Letter

I rented a car and drove to Boston again. This time it was for my mother’s birthday and to celebrate my own with my parents a little early. The plan was for them to come visit Chicago but that isn’t possible for obvious reasons. So I drove east.

Because of my cabbie days driving is a strangely automatic experience for me. I do it rarely now but it really is like riding a bike. It’s like plugging a familiar appliance back into the socket. There’s little to look at along the way since the entire trip is via tollways and interstates. It’s as if they were consciously designed to inspire ennui. Nonplace after nonplace punctuated by billboards and flashing lights. Long haul truckers must have rich fantasy lives to survive these vistas every day. I depend on music and podcasts in order not to lose it.

On arrival my parents and I fall into a familiar routine focused around meals and movie-watching. There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do, so we have to make our own fun. The last two visits I’ve brought new art as presents so an hour or two is spent rearranging their collection—which is 95% my work—in order to find room for the new stuff. My suggestion that some of it should be retired to the trash is never received well. So I do my best to cram pictures closer and closer together. I’m glad that they enjoy things I make. What I think of my pictures is really beside the point. Once I’m done with them, they’re not for me.

There’s a wooden shelf in the kitchen with Russian folk-art crockery that my parents have had my whole life. I’ve told them that it’s the only thing in their house that I want. On the second or third day of my visit I start a painting of the shelf. The vantage point is where I always sit for breakfast. My mother sits with me as I work. She tells me that these ceramics were given to them by artist friends of my grandmother’s on the occasion of my birth. They traveled to the Ukraine to find the pieces. So maybe it makes some extra-logical sense that I’d been drawn to them. Whatever the reason, they’ve decorated my parents home always and so will always remind me of them. She asks if I want to take one of them home but I don’t want to break up the set. 

Back in Chicago I start back on the collages. It’s strange how they’ve kind of taken over. Prior to a few months ago it would’ve never occurred to me; now I can’t wait to rip up old drawings and make something new of them. It’s probably something to do with my age. A need to look forward and backward all at once.

p.s. I turn fifty today. Wish me a happy birthday.

These are Archie and Millie. They live near Damen and Division. They’re friends of Wallace’s.

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.‌