-Raising Arizona
The next morning, Brooke woke up, did some East Indian deep
breathing exercise she’d read about a couple of days before, read The Tribune editorial page with a cup of
coffee, wheat toast and an impressively furrowed brow. Then she left for her interview.
Brooke preferred to travel by bicycle. She was happy to explain, exhaustively,
to anyone who asked that the bicycle was the only sound environmental choice,
but, really, she rode because she loved it. She loved taking off and kicking her leg over the seat when
she was already in motion. She loved
pumping up to a good speed and then coasting. She loved the feel of the wind through her long hair (no one
wore helmets in 1990) and the cool, confident calmness of sitting back with her
hands off the wheel. She was a
good rider who looked good riding.
She caught a fair number of appreciative glances as she rode down Clark
Street. She may have also, from
time to time, caught an irritated honk or an extended middle finger, but such
is the relationship between cars and bikes and you should not take this as a
commentary on Brooke’s riding skills.
She arrived at The March right on time for her
interview. She locked up her bike
and took a moment to second-guess her decision to interview for a tavern
job. She didn’t drink much, didn’t
socialize much, and frowned on time wasters. She was afraid she wouldn’t fit it. But she squared her shoulders and
soldiered on, reminding herself that she needed the money and that she was used
to not fitting in.
The March was a typical Chicago tavern, comfortable, smoky,
bordering on grungy. The March was located below ground level, such that out
its windows, behind the various neon beer signs, you’d see the legs up to the
knees of passersby. The front part
of the bar, near the stairwell, was furnished with pub tables and red vinyl,
backless barstools. There were
plastic framed advertisements for beers and boozes on each table as well as a
black, plastic ashtray. Look to
your right and you’d see the bar itself, parallel to the far wall, surrounded
by more red backless barstools.
There is a long mirror behind the bar, bottles displayed in front. One TV, showing a baseball game or ESPN
coverage, was mounted at the east end of the bar, called “the corner,” with
another at the far end. The only other TV was at the front end of the bar, near
the stairwell. No one ever watched
that TV. Can you even imagine a
bar where no one was watching TV?
There was a
fooz ball table and a small DJ booth.
It was cleanish but not sparkling; dim but not dank. The March was a place for having a beer
and watching the game. It wasn’t a
first date kind of place. It
looked like a million other neighborhood beer-and-shot joints in Chicago.
Oh, it was just a great bar!
The bartender that day was a young woman named Mary
Garth. Mary was the daytime
manager/bartender at The March, daughter of the general manager, Caleb Garth. She was medium build, mid-twenties; she
had medium length, medium blonde hair.
She was medium pretty. She
was a nice woman. She was really
smart.
Mary was good at this job. She was competent, friendly and tough. Most of her lunch
regulars, blue and white collar alike, where a little in love with her. But for Mary, this job was just a way
station, a vehicle for getting the rent paid until she started her real life. One more year and then she’d be out of
law school and would bid the March a fond farewell.
Four days a week she served lunchtime pitchers of Old Style
to construction workers and lunchtime Dewars and waters to middle-aged, middle
management types. She enjoyed a
quiet mid-shift, where she was often the only person in the bar. She finished off her shift opening
bottles of beer and mixing vodka/cranberries for the after work crowd. Her shift ended at 7:00.
At this point, she was relieved by her father, Caleb. Caleb’s resume was a veritable roadmap
of the myriad ways there are to eat and drink in Chicago. He’d managed hushed, haute cuisine
French restaurants and he’d supervised the intentionally rude staff at chain
restaurants offering outsized burgers and greasy fries. He’d stood ramrod straight in black tie
behind sparkling bars in sparkling hotels and he’d befouled his sneakers with
dirty bar water from soaked bar mats in bowling alleys. He’d done it all. Ten years ago, he’d landed at The March
and The March was where he intended to stay.
Caleb was a master of bar management. He kept the liquor license
violation-free and passed every health inspection without resorting to bribery
(no small feat in Chicago). His
staff was fond of him, as he was of them, but they wouldn’t dare try to take
advantage of this fondness. He was
best friend to all his regulars and could cut off a drunk with such gallant
aplomb that the drunk ended up thanking him for his concern.
During his weeknight bar shifts, you’d find Caleb with a
smile on his face, towel tucked in his belt, chatting amiably with the regulars
in the corner. On the busy weekend
nights, he roamed the floor, keeping the crowd in line, keeping the young staff
on point. On Sundays, he rested.
On this Wednesday morning, Caleb sat at the bar, sipping
coffee, inventory sheets in front of him.
He looked up when Brooke approached and smiled, “Gio’s friend, right?”
“Yes,” Brooke replied, holding out her hand. “Brooke Dotry.”
“Caleb Garth, general manager,” he said, shaking her hand
warmly. “And this is my daughter,
Mary, daytime manager-slash-bartender, soon to be Mary Garth, esquire,
attorney-at-law.”
Mary grinned and waved at Brooke. “Nice to meet you.”
Garth father and daughter were fond of each other. Genuinely fond of each other. Mary liked her father who, in turn,
liked her. I don’t mean to belabor
the point, but this is not an everyday kind of thing. We love our parents and we love our children. But when the child grows into an adult
and the parent is no longer obliged (or welcome) to parent, how often do these
two end up as friends? How often
do they grow comfortable enough with each other to stop seeking approval or
deference and just accept the other as is? Mary and Caleb had found their way to this, easily. They were genuinely fond of each other,
with such expansive fondness that it became contagious. Brooke found that she liked them both
and wanted them to like her. This
surprised Brooke, who had up until then believed that she didn’t give a rat’s
ass what other people thought of her.
(There is, of course, as vast chasm between not caring what
people think and not expecting people to like you. And I expect you, from your excellent vantage point outside
looking in, know on which side of that chasm Brooke stands.)
Caleb decided to hire Brooke on the spot. As a matter of fact, he’d decided to
hire her before she walked in the door.
Gio was a good judge of character and a trustworthy employee. Caleb had cleared it with Gio that
Brooke was a girl who would show up on time for her shifts and wouldn’t think
of those shifts as paid party time.
Plus, they really needed a new waitress.
“Can you start tonight,” he asked.
“Uh, yes,” said Brooke, surprised. “I guess.”
“Good. Be here
at 4:30. What do you say we train
you on the job?”
“OK,” said Brooke, nervously.
“Here’s a W-2 and a price list,” said Caleb. “Take them both home. Bring back the W-2 filled in and do
your best to memorize the price list.
Mary, do you have any advice for Brooke?”
“Don’t take any shit,” said Mary.
“Excellent advice,” said
Caleb. “See you at 4:30.”
Chapter four
