Veteran's Day

I am grateful to the people who volunteer for military service.  I am grateful to the people who volunteer to be away from their families for months at a time, who risk their lives and put their personal wants and needs aside in defense of the country.  They deserve our gratitude.  They deserve our gratitude free from politics, absent point-scoring.

So first: thank you to service members past, present and future.

I am a proud American. But I'm an adult American.  And as such I recognize that there's a sicknesses in our culture, which manifests itself in the way we privilege the trappings of gratitude over the hard work of real gratitude.  We celebrate letting service members board planes first and then turn our backs on homeless veterans.  We clap our hands across social media when someone picks up the check at Applebee's for a vet but pay no attention when a soldier does tour after tour after tour in Afghanistan. A slim, narrow minority bears the full, enormous burden for all our military adventures in the middle-east.  And we thank them by playing Lee Greenwood before the game.

Look, I think it's great to let military members board planes first.  I think picking up the check for a marine is really nice.  I can't stand that Lee Greenwood song, but I've heard from some real live veterans that they love it, so OK. I'm not arguing against any of that stuff.

But let's do some other stuff too.  And I mean as a nation, let's do more.  Can't we make sure the VA is staffed and funded?  Can't we make sure homeless vets have a place to get the mental health care they deserve?  Can't we make sure we're not sending 19 year olds off to die in the middle east because Dick Cheney and his cronies rattled their moneybags at Congress?

Because it doesn't matter that the soldier got to sit in first class on his flight to Tucson if it means that the rest of the time we treat his life like it matters so much less than the rest of ours.

Sisters-in-Law

I have two of my sisters-in-law much on my mind.  Two of my sisters-in-law and cancer. One of them died a year ago.  One of them has gone through hell, but is alive, is here with us.

I loved Debbie so much and wish so hard that I could change the way of the world and have her here to enjoy her amazing children, to have the great joy of her beautiful grandsons.  I hate that her grandchildren won't know her almost as much as I hate that my own daughter never knew her grandfather.  It makes me angry.  It rears up and makes me angry.  It's not fair.

Debbie was so warm, so lovely.  My heart aches for her children and for my husband and her other brothers and sister.  My heart aches for all the people who knew and loved Debbie. And there are so, so many of them.

I love Jennifer so much and wish so hard that I could take away all the horrible stuff she's suffered through this year.  She's such a wonderful partner to my brother, and such an amazing mother to her three children. I'm so glad she's here.  I'm so happy she gets to watch them grow up. And, I'm so glad that on my trips to Franklin, I'll get to sit on comfy couches and laugh with her.  Jennifer has the BEST laugh, and she's so quick to it.  She has one of those laughs that make you feel like everything is OK, one of those laughs that bring you right in.

Both such mighty women, such wonderful mothers.  Both with three children - two girls and a boy; both so lovely; both such wonderful sisters to me.

I struggle mightily here with tenses. One in the present, one in the past.

But what else is there to do?  Mourn the sister I lost, celebrate the sister I have.  Share in the huge communities that love both these women. Wish so hard that I could use present tense with both of them.  Wish so hard I could ease the suffering of all who love them.

Debbie, I miss you so much.  Jennifer, I'm so happy I'll get to see you soon.

I love you both.

The March, Chapter 46: This Might Work Out After All

Chapter 45

The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads - they all adore him. They think he's a righteous dude.

- Ferris Bueller's Day Off

The March presented by Lightweight Group Enterprises held its inaugural event on a warm Thursday night in April.  It was a closed party.  All The March regulars had been invited, as had some press, some minor social luminaries and many of the board members at Bulstrode’s church (Episcopalians, fortunately, drink).  It was going to be interesting jibing those disparate groups together, but Tré felt confident that the décor would be inviting to folks who didn’t normally hang out in bars. And they’d leave early enough. Rosie would play some fly music later in the evening, and that would up the party potential for the drinkier invitees.  He expected it to be a great night.

That afternoon, when everything was in place, Bulstrode, Tré, Mary and Caleb stood in the middle of the new room and took it all in.

The old tile floor had been replaced with a dark-stain parquet.  The cocktail tables were shiny black with red barstools around them.  There were glass (glass!) ashtrays on every table.  The drywall had been stripped, exposing recently tuckpointed brick.  Black framed mirrors and black and white photos of 1960’s sophisticates lined the walls.  The neon beer signs were gone, save for a kitschy old Hamm’s sign from the 50s.  The bar itself had been refinished and polished to a high shine.  Black, high-backed barstools lined perfectly around it.  The shelves in front of the mirrored bar were lit from beneath and polished bottles gleamed on it.  Everything looked clean and classy.

“My construction workers are going to love this,” said Mary, wryly.

“Come on, Mary,” said Tré.  “It looks nice.  Just admit it.”

It did look nice.  It looked like the kind of place you’d go to get a really great Manhattan.  It looked like the kind of place where beautiful women turned sidewise on barstools and crossed their legs at handsome men.  It looked like the kind of place where rich men rewarded themselves for the money they’d made that day.

Tré and Bulstrode separated to wander around.  Tré looked hopeful, Bulstrode looked stressed.

Caleb was depressed.  He tried to imagine his usual crowd of regulars sitting around the corner.  Would they still feel at home drinking shots and arguing over Cubs versus Sox?  Would they play music and sing along to the songs coming out of that beautiful Wurlitzer CD jukebox in the corner?  Would they still holler at the ref during Bulls games from this bar’s corner?  It didn’t feel like it.

This place made him feel like he should be wearing a tie.

The March hadn’t ever been a particularly pretty place.  Years of cigarette smoke and over consumption had left the walls off-colored and smelly.  But it had been comfortable.  It had been the kind of place where plans made to meet for a quick drink before a concert or a play disintegrated as you found yourself instead passing the whole night at the bar.  Even if you’d already bought the tickets.  The March was just like that.

Caleb thought this new March looked like the kind of place frequented by people who stuck to their evening plans.

Bulstrode, on the other hand, worried that the place still had too much local tavern feel.  The echo of Rafferty and the old days lingered.  The people he’d invited were not the types to stop in at their local on the way home from work.  These people attended cocktail parties at fancy homes on Lake Shore Drive or poured a good whiskey from a Waterford decanter when they got home from work.  He liked the way the place looked, but he worried that the barroom feel was too strong, that the people he’d invited would think of him as staff.

And he worried that Raff would show up.  He almost always worried that Raff would show up these days.

Mary put her arm around Caleb’s shoulder.  “Cheer up, Dad,” she said.  “After a few weeks they’ll be burn holes in every stool.  I don’t care who owns this place, it’s still yours.”

Caleb hugged her back and felt a little better.

Tré joined Bulstrode and said, “We’re on our way now.  This place looks great!”

Bulstrode nodded grimly.

A little while later, Brooke and Gio showed up, both in black jeans and with their new black March tee-shirts on.  They got behind the bar and began setting up for the evening, cutting fruit and stocking beers.  They’d already familiarized themselves with the new microbrew station behind the bar.  Before the rehab, they’d served Miller High Life, Miller Lite, and Old Style on tap.  Now they had over 20 microbrews for sale.  There was a collection of single malt scotches and small batch bourbons that cost more per sale than the typical March bar tab.  The cocktail napkins were thick and monogrammed with the L.G.E. logo.

“This place feels weird,” said Brooke.

“Totally,” said Gio.  “I feel like I should be calling people ‘sir.’  Even the women.”

Shortly after 6:00 the invited began arriving.  Mike, the overzealous hockey fan, was one of the first to arrive.  He sat at the corner, drinking a comped bottle of Old Style and looking around uncomfortably.  A few of his drinking buddies came in shortly after and joined him, talking too loudly, shooting the odd hairy eyeball at Bulstrode’s churchy invitees.  Be-skirted waitressed navigated the room, awkwardly carrying their drinks on trays rather than tidily in their hands as they were used to. The floor managers from Marshall Fields sat at their usual table together, drinking free rum and cokes, wondering if they could still get pitchers of Lite when it came time for them to pay for their own drinks.

Bulstrode wandered the floor, ignoring all the regulars.  He gladhanded the illuminati and accepted their congratulations.  He grabbed bottles of 80-year-old single malt scotch and showed them off to his fellow church board members.  Susan held court at a table near the door, so that the first person you saw was rich and beautiful.

“Welcome,” she’d say, greeting their friends by name and with a kiss, a good hostess.  “I’m having this lovely Chardonnay.  Would you like one?  Can you believe Bully’s little tavern cleans up so nicely?”

The sound level remained at cordial cocktail-party level.  Some of the regulars examined the selection on the jukebox, but no one dared play it.

Caleb stayed in the corner with the regulars.  He drank coffee and chatted about The Bulls.  His tavern management that night was less an act of professional responsibility and more an act of solidarity.  Before too long, the room was split cleanly in two.  March regulars by the bar (both A and B regulars, it’s worth mentioning), Bulstrode’s invited guests at tables.  Only the regulars and staff noticed the divide.

At around 9:00, Rosie showed up.  She looked around the room and shook her head disgustedly.  She stood in the front of the DJ booth, which was in the middle of the room, and shrugged off her jacket.  Under it she wore a hot pink body suit into which she’d artfully cut holes here and there.  Over the holey body suit, she wore a pink tutu and motorcycle boots.  She’d mimicked Darryl Hannah’s makeup from Bladerunner.  Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun.

She looked great.

She looked around, shook her head again and crawled behind the DJ booth.  She’d been rehearsing this moment all day.  She cut the polite cocktail music off mid-song and waited until the room was silent.  In a matter of seconds, every eye in the room was on her.  And then she reached over, flipped a switch and Guns and Roses “Welcome to the Jungle” came blasting out of every speaker, turned up to 11.

And just like that the atmosphere changed.  The folks who’d been drinking small batch bourbons from Bulstrode’s expensive new rocks glasses took their leave.  They weren’t really the type to hang out in bars anyway.  The March regulars, who were exactly the type to hang out in bars, started to loosen up.  Shots were ordered.  Spontaneous dances broke out.

The Bulls were playing a West Coast game that night and were just underway.  After a dubious call from the officials, Mike shouted up at one of the fancy new TVs, “Come on, Ref!  Let ‘em play!”  A roar of approval came up from his barmates.

Before too long, much to Caleb’s great surprise, The March began to feel, if not exactly the same, still pretty fun.  And he realized, much to his great, great surprise, that this was due in no small part to Rosie.

Rosie inserted a cigarette into the holder she’d bought at a thrift store that afternoon and returned Caleb’s smile with an imperious nod.

Caleb suddenly felt very fond of her.

Chapter 47

The March, Chapter 45: Time Marching On

Chapter 44

“You can’t judge a book by its cover”
“Yeah, but you can tell how much it’s gonna cost”

-Some Kind of Wonderful

The March closed down for a few days in mid-April so the renovations could take place.  Tré was working 15 hours a day, making sure every detail went according to plan.  He approved glassware and marketing collateral, barstool placement, the distance between the pictures hanging on the wall.

He was having a petty good time. Bulstrode had signed off on all his ideas, even the pricey ones.  

Bulstrode was a bit distracted.

High on the pricey list was a one-way mirror for the ladies’ room; a window from within, a mirror from without.  He’d read about this an industry magazine and the idea had wedged itself inextricably in his brain.  He’d observed that on nights out, girls tended to go to the bathroom in pairs or groups.  While Tré had no idea what happened in the ladies’ room, he imagined it as a haven for recon, girls grouped together outside tainting male influence, exchanging intel (funny how guys never think of girls performing normal bathroom functions when they travel to the toilet).  The ladies would be able to peer out at the bar from within the ladies room, as they gossiped or put on makeup.  It would give them a distinct advantage and end up something special for the ladies that’s not the same old condescending bullshit bars usually employ to attract women. The more that women like a bar, the more they’d come.  And the more women there are at a bar, it follows naturally the more men there are at a bar.

As a little gravy, the outward facing mirror gave the barroom some depth.

It really was a clever idea.  And Tré had almost had to physically restrain himself to keep from clapping as he watched it being installed.

Caleb had decided to steer clear of the renovation.  He’d come in when it was all done, get the lay of the land, and then decide whether he liked it or not.  In deference to his experience and maturity, Caleb had ordered a few black button-down shirts for Caleb with only a small L.G.E. logo over the breast pocket.  Tré thought Caleb would appreciate the extra consideration, but Caleb wasn’t particularly exercised about the uniforms.  He cared more that this whole thing seemed no more than an appeal to Bulstrode’s vanity and it might excise the very things that made The March special.

It was depressing and he phoned Farebrother and arranged to meet him at Sidetracks for an afternoon of whiskey and commiseration.

Not much was happening on this late Tuesday afternoon at Sidetracks.  Close to the door, a table of businessmen extended lunchtime drinks into afternoon beers, having a grand old time pretending to be inveterate gamblers.  Further in sat a table of real inveterate gamblers, envying and annoyed by the businessmen’s pretense.

Caleb joined Farebrother at the bar.

“Hiya, Caleb,” said Farebrother.  “How’s tricks?”

“Tricky,” said Caleb, signaling the bartender.  “Two shots of Jameson and a High Life for me.”

When the drinks came, the two men gestured at one another with their shotglasses, thonked them on the bar and then upended them into their mouths simultaneously (this is the correct method of doing shots and should always be respected).

“You know what I was thinking about,” said Farebrother, chasing the shot with a sip of beer.  “I was thinking about the parties we used to have at The March back in the old days.”

“We had some corkers,” said Caleb.

“It’s hard to fathom,” said Farebrother.  “That we were once young enough to dress up in togas and go to a bar where we sang along with the Grateful Dead at the top of our lungs.”

“You have no idea how hard it is to serve drinks in a toga,” said Caleb, laughing.

“There was no difficulty in consuming them,” said Farebrother.  “Lord knows I had enough practice.”

“It was hard to keep a nice set of sheets in those days,” said Caleb. 

“That said,” said Farebrother.  “I find I’m feeling kind of excited to see the fancy new digs at The March.”

Caleb just sighed.

“I guess you think the March didn’t need any classing up,” said Farebrother.  “I will agree with you that the staff are regular latter-day bon vivants and the regular clientele certainly manages even to fart with flair.  But the place itself won’t suffer from a little gussying up.”

“I don’t know, Farebrother,” said Caleb.  “I’ve spent a lot of years behind that bar and I don’t want to see it homogenized and … boring.  I’m pretty sure that Bulstrode plans on a cityscape full of boring bars that all look nice and exactly the same.  The thing about a good neighborhood tavern is that it belongs to the neighborhood.”

“I’m pretty sure The March belongs to Bulstrode,” said Farebrother.

“That’s only technically true,” said Caleb.  “He’s not the one who made it special.  That bar has long been my livelihood and home away from.  I’m worried about losing it.”

“At the risk of being intolerably clichéd,” said Farebrother.  “The only constant is change.  Everything changes.  Bulstrode will do what he wants to do and there’s not a goddamn thing that any of us can do to stop it.  Time marches on, pal.  You just notice it more when you get to be our age.  To wit: if either of us tried to walk around in a toga again, we’d just look really stupid.”

“We looked stupid then,” said Caleb.

“We could get away with looking stupid then,” said Farebrother.  “Fat, wrinkly and old is a lot less forgiving.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Caleb.  “I’m not fat.”

“No need to rub it in, brother,” said Farebrother.  “Look, The March now is nothing like it was in 1976, except for how it is.  It’s still fun.  It’s still an easy place to be.  There’s no reason why cleaning the place up a little will turn it into some yuppiefied fern bar, where people sit around drinking Johnny Black and trading stock tips.  You’ll still be there.  I’ll still be there.  And Bulstrode will lose interest soon enough.”

“I guess,” said Caleb. “But I just can’t stand the thought of working in some goddamn chain bar.”

“Bulstrode doesn’t have a normal sized ego,” said Farebrother.  “And it’ll take a lot of effort to satisfy it.  But, dollars to donuts, he’ll move on from you and onto someone else and it’ll be over.  In the meantime, The March marches on.  And we just keep on getting older.”

“You’re probably right,” said Caleb.  “And it sucks getting older.”

“Beats the alternative,” said Farebrother.

“I’m glad I have Mary,” said Caleb.  “Having kids makes the march of fucking time seem more poignant, but more tolerable too.  Do you ever wish you’d settled down, had kids?” 

“Not really,” said Farebrother.  “I’m pretty stuck in my bachelor ways.  Besides, the only woman I really took a shine to is too young for me and in love with someone else.”

“That is true,” said Caleb, who knew who Farebrother meant and who agreed with Farebrother’s assessment.  “Let’s drink some more whiskey.”

“Yes,” said Farebrother.  “Let’s drink some more whiskey.”

Chapter 46

Dear Sweet Flying Spaghetti Monster, Please Grant Us Better Democrats

I was gonna skip it all tonight.  I did my damn civic duty and voted and I planned on spending the night with light-hearted television sitcoms.  But then Laney had a late night panic attack about a lost book and a potential detention due to the lost book and it was stressful and then all the good feelings engendered by New Girl and Selfie (by the way, that show is surprisingly good having ditched its sexist provenance) dissipated and I was left ragey. And so hear goes:

Dear Goddamn Democrats, if someone asks you if you voted for Barack Obama you say, "Why yes I did. I voted for the guy who brought health care to millions despite the most obstructionist congress ever and pulled the country out of its biggest financial crisis in nigh on a century instead of the guy who thinks that a slap half of you are nothing but shiftless losers.  And while I voted for him, this does not mean I march in lockstep with him because we are messy, individualistic Democrats and not Republicans who are, never forget, Republicans first and citizens of this nation second. This is another reason why we are better than them and you should vote for us."

You stand behind the leader of your party instead of buying into the endless, tiresome cable news bullshittery that this is a center-right country because, dammitalltohell: it is not.  Just about every good thing we have as Americans has been brought to us by progressives.  And as soon as you explain to Johnny America that "progressive"does not mean handing your hunting rifle off to the closest black panther while instituting Soviet style rationing and making Jesus illegal, folks might get to understanding that. Jesus Christ on a cracker, you have liberalism to thank for weekends.  Who doesn't like weekends?

But because we are America and America has TERRIBLE Democrats, we had a bunch of knock-kneed panty-waists running away from the very thing they ought to have been running towards.

This profound, disgusting and craven failure to embrace progressivism is why people believe that Reagan was a great president and Carter was a terrible one which fact and history clearly belies.  Good googly moogly, what I wouldn't give to hear some Democratic candidate ovary-up and dispel the myth of St. Reagan of the Big Nutz.  It would plummet like the damn Hindenberg if someone would just say "Hey, the emperor has no clothes!"

Democrats: be better!  We're not expecting you to be great.  We understand that you, like your Republican colleagues, are bought and paid for by the oligarchy that runs us and you will likely be terrible once you get into office, but you will be LESS terrible.

But to get there, you have to be less terrible.

At the very least, if someone asks you if you voted for Barack Obama, the answer, you dim-witted dumb fucks is YES!  And then tell people why.

God.

(Daylight Savings) Time Keeps on Ticking...

As all (both?) my readers know, I am an avowed hater of Daylight Savings Time, which I call Devil's Time because its sum purpose can be expressed as "steal an hour from the morning and give it to the night because reasons."

But my secret shame is that as much as I hate Daylight Savings Time when it kicks off in the spring (and I do hate it, friends, with the power of 10,000 suns), I really love the crisp fall day when it ends.  That extra hour is luxurious, right?  That Sunday when you look at the clock you neglected to change and you think, "Shit, it's 4:00 already" and then realize that no, it's only 3:00 - that's like my Christmas.  It's Megbon Christmas where the only gift is an extra hour.

I always suffer for time; I'm always late, always wishing I'd had time to do something else - play a little piano, finish that book, make dollhouse furniture (I really wish I knew how to make dollhouse furniture just like Lester Freamon- can someone teach me?).  I was going to say suffering for time is the price I pay for being a parent, but, God, is there anything on earth more obnoxious than a parent complaining about how they don't have time for stuff?  If I didn't have kids, I'd throw a pie in the face of any parent complaining about their busy-ness vis a vis a temporally- indulgent childlessness.

The phrase "I don't have time for..." is rarely if ever uttered without judgment.  In general, and with some obvious exceptions, we have time for what we decide we want to spend our time on all and it's pretty uncool to get all finger pointy with folks who've made different choices.*

Anyhoo, I had planned to spend Megbon Christmas by luxuriating in that extra hour. Only some motherfucker hit my parked car somewhere in the wee earlies of Megbon Christmas and straight up ruined my luxurious extra hour Sunday.

But I am committed to my celebration. I was bound to luxuriate in that extra hour so I took a skip day today, let Laney play hooky and artfully neglected to change the clock in my car and this is what we did:

- Slept late
- Went to the Art Institute
- Went to Target
- Looked at the clock in my car and thought it was 1:45 and then realized it was only 12:45. Yay!
- Went home
- Ate some Halloween candy and read for a while
- Took a nap
- Worked out
- Had dinner
- Wrote this blog post
- Caught up on The Affair (ooooh, you guys, that show is SO GOOD!)

I accomplished nothing.  It was great.

* Unless you're one of those #gamergate people.  Those people are spending their time foolishly.  Feel free to judge them.

The March, Chapter 44: You Can Too Talk Politics At a Bar

Chapter 43

The politics of dancing
The politics of ooh feeling good
The politics of moving, aha
If this message's understood

-Re-Flex

Will sat at the March proofing a paper.

Will enjoyed a peopled anonymity. There is an easy, odd comfort to be gleaned from being alone in a crowd. He sat amidst the after work crown at the bar, while people all around him joked and flirted and talked about Michael Jordan.  This assured him that everything was going on as normal.  It was centering.  He paid no particular attention to anyone and no one paid him any particular attention.  But he was still in the crowd.

His topic was much beloved to him and was, in fact, the story that had inspired his move to Chicago and ignited his passion for Chicago politics: the 1983 mayoral race.  But this time, rather than writing about Harold Washington’s campaign, he was writing about his Republican opponent, Bernie Epton, whose story was like something by Sophocles or Robert Penn Warren.

Epton began as this typical Republican candidate for mayor in Chicago; which is to say, he was to shake some hands, drive an issue or two, and then lose gracefully by a huge majority.  No Republican was ever going to be mayor of Chicago.  This was established fact.  But then a black man won the democratic primary and it looked like all bets were off.  This time, the Republican had a pretty good shot.

Epton had been, it’s said, a pretty good guy; a progressive Republican. But he was seemingly seduced by the sudden adulation.  Almost overnight, he’d gone from unknown Republican functionary to Chicago’s Great White Hope.  And Epton rolled with the tide.  If there was any doubt as to why Republican Bernie Epton was polling so well, his campaign slogan clarified: “Epton for Mayor,” it said.  “Before It’s Too Late.”

To his dying day, Bernie Epton claimed it didn’t mean what everyone knew it meant. 

Will sat at The March that cool spring day, pondering race and corruption and ambition; lost in thought, studying the things that fascinated him.  In his concentration, he didn’t notice Brooke and Celia approaching.

“Hey, Will,” said Brooke, peering over at his paper.  “What are you reading?  You seem totally into it!  Reminds me of Teddy.”

“God,” said Will, shuddering.  “Don’t say that.  I’m just working on this paper about Bernie Epton.”

“I remember him,” said Celia.  “Do you remember how pissed off Mom was about the whole ‘Before it’s too late’ thing?”

“I do,” said Brooke, smiling.  “Whenever she saw one of those signs, she’d pull over and yank it up.  Not that there were too many in Rogers Park.”

“Oh, man,” said Will.  “You guys were there. What was it like?”

“Well, we were pretty young,” said Celia.  “But I remember Mom and Dad would get pretty hot talking about it at dinner.  You tried not to talk about it at school.”

“What about after he died?” said Brooke.  “Remember that?  The whole city went apeshit.”

“I remember that too,” said Will.  “It was on TV in California too.”

“Totally nuts,” said Brooke.  “Celia and I watched the aldermen battle it out on TV.  It was kind of…gross.”

“Gross?” said Celia.  “It was totally fucking insane!”

“I wish I got politics more,” said Brooke.  “Teddy is convinced we’re on the precipice of disaster.  Maybe less insane government would pull us back from the edge.”

“Well, Brooke,” said Will.  “People are talking about it now.  There is environmental legislation.  It’s the big issue for Gore from Tennessee. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up in the White House.”

“Yeah, I know about him,” said Brooke.  “I thought about writing to him to tell him about the recycling we’re doing here, but then I decided it probably didn’t matter.  Teddy says that by the time there are any meaningful laws, it’ll be too late.”

“Oh, Jesus, Brooke,” said Will, feeling pity and irritation in equal parts.  “Everything good that’s ever happened in America started off with activism and ended up with legislation.  All the activism in the world won’t make a difference, if you don’t engage in politics as well.”

“Preach, brother,” said Celia.  “But can we wet our whistles too.  We came in for a drink and before everyone gets all heavy, I’m getting cocktails.  What do you guys want?”

What Will wanted was to get Brooke out of that life with Teddy.  She shouldn’t be with that dried up old cynic, living in that morass of negativity and nihilism. How could she stand it?  Brooke was beautiful and lively, but if she stayed in that ugly, inexplicable relationship with Teddy, it would all go and she’d end up like Teddy.  He’d grind her down. 

He settled for a beer.

The three sat around the table chatting about Chicago politics and arguing over the efficacy of government. When his shift ended, Jorge joined them and talked a little about taxes and voodoo economics and how Reagan’s reputation as the patron saint of small government was a bunch of bullshit.  Their conversation grew increasingly raucous.  Everyone had a point to make.  But they also cheered and laughed and high fived.  Brooke dropped out of her funk and soapboxed a little about the growing trend towards plastic water bottles.

If you’d walked past their table that night, you’d have assumed it was two couples out on a double date. Two urban, liberal, good-looking couples out for drinks and conversation.

Anyway, that’s exactly how it looked to Teddy when he peered in the window on his way to Scottie’s.  He knocked on the window and, when Brooke waved at him, a little guiltily, turned quickly around and strode off.  Brooke ran outside to explain that there was nothing there, nothing to be upset by.

Teddy said horrible things to Brooke.  He accused her of cheating on him with his own family, of never loving him, of being with him out of pity, of being a stupid little girl.

And when Brooke started crying, Teddy was pleased, glad that he could make her cry, make her feel something.  As she wept, he pulled her into his arms, and kissed her hair and told her how sorry he was and that he loved her and only her.

And so she leaned back into him and they walked home together.

When Brooke didn’t come back, Celia exploded with the frustration of it.  Jorge reminded her that there was nothing she could do for now.  Brooke was a grown-ass woman and entitled to her own mistakes.  But he knew she’d move past it.  They just had to be patient.

Will walked away from their conversation and went up to the bar to talk to Caleb and some of the older regulars about Bernie Epton.  But it had been nice there for a while.  Just for a bit.

Chapter 45