stop crime. “You’ll be a better man,” he told Pyle, “if you try to think of us all working together for a common cause.” At that, Fife left the scene, making a U-turn himself. That’s when Pyle ran after him, yelling, “Citizen’s ar-ray-est! Citizen’s ar-ray-est!”

It may come as a surprise that, in the Twin Cities, regular people issue citizen’s arrests all the time. Statistics are hard to come by—both the Minneapolis and St. Paul police departments threw up their hands—but it’s pretty safe to say that there are hundreds in the metropolitan area each year. The bulk of these citations are issued by “loss-prevention” officers, store staff who skulk after shoplifters. The rest, around a quarter of the total, are made by the public at large, usually for minor offenses such as littering, open bottle, and public urination.

Minnesota has a rather generous citizen’s arrest law. It affords a private person the right to arrest another for any misdemeanor or felony committed in their presence, and for felonies not committed in their presence (amateur felony busts are extremely rare). If the target flees, the citizen may engage in a hot pursuit. “For that purpose,” says the law, “the pursuer may break open any door or window of a dwelling house if … the pursuer is refused admittance.”

The right of one person to arrest another dates back to medieval England, when sheriffs encouraged people to make their own collars. Tom Walsh, the St. Paul Police Department’s Public Information Coordinator and an officer for thirty years, is very much in favor of the practice. “There is always the element of, ‘I don’t want to get involved,’” he said. “Police departments like to see people held accountable for their actions. We are in favor of citizen’s arrest. It works.”

Such arrests are made by organizations like the Guardian Angels. According to Minneapolis chapter spokesperson Alice Splawn, her group is learning about the statute in anticipation of a brand-new effort: riding city buses at night in hopes of quelling violent crime. “Our plan,” Splawn said, “is if there is a weapon, we would have somebody notify the driver immediately so he could stop the bus. We are not there to get shot or knifed, but we would try to detain the individual until help arrives. That would be citizen’s arrest, because we are not allowing them to leave.”

“This is a great tool that is grossly overlooked by citizens,” said Minneapolis police officer Mike Killebrew, who last year championed an effort to restrict pedestrian traffic in the city’s alleyways. “The police can only do so much and citizens have to pick up the slack.” Before attempting to pick up the slack, however, there are a few sticky matters to consider. First, by statute, you must inform your target why you are arresting them and “require the person to submit.” Then, the arrestee must be delivered to a judge or peace officer “without unnecessary delay.”

In the likely case that the target doesn’t wish to be arrested, Walsh explained that “you may use force sufficient to detain that person until they can be turned over to law enforcement.” The key is to keep your cool. Don’t go overboard, he advises, lest you find yourself “on the dark side of a lawsuit or in a physical altercation you can’t win. You have to be sure that the amount of force you’re applying fits a misdemeanor crime.” He added, “You can’t use deadly force.”

If a situation gets too contentious, don’t make the arrest. “I’m not suggesting that you walk away,” Walsh said. “On the contrary. I’m suggesting that you call the police. Walking away in my view is not a satisfactory option.” Get a good description of the individual, and a license plate number. Follow them if you can, preferably while filming with a digital camera. Killebrew heartily concurred: “You don’t want your mouth to write a check that your body can’t cover.”

Once the police arrive, you will be asked to complete a form explaining the arrest and stating that you will testify under oath. Making an ill-advised citizen’s arrest—or causing one to go wildly awry—can lead to civil and even criminal penalties. There are laws against assault, false imprisonment, and impersonating an officer. It is not recommended, for example, that you read anyone a Miranda warning, even if you’ve seen it done on television. “You are not a police officer,” said Walsh. “You are not required to give Miranda, nor can you allow a person to waive their rights.” Finally, whatever you do, do not wear a blue outfit with a hat and badge.

Climbing aboard a stool plucked from the 7th Street Entry’s barroom, local poet Éireann Lorsung offered a self-introduction. “I don’t know if you’ll believe this, but I’ve never opened for a band before.” Peering through a red fog of stage light at a small but enthusiastic crowd, the prim and somewhat elfin-looking twenty-six-year-old added, “I’ve never read in the dark before either.”

As she began to read poems, some from her debut book, Music for Landing Planes By, published in February by Milkweed Editions, her face became frozen in a tight smile. She enunciated crisply, stretching the occasional “o” and clipping a consonant every now and again, betraying her native Minnesota accent. The crowd clapped heartily at the end of her first poem, “Neighborhood 2,” a remembrance of shopping as a girl at a Russian grocery and fabric store with her mother.

“No, no, no, no. Maybe when it’s done—if you want to,” she blurted, waving her arm elbow to wrist.

The applause bore on, however. And a few poems later, Lorsung acknowledged, “Oh, the clapping does fill the empty space. I go to all these readings and we don’t clap.” Earnestly, she posed a question of her audience: “Do you clap between songs?” Realizing she had revealed a certain uncoolness about herself, she added, “I go to a lot of concerts, you can tell.”
The unlikely chain of events that led Lorsung to read her delicate works in this dungeon-like venue began earlier this year when St. Paul-based singer and songwriter Ben Weaver discovered her book, before it was even released, while considering printshops for his own just-published collection of poetry, Hand-Me-Downs Can Be Haunted. Lorsung’s book was given as a work sample. “I don’t know; I just read stuff and know whether I like it,” said Weaver, an avid reader and writer who favors the late Mississippi author Larry Brown as well as contemporary performing artist-filmmaker-writer Miranda July. Music for Landing Planes By is rather a playful, optimistic book, rich with appreciative passages about babies, birds, and ex-boyfriends. The book has a way of nudging forth a reader’s sense of wonder at the natural world. These themes struck a chord with Weaver.

And so the celebrated twenty-seven-year-old troubadour, who vaguely resembles an unshaven teddy bear, began sending Lorsung compliments and other encouraging missives. While she was teaching in France last year, he suggested, via email, that she stop by the Rex, a Parisian dance club. He mailed her a copy of his fifth and latest CD, Paper Sky. In the end, Weaver invited Lorsung to be an opening act at his CD release concert at the Entry on May 11.

The two met in person for the first time a few weeks before the show. It was a sunny morning in late April at Java Jack’s coffeehouse in South Minneapolis. “When I saw your CD, I knew why you liked my book,” Lorsung chirped, referring to the minimalist line-drawing of a pastel flock of circling birds that graces Weaver’s album cover (by UK artist Becky Blair). Even the casual reader/listener would be hard-pressed to miss how closely the album art aligns with prominent themes from Lorsung’s book—most notably, her description of “marshlands full of birds.”

Weaver concurred. “You know, when my mom read your book, she said, ‘It’s really funny, she has a lot of the same images you have on your record.’” Liken Weaver’s lyric, “a child trailing a finger in the water over the end of a boat,” for example, to this line from Lorsung: “touch the end of salt pond with a finger.” The CD and book also share fascinations with floating, flying, blood, and guts.

“I feel like this is the Postal Service or the Bright Eyes of poetry,” Lorsung said, comparing her writing to the lyrics of these popular indie bands. “I wanted this to be really specific to the aesthetic of this time.” With that, the two began bandying descriptions of a shared aesthetic that defines these times—for them and also for a whole, not-so-jaded generation of twenty-something artists.

“It’s sort of self-deprecating,” offered Weaver.

“It’s dry,” said Lorsung. “And I’m tired of irony. I’m earnest. I mean to be earnest. I would like to write things that make promises. I would like to write things that make people fall in love and make people happy.”

Weaver spat out the names of his least favorite writers: Dave Eggers and David Foster Wallace. “These are people I can’t stand,” he said.

“Yes, thank you!” cried Lorsung. “I think there’s a place for intellect but not that pooh-poohs everything.”

Now, about the small matter of opening his rock show: “Can I get a stool?” asked Lorsung. “I just don’t like standing up.”

When her reading at the Entry was finished, Lorsung was treated to an intimate, high-quality rock show. Weaver and his band bowed, strummed, and crooned their way through an introspective set of world-weary, vivid country-rock songs.

“I want to thank Éireann Lorsung for reading tonight,” said Weaver in his graveled yet gentle Leonard Cohen-like burr. “She says she likes the banjo. And so I’m going to play this song for her.” With that, he serenaded all present with the banjo-rich lament “Rain Leaves Smoke,” a song with the fitting lyric about a friend that “needs a fire to burn things back to pure.”