Letter

Del’s a little man with a big mouth. Whatever you’re talking about, he knows the subject better than you. Politics, stereo components, love advice, members of your family he’s never met, no matter; Del will disabuse you of your faulty notions. Every bar has its Mr. Dooley, its Cliff Clavin. Del’s ours at the Albatross.

He’s in his happy place holding forth. He’ll tell you how, despite their giant eyes, owls are among the least intelligent of avian species and how the fearsome locust of biblical plague are nothing but the humble common grasshopper and how the great song composer Cole Porter took his name from the French word colporteur, which is a peddler of biblical literature. There’s nothing he doesn’t know everything about.

On days Del’s at the bar he arrives hours before my shift. He’s a lightweight so I know he’s well into his cups by the time I take over. Today he’s buttonholed a young man I don’t recognize. He’s haranguing the poor man about the election, inches from the man’s chest, spittle flying. From time to time the guy looks around the room, over and around Del’s balding pate, which barely comes to his own chin, looking for rescue or reprieve. But none will come. Because the regulars know when Del has fastened his grip this way there will be no mercy. The only chance is to run for the door when Del goes to empty his bowels, which the young man does, not even bothering to finish his drink.

Del’s gone about ten minutes. I go to the men’s room to check on him and he’s standing in the middle of the room, pants around his ankles, staring at the wall. I help him with his pants and position him in front of the sink, then return to the barroom.

He returns eventually. Looking around, as if he’s misplaced something, he scans the room for a familiar face, someone to talk at.

One time I sat next to him and made the mistake of revealing the model of computer I had. An hourlong lecture followed, punctuated by Del calling me a fool. I took my drink and moved to the other end of the bar. I learned my lesson. Now, whenever he asks me anything I agree with him. It cuts him off at the knees. He can’t debate or argue, which is what he lives for. Drives him batshit. Or I play dumb. Yesterday he asked me who I planned to vote for.

—Is there an election coming up? I ask.

I cut him off. He looks dumbfounded but doesn’t argue for once. Takes forever gathering his things to go. He lingers by the door talking to Eber, who always indulges him, no matter how long-winded he gets. Eber’s getting paid by the hour, so maybe listening to Del’s raving beats looking out at the deserted street. He tries to talk Del out of riding his bike home. Offers to pay for a car. Del insists he’s fine.

Next morning I see him at the coffee shop. A jagged stream of dried blood snakes from the left side of his forehead down his cheek, coming to a stop three-quarters way down his shirt. He says he took a spill riding home but has no memory of how, nor of standing lost with his pants down in the bathroom at the bar. He apologizes if he caused any trouble. Says I should always tell him if he’s out of line. Then asks what music I’m listening to on my headphones. It’s an old trap. I say goodbye and walk away.

—I wrote a review of Luc Sante’s new book. 

It’s going on six months now so I figure what the hell. I find a test site not too far away. The city asks for my address, date of birth, et cetera. I choose a half hour window for my appointment and get on my bike.‌
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‌ It’s in the parking lot of a school in Little Village. I see a couple tents, some trucks with back doors open, full of cases of bottled water and supplies I can’t identify. A line of cars idles along the walls of the school, pointing toward two tented areas where capped, masked, and blue-gowned medical workers approach driver’s side windows, then retreat.‌
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‌ Not seeing an entrance for walk-ups, I lead my bike to the back of the car queue. A masked and gowned woman hurries at me and gestures over to the north end of the lot, where another series of tents are set up for non-drivers. I lock up my bike, then wait while a guy ahead of me checks in. When he’s done he’s handed a testing kit via one of those grabbers for getting items off tall shelves, then directed to the next tent.‌
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‌ I hand over the QR code I’d printed out and a woman behind a plexi screen checks it against her list, then grabbers a testing kit to me. She asks me to sit and wait while a woman and her young daughter register. We will be tested at the same time. When they are ready we’re asked to move toward an area marked off by blue tarps. Once in position, a large woman in a blue gown, mask, goggles, cap, visor, and gloves instructs us on the procedure.‌
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‌ We first have to turn around, away from everyone else, and cough into our masks. She has to repeat the next steps a few times as neither the woman with the child nor I are very good at following directions apparently. When told to put the plastic bag with the vial of liquid under my arm to free up my hands to work the swab, I hesitate and have to retrace my steps. I feel a little like the poor guy in that Bruce Nauman video. The woman’s main problem is her child, who is terrified of everything that’s happening. She has to keep reassuring the little girl that using the swab won’t give her the virus, won’t make her sick.‌
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‌ Once I’d manage what is asked of me, I put the sealed plastic bag with the vial holding the swab into a bin and walk over to a portable sink to wash my hands. Having been to my share of outdoor festivals, I know how to work the spigot with the foot pedal, unlike the guy before me, who needed help. At least I have that going for me. I thank the worker who’d been so patient and walk back to my bike.‌
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‌ I stand a minute and look back at the whole setup. It’s a little like the staging area from a disaster movie. No gas masks like The Crazies but there is a bit of that vibe to it. Just a lot less exciting or suspenseful and a lot more sunshine. This is the new normal, I guess. I wasn’t scared like the little girl that was being tested the same time as me. I didn’t feel the whole weight of what was happening. Maybe because I haven’t been sick or because my life has been affected so much less than most others I know.‌
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‌ I ride home through the afternoon glare, past the Criminal Courts and the jail, back home, as if there’s nothing out of the ordinary.‌
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‌ I’m negative. But people have been telling me that for years.‌

What does your favorite bar look like? Who goes there? Will there ever be bars again?

Dutch tavern scenes color the way I think a bar should be. Darkened, earth-toned rooms with light from small windows barely illuminating carousing patrons. This faint sideways light obscures as much as it reveals. Yet these unkempt spaces are often the center of the community.

Children squat over chamberpots, dogs jump up to tabletops for scraps, and men and women recede to remote corners to get to know one another better.

Beer is tapped directly from giant wooden casks and poured into steins, sloshing and spilling over the floor as drinkers dance and jostle. It’s a merry, disquieting scene. Are they happily celebrating or just drowning sorrows or killing two birds with the same bleary stone?

Steen, Brouwer, and van Ostade painted their pictures to document the life of the cities they lived in. I always wanted to do the same. But is there any remnant of the wild abandon of 17th century Holland in 21st century Chicago? If I squint and ignore the firefly glow of cellphones—replace them with candlelight—I can see the rudiments of a classic tavern scene while sitting against the back wall of the Albatross. The heavy wooden beams buttressing the ceiling, the clusters of talkers and revelers, the hum of inebriated blather, it’s not so different from an inn in Leyden.

What I love in a bar is that people are both in public and not. We see one another but break off into smaller groups, forming private bubbles where we forget about others who can still see and hear what we’re doing. Behind the bar I’m often just the deliverer of drinks rather than a fully-fledged person. It gains me access in ways unavailable to those on the public side of the bar. They forget I’m even there between orders. As long as their glasses are full, conversation is flowing, or whatever’s occupying their attention on phone screens isn’t disrupted, they’re oblivious and let their guard down. They don’t know or care that anyone is watching or listening.

What am I hoping to catch? Some clue about what it’s all about. A true moment, when a person says or does what they mean rather than performing for others. I get glimpses now and then, but only when they’re sure no one is looking.

It’s this same thing I remember from the Dutch paintings. Halflit vignettes in a larger, tapestry-like whole whose edges disappear into darkness. Every group or solitary figure doing life’s dance. This humble scene repeats every day in many places over centuries.

We stop once we can no longer dance.