A Natural History of The Rube

by Keith Pille

It has always seemed to me that the fauna of south Minneapolis has been sorely neglected as a field of observation by the naturalist. With great ease, one can access nearly limitless information about the moose and the gray wolf of northern Minnesota; an aspiring trout fisherman is a mere Google search away from a full dossier on the life and habits of his prey. A birder has but to walk to the back of Borders to acquire Sibley's Guide to Birds and all of its concomitant feathered lore. But the literature remains conspicuously silent on the matter of the many strange beasts that dwell within the 494-694 beltway. To focus on one example, can we not hope to furnish the reader with a few rational and interesting facts about the basement-dwelling gentleman I like to call The Rube? I hope so.

The exact nature of The Rube is open for debate. This naturalist is currently unable to state with confidence whether The Rube represents a species separate from the norm of mankind, or if he is but an aberrant example of Homo Sapiens. Certainly, the former possibility must be entertained, as at least one Rubelet has been observed, and appears to possess most, if not all, of The Rube's distinguishing characteristics. If, in fact, The Rube represents a new branch of humanity and is succeeding in propagating the Rubish genome, the rather terrifying specter is raised of an eastern Minnesota overrun with Rube progeny at some future date. However, this naturalist posits that many of the self-defining behavioral characteristics of The Rube will help the forces of natural selection keep this trend in check, at least as long as playing badminton in a busy street remains dangerous.

These questions aside, let us embark on a more complete profile of our specimen.

While not my first encounter with the specimen, I realized that The Rube was a creature worthy of study one day during an episode in front of my apartment building. I had ridden my bicycle home from work, racing a thunderstorm that broke out about a mile before I reached home. Water fell from the sky in torrents, the frigid rainfall that comes in Minnesota early in the spring before the air has forgotten winter. I was instantly drenched and chilled. As I approached, I was relieved to see The Rube and his brother sitting on the steps under the building's eaves; I was wet and cold, my keys were buried in my backpack, and wrangling a bike through the obscenely heavy front door is difficult even under the best of conditions.

"Hey," The Rube said around his cigarette as I stopped on the sidewalk. He wore a white plastic body shield that resembled football gear without the shoulder pads. "Sure is rainin, huh? Looks like you're a little wet."

Next to him, his brother smoked in silence.

"Yeah, it's really coming down." I waited for one of them to open the door, or, failing that, to at least move a little so that I could stand under the eaves as I got my keys out.

They did neither.

"Wow, you got soaked, man. Bad day to ride your bike!"

"Yeah." It was indeed a bad day to ride my bike; my soggy, freezing clothes sat heavy on me and molded to my body. I dug my keys out and began to wrestle with the door.

"That door's a bitch, huh? I can barely open it myself, cause of my back." He pointed at his body shield.

"Yeah."

His brother continued to smoke, watching me with beady eyes hidden underneath a Twins cap.

I struggled to get my bike inside, using my body weight to prop the door open. The bike was slippery from the rain, and my shivering made it difficult to keep my hands on the headset.

"Hey, you don't need to do any laundry tonight, do you? I got a couple-"

The door closed behind me and I went up to my apartment, leaving The Rube to his brother and the rain and his Winstons.

Description and Phenotype.

The Rube is short and wiry, possessing of a bowl haircut and handlebar mustache. His face is narrow and hatchet-shaped, and an always-changing number of gold hoops hang from his ears. He stands just a bit shorter than a normal man, and would weigh approximately 110 pounds soaking wet and fully clothed. He prefers jeans of the tightest fit, and t-shirts (generally with pictures of race cars on them) tucked into them with such tension as to restrict upper-body movement.

The Rube, overall, bears an uncanny resemblance to Christopher Guest's Corky St. Clair character in the film Waiting for Guffman.

Diet and Sustenance.

Little is known about the diet of The Rube. There has, in fact, been some speculation that he does not eat at all in the conventional sense. Consider the following: in five years of study, he has not once been seen eating or even bringing food into his burrow. He has, however, been observed to smoke approximately his own body weight in Winstons every day, leading to theories that his metabolism is based on nicotine rather than more traditional forms of food. Lending credence to this theory are the numerous reported instances wherein The Rube has mentioned that his brother is coming over for a barbecue, during which the two specimens cook nothing but stand outside this naturalist's apartment windows smoking for hours on end.

How The Rube pays for this seemingly bottomless supply of cigarettes is uncertain; it is clear that his funds are extremely limited. Many are the times that your humble observer has been cornered by The Rube and subjected to an exchange somewhat like the following:

Rube: Hey buddy! How's it going?
Y.H.O.: Um, fine.
Rube: Great! I gotta tell ya, things ain't so hot for me right now. Things are tight, pretty damn tight these days.
Y.H.O.: Hmm. That's no good.
Rube: Yep... It's pretty bad. Buncha little bastards knocked the window outta my truck and- can you believe it- the insurance won't cover it! And the alternator's going out, that ain't cheap.
Y.H.O.: Yeah. That sucks.
Rube: I just gotta hold on a little longer... my lawyer says he should be able to swing a settlement for me any time now, and then I should be on easy street, you know?
Y.H.O.: Um, I need to go feed the cats.

It should be noted that The Rube has attempted to save money by entering into an agreement to the effect that he pays reduced rent for his burrow in exchange for mowing the lawn and scooping the walks. It should also be noted that these services are performed once a month at best.

Habitat.

The Rube appears to fare well in small, poorly-lit, unkempt spaces. His burrow, a two-room apartment directly underneath the living quarters of your humble observer, is notorious for its poor smell and dismal sound insulation. Both the smells and the sounds of The Rube's everyday life frequently filter through the floorboards, bringing a little bit of squalor to all those who live around him.

Like many mammals, The Rube has strong territorial tendencies. He claims the entire basement space as his domain, marking his territory in a variety of ways; the space immediately in front of his burrow is filled with jackets, buckets of old batteries, wood-carving tools, boots, dumbbells, cheap bicycles, and hooded sweatshirts bearing the logo of a construction company that is currently the defendant in a lawsuit of dubious legitimacy. The far reach of his turf is demarcated by a permanent pile of dirty socks and underwear of the sort known colloquially as "tighty-whiteys" in front of the building's washer and dryer. Forays into his territory will cause The Rube to emerge from his burrow in a cloud of smoke and ask the interloper what he's been up to lately.

Society and Behavior.

The Rube's habits are curious to say the least. Left to his own devices, he is a man of many pleasures. Most noteworthy, perhaps, is his penchant for sitting on the front steps of the apartment building carving chains and figures of naked women out of large blocks of wood. This activity is often performed to the sounds of conservative talk radio at grotesque volumes, and much nodding of the head and muttering in agreement. This naturalist could not help but note that this nodding and muttering continues unabated when said radio turns (as happens rather frequently) to the evils of frivolous lawsuits.

He frequently indulges in lengthy sessions of an unidentified video game which produces endless explosions and strange boingy noises. Instead of talk radio, the preferred soundtrack for this endeavor is rap-metal amplified well beyond the human pain threshold.

Another colorful pastime enjoyed by The Rube when alone is the multi-hour tantrum, during which he screams incoherently and throws furniture around his burrow, greatly frightening this naturalist's cats.

Still more hobbies manifest on every other weekend and occasional holidays, when The Rubelet is present. One of the most commonly observed is the attempt to play badminton in the street, with frequent breaks when cars approach. Badminton is sometimes replaced with a game involving large plastic rackets and a styrofoam ball, which tends to be slightly less damaging to the cars parked alongside the court. Often, The Rube and The Rubelet are joined in these endeavors by a neighbor woman of similar dress and habits. During these coeducational matches, The Rube is much given to striking heroic poses with his badminton racket and laughing uproariously every time the female utters a syllable. This pattern of behavior has prompted speculation that he hopes to create another Rubelet with this neighbor if the opportunity presents itself.

The Rube and Rubelet are also fond of drawing chalk body outlines on the sidewalk. Many stylistic variations have been observed, generally resembling the standard crime-scene version; the most chilling, however, was an outline with a bird-shaped head and a speech balloon reading "I HATTE YOU."

In Conclusion

I recognize that these scant impressions represent a far cry from the complete picture required before The Rube can be added to the taxonomy of Primates (if, indeed, this would be the proper branch). However, this was not my intent- I desired merely to spread the word that I have encountered a specimen worthy of further study. While complete classification remains an elusive, distant goal, I am confident that Homo Rubus shall provide years and years of interesting material; and, moreover, that the day will indeed come when we may write the book (so to speak) on this strange and wonderful life form abiding by the shores of Lake Harriet.