"BUY IT. READ IT. PISS YOURSELF"- Anson Mount (Star of AMC's Hell on Wheels) FARGO - where a day seems like a week, a week like a year and a bullet to the brain like a blessing. A place where people hope their weeknight bowling leagues will improve a little each year, enjoy living in the midst of rainbow sherbet and the chance at a "Bingo" every weekend. Unbelievable as it sounds, at age twenty-three, Fargo native Scott Nankivel decides he wants more. As the dreamer packs up his Dodge Dart and heads down Main Street for Los Angeles, he reflects on the youth he spent in small-town America. He shares stories about his gaseous, bingo-obsessed mother, who tried to cure his latent bedwetting with electric shock; the local prostitute, whose services could be secured with a shiny quarter; and the Lutheran minister's son who decided to become a woman. Nankivel offers an amusing and heartfelt glimpse into the zany characters who shaped him into the "man" he is today. He revels in the memories of Fargo and its people and ultimately realizes they've permeated his heart forever. If the Coen brothers put the town on the map, he plans to take it back off.

FARGO

Behind the Glitz and GlamourBy SCOTT NANKIVEL

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Scott Nankivel
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-6223-9

Contents

Home Cock-a-Doodle-Doo!....................................1Twelfth Street Transsexual or Wannabe?.....................11Eleventh Street Flipper Tooth..............................19Tenth Street Whoops, Just Let a Boomer.....................27Ninth Street Kuntz.........................................48Eighth Street Caskets 'n' More.............................61Seventh Street Gestalt Therapy.............................73Sixth Street Potty Pal.....................................84Fifth Street Come to Jesus.................................90Fourth Street Tupperware Party.............................100Third Street Bingo Charlie.................................106Second Street Sour Cream Raisin Pie........................115First Street Miles of Wheat................................123APPENDIX Recipes...........................................129

Chapter One

HOME Cock-a-Doodle-Doo!

Fargo—where a day seems like a week, a week like a year, and a bullet to the head like a blessing. When I speak of Fargo, I technically speak of West Fargo, the smallest of the three sections—North Fargo and South Fargo being the other two. The last time I looked, the population was twelve thousand. It will either grow or be swallowed by weeds; neither would surprise me.

The city sits on the eastern border of North Dakota—so far east, in fact, there was apparently no room for an East Fargo. Our state is bordered by Minnesota, South Dakota, Montana, and the country of Canada. For those of you not familiar with North Dakota's terrain, it's ... how do I put this delicately? ... it has none. It's a huge football field full of wheat, with nothing taller than a cow to obstruct the horizon. If you suddenly drive off the road in a blizzard, you'll never know it. That's why we have fences around our fields: not to keep the cattle in, but to keep the cars out. Otherwise, who knows where you'd end up? "Oh my God, we're in Canada!"

North Dakota has been nicknamed the "Prairie State," and all one has to do is look out a window to realize that it's not an excessively imaginative title. But then, we're not overly imaginative people. The stark prairie terrain, as it washes over the edge of the North Dakota horizon, lends a feeling of infinite bland. Some say you can stand on the western border and wave to a friend on the eastern border. But the ones who say that are usually loaded on strawberry Boone's Farm. Aside from the definitive laws of physics, I guess the only obstacle that might block your view of the eastern border is Salem Sue, the world's largest statue of a Holstein cow.

Just outside of New Salem, it stands thirty-eight feet tall, fifty feet long, constructed entirely out of fiberglass and hollow—much like its entertainment value. It was built in Wisconsin for the New Salem Lions Club, and then transported in three parts. A professional artist was hired to direct the assembling. (Note: It's money well spent to have professional direction when putting three pieces of a cow together. A rank amateur might have made the embarrassing mistake of putting the head where the ass is supposed to be.) A website honoring the statue claims: "Salem Sue is known worldwide." Interesting. I defy you to travel anywhere outside of the tri-state area, much less the country, and find anyone who's heard of Salem Sue. Of course, I've never been to Zimbabwe. Maybe she's the talk of the town over there.

Despite possessing a glob of fiberglass in the shape of a cow, tourism has never been a strong point for us. State government recently suggested that the word North in our state's name is what's killing the tourist trade. But when all you've got to offer vacationers is a large cow statue, maybe the word North isn't your biggest problem. Adding insult to injury, in 1927 the folks in South Dakota chiseled away at a mountain until four presidents' faces were perfectly dimensioned in stone, right down to the pores in their skin. Washington, Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt, and Lincoln all look down from their rocky mountaintop, reminding everyone that even the impossible is possible. After all that hard work, it's a real shame that Mount Rushmore doesn't have the worldwide popularity of Salem Sue.

The portrait of Fargo is similar to that of other older, medium-sized Midwestern towns: a main street, an elementary school and a high school, a library, and various businesses sprinkled throughout the remainder of the city. The city is bordered by the Red River on the east and the Sheyenne River on the west—each a branch of the mighty Mississippi, and each making flood disasters a way of life for the people of Fargo.

Traffic flow is meager enough to be managed with stop signs rather than stoplights. Because of one stubborn farmer, an odd few acres along Twelfth Street are still functioning as a grain field. He's holding out for the big bucks, and nobody's happy about it; after all, Fargo is a city on the make. Every entrepreneur in town has his eye on the plot of land. At one time Erv Raymond wanted to build a new bowling alley there; the Catholics believe another church should go up and are kneeling at attention with shovels in hand; and the Lutherans would like to build as well, but they're ... Lutherans, so they're about nine thousand bake sales short of an opening bid. Despite the haystacks, Twelfth Street has become one of the "hot spots." There is a row of new houses, a strip mall, and a Live Bait & Liquor store. It's a bewildering phenomenon to me that in order to own a store in the Midwest, it seems you're required to hand paint a sign that reads: Live Bait & ... [fill in the blank]. Night Crawlers & Beer. Minnows & Marshmallows. The second part doesn't matter. They're convinced that anything will sell better if advertised next to something that will help you catch fish. Leeches & Bibles.

Today I will be moving away from my hometown of twenty-three years, headed to Los Angeles, the land of hopes, dreams, and loose women with huge jugs. The truth behind my leaving is simple: I want more than what Fargo has to offer. I'm a dreamer, an artist; the passion to become the next big movie star is bursting from my pores. The television and movies were what honed my dreams from being an artist of some type to becoming an actor, and finally to the laser-sharp aspiration of being in People magazine.

Because of Fargo's modest disposition, I spent most of my childhood keeping my dreams to myself for fear of ... well, for fear of people saying, "Keep your dreams to yourself." The people of Fargo—in my eyes, anyway—have always seemed to believe less is more; I've always thought more will never be enough. Every week my mother was satisfied with simply reading People magazine, but not me, no sir. The only thing that would satisfy me was my face on the cover. And not a "body shot," mind you. I envisioned nothing less than bottom of my chin to the top of my hair covering the entire page. Comparatively, Fargonians have very, very, very subtle aspirations. They're content being content. They live in everydayness. They don't want to rock the boat; they want only to sit in it and troll around the lake on weekends. They want only to attend their afternoon card parties, with whist on Saturdays and pinochle on Sundays. They want for their weeknight bowling league to improve just a little each year, and maybe one day take that first place...