Chuck Klosterman - Downtown Owl

Fargo Rock City:
A Heavy Metal Odyssey in Rural Nrth Dakta

Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs:
A Low Culture Manifesto

Killing Yourself to Live:
85% of a True Story

Chuck Klosterman IV:
A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas

SCRIBNER
A Division of Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2008 by Chuck Klosterman

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof
in any form whatsoever. For information address Scribner Subsidiary Rights Department,
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of The Gale Group, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, Inc., the publisher of this work.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Klosterman, Chuck, 1972
Downtown Owl: a novel / by Chuck Klosterman.1st Scribner hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. North DakotaFiction. I. Title.

PS3611.L67D69 2008
813'.6dc22
2007047088

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-8065-2
ISBN-10: 1-4165-8065-4

Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com

For Melissa, and for North Dakota.

This story is a non-autobiographical work of fiction.

FEBRUARY 5, 1984

FARGO, N.D. (UPI)At least 11 people are dead and dozens more remain missing in the wake of the Red River Valleys most cataclysmic winter storm in more than a decade.

This has been beyond a nightmare scenario, Lyle Condon of the National Weather Service said. The speed with which this particular storm system moved across the region was almost unprecedented. By the time the reality of this blizzard became obvious, it was already too late for a whole lot of people.

Surprisingly, snow accumulations from the killer storm only measure between one and two inches. The intensity of the disaster was solely a product of its wind. Pushed by an Alberta Clipper that formed over British Columbia, Saturdays storm was punctuated by gusts of between 55 and 80 m.p.h., dropping visibility in open areas to less than a foot. At 6 p.m., the windchill factor at Fargos Hector Internal Airport was measured at 74 degrees below zero. This falls in stark contrast with the local meteorological conditions just three hours prior, which NWS officials described as calm, sunny, and unseasonably warm (39 degrees).

The storms initial northerly blast knocked numerous moving vehicles off of roadways and into ditches, particularly those cars and trucks moving along an east-west trajectory. Carbon monoxide killed four people on Fargos 19th Avenue when their trapped vehicle was covered by drifting snow. The extent of the casualties remains less clear in rural areas, where many of the blizzards victims are still classified as missing.

When Mitch Hrlicka heard that his high school football coach had gotten another teenage girl pregnant, he was forty bushels beyond bamboozled. He could not understand what so many females saw in Mr. Laidlaw. He was inhumane, and also sarcastic. Whenever Mitch made the slightest mental error, Laidlaw would rhetorically scream, Vanna? Vanna? Are you drowsy, Vanna? Wake up! You can sleep when you are dead, Vanna! Mr. Laidlaw seemed unnaturally proud that he had nicknamed Mitch Vanna White last winter, solely based on one semifunny joke about how the surname Hrlicka needed more vowels. Mitch did not mind when other kids called him Vanna, because almost everyone he knew had a nickname; as far as he could tell, there was nothing remotely humiliating about being called Vanna, assuming everyone understood that the name had been assigned arbitrarily. It symbolized nothing. But Mitch hated when John Laidlaw called him Vanna, because Laidlaw assumed it was humiliating. And that, clearly, was his goal.

Christ, it was humid. When Mitch and his teenage associates had practiced that morning at 7:30 a.m., it was almost cool; the ground had been wet with dew and the clouds hovered fourteen feet off the ground. But noweleven hours laterthe sun was burning and falling like the Hindenburg. The air was damp wool. Mitch limped toward the practice field for the evenings upcoming death session; he could already feel sweat forming on his back and above his nose and under his crotch. His quadriceps stored enough lactic acid to turn a triceratops into limestone. God damn, he thought. Why do I want this? In two days the team would begin practicing in full pads. It would feel like being wrapped in cellophane while hauling bricks in a backpack. God damn, he thought again. This must be what its like to live in Africa. Football was not designed for the summer, even if Herschel Walker believed otherwise.

When Mitch made it to the field, the other two Owl quarterbacks were already there, facing each other twelve yards apart, each standing next to a freshman. They were playing catch, but not directly; one QB would rifle the ball to the opposite freshman, who would (in theory) catch it and immediately flip it over to the second QB who was waiting at his side. The other quarterback would then throw the ball back to the other freshman, and the process would continue. This was how NFL quarterbacks warmed up on NFL sidelines. The process would have looked impressive to most objective onlookers, except for the fact that both freshman receivers dropped 30 percent of the passes that struck them in the hands. This detracted from the fake professionalism.

Mitch had no one to throw to, so he served as the holder while the kickers practiced field goals. This duty required him to crouch on one knee and remain motionless, which (of course) is not an ideal way to get ones throwing arm loose and relaxed. Which (of course) did not really matter, since Coach Laidlaw did not view Mitchs attempts at quarterbacking with any degree of seriousness. Mitch was not clutch. Nobody said this, but everybody knew. It was the biggest problem in his life.

At 7:01, John Laidlaw blew into a steel whistle and instructed everyone to bring it in . They did so posthaste.

Okay, Laidlaw began. This is the situation. The situation is this: We will not waste any light tonight, because we have a beautiful evening with not many mosquitoes and a first-class opportunity to start implementing some of the offense. I realize this is only the fourth practice, but were already way behind on everything. Its obvious that most of you didnt put five goddamn minutes into thinking about football all goddamn summer, so now were all behind. And I dont like being behind. Ive never been a follower. Im not that kind of person. Maybe you are, but I am not.

Classes start in two weeks. Our first game is in three weeks. We need to have the entire offense ready by the day we begin classes, and we need to have all of the defensive sets memorized before we begin classes. And right now, I must be honest: I dont even know who the hell is going to play for us. So this is the situation. The situation is this: Right now, everybody here is equally useless. This is going to be an important, crucial, important, critical, important two weeks for everyone here, and its going to be a real kick in the face to any of you who still want to be home watching The Price Is Right. And I know theres going to be a lot of people in this town talking about a lot of bull crap that doesnt have anything to do with football, and youre going to hear about certain things that happened or didnt happen or that supposedly happened or that supposedly allegedly didnt happen to somebody that probably doesnt even exist. These are what we call distractions. These distractions will come from all the people who dont want you to think about Owl Lobo football. So if I hear anyone on this team perpetuating those kinds of bullshit stories, everyone is going to pay for those distractions. Everyone. Because we are here to think about Owl Lobo football. And if you are not thinking exclusively exclusively about Owl Lobo football, go home and turn on The Price Is Right. Try to win yourself a washing machine.