Letter

A text woke me at 8am. It was a friend asking if I knew anyone who wanted to make some money loading boxes of photographs from a storage space onto a truck. I went back to sleep for a couple hours. When I got up, there was another text, as well as an email. I answered that I didn’t know anyone and went about getting the day started. But it kept eating at me, so, an hour later, I texted him that if he was still there in an hour, I’d swing by.

My friend travels around collecting photographs and art. He’s a treasure seeker. There’s TV shows about people like him. Every so often he rolls through town and tells me about his adventures, always careful to leave out names and telling details. His business is all about secrecy. I don’t have even a trace of this discoverer’s instinct, but I’m fascinated by people who do. It’s often a consuming obsession which no prize, however precious, can ever sate. The best pop-culture evocation of it is the great BBC show Detectorists. The two guys’ lives on that show are so totally guided by their quest that personal relationships suffer or are subsumed to it. I don’t know that my friend suffers like that because of his avocation. I like to think he doesn’t. He always makes it sounds like fun.

When I arrive at the storage facility, he’s at the loading dock with another friend, making calls, as this is the only area of the facility where he can get a signal. Apparently he’s bought a locker in an auction and wants to unload a bunch of boxes into his truck to haul away. But before we can do that, we go across the parking lot to another building so he can look at another storage space. He says some other collectors have found out he’s storing things here and is afraid they might break in. There’s been a rash of thefts lately. The area he’s looking at doesn’t even have walls. He will have to hire the guy showing us the place to build them. As we walk back, power tool sounds can be heard from behind sheetrock and plywood walls which don’t reach the ceiling of the warehouse. The guy tells us there are a lot of interesting people here.

Back by the loading dock, we take two carts up to the fourth floor. Three guys who were evidently at the auction come with us to check out my friend’s haul. We go through a labyrinth of lockers before locating the right one. We pull out 1’x5’s and furniture to get at the shelves which line the left side of the space. We pull out one long cardboard box after another. Each is filled with dozens of cardboarded and sleeved comic books. My friend keeps pulling random ones out, showing us and guessing at their worth. I tell him I have no clue what any of them are worth. He seems to be having a debate with himself whether it’s a fortune or just a pain in the ass. Part of it is that he doesn’t want to tip his hand in front of the other guys too much. Everyone’s here to make a buck and getting over on a competitor is a big part of it.

We make three or four trips down to the truck until all the boxes are loaded. We’re covered in sweat. My friend is trying to work out a deal with the guys for the tools and furniture in the locker. They’re not his thing; he’s only into art and photos. I drink some water and wonder whether this line of work would suit me better than pouring beer. I decide it wouldn’t. I have no enterprising spirit. In fact, I probably have the opposite. Where my friend is here trying to turn trash into treasure, I’m trying to sell off all I’ve made at thrift store prices. 

Before I leave, he asks me about the self-portrait he asked me to paint. I tell him it’s almost done and pedal out into the rain.

I got on my bike Saturday morning and rode to Eppel’s on Roosevelt. Lynne asked if I wanted the combination omelet and grits like always and I said of course I did. She laughed and told a customer at the counter she knows she’s still got when she can remember my order fifteen years after I first put it in. “You know, the years are adding up. We’re not getting any younger.” I tell her it helps that I order the same thing every time.

I pedaled north to Harrison, then turned east till I hit Dearborn. I was surprised to see car traffic continuing on, as, in prior years, I thought I remembered the intersection being blocked off for the Printers Row Lit Fest. I locked up the bike and delivered ten copies of my book to Jerry at the Tortoise table, then wandered around a few minutes. The crowd was a little sparse and several tents were virtually empty, tables free of books. This fair seems to be less of a big deal with each passing year.

At 11am I went back to Tortoise and spent an hour standing behind the table with Jerry, trying to push my book on people. I was surprised to observe several pick out a book or two, then give Jerry a card to run without even asking prices. Maybe they were on a mission to spend money today and weren’t too particular on where it went. I get tired and depressed thinking about the economics of the book business, but enjoy watching people pick up books and leaf through them, before buying or putting them back. I always wonder what decides it one way or the other.

After my hour’s duty was done, I made another circuit of the fair. There were definitely fewer participants than prior years. Tents used to extend in both directions on Polk, but today there were only a couple on that street at all. I don’t know what it says about the reading public. There are more books published now than ever, but should there be? I walked back to where Tortoise was, then went around the corner of the tent to the Featherproof table and talked to Tim awhile. He had the Dardenne brothers book for sale and we talked about the four year saga of getting that thing into print. I told him I was planning to try to ride my bike out to Riverside in a few minutes. He laughed at that, wondering what I would do if I didn’t make it. I told him if he didn’t see me at the fair the next day, he could draw his own conclusions.

I’d texted a couple hardcore cyclist pals about routes out to that suburb. Between them and Google Maps, I figured it was doable. About an 11 mile ride. I said goodbye to Tim and Jerry and started pedaling. My first stop was Binny’s for a bottle of wine, then I went west up Roosevelt. At Ogden, I turned south, passing the building which used to house the taxi license renewal facility. It looked quiet and obviously being used for some different municipal function, as every nearby parking spot was taken by a white city vehicle. Douglas Park and Lawndale passed by quickly, then I was in Cicero, turning straight west on 26th Street for the rest of the ride.

I’d been listening to Steely Dan’s greatest hits on the headphones since leaving the house in the morning and still had a song or two to go when I pulled into Frank and Nancy’s driveway. I parked the bike in the garage and greeted Frank who was feeding wood to the clay oven in their backyard. Soon Don and Mary arrived, wine was poured, and Nancy was passing rolled out dough for pizzas down from the porch. Don and Mary had recently moved out to the burbs after decades in the city. They were half-heartedly pitching me on moving out there. I looked around at the houses, yards, trees, dogs, neighbor children, and trees and was quietly grateful for all I didn’t have.

We got on the subject of the art world as we inevitably do. They all told me they were saddened by my decision to sell off my artwork for cheap, but when I assured them there was nothing to be sad about, they fired up their phones and started picking out pieces for them selves. (I encourage you to do the same. I added a bunch of work this week and will continue to do so.) 

Frank and Nancy’s children became old enough a couple years ago that their parents have begun to rejoin the adult world. They’ve done all the things you’re supposed to do and seem to now be exploring what they want to do with the rest of their lives. Having skipped the house/kids/career thus far, my focus has rarely wavered, so it’s interesting to observe the path they’ve taken. I’m proud to see all they’ve accomplished as a couple but can’t imagine doing any of it myself. They probably look at my life not unlike a martian’s as well. Whatever you end up doing, it’s difficult to imagine alternatives, no matter how normal or bizarre.

They offer to let me crash there or give me a lift home, but I’m committed to riding back. It’s a straight shot east down 26th Street from their place to mine. The sprinkling rain serves to cool me off as I pedal. In what feels like minutes, I’m back within the city limits. I ride down the main drag of Little Village, then pass by Cook County Jail, then I’m home. I get through three-quarters of my Silver Jews playlist during the ride.

My knees ache a little, but otherwise I’m little worse for the wear. The trip makes the distance between my friends’ house and mine feel much shorter than I’d previously thought. I’d been out there via CTA or car countless times, but riding it served to narrow the gap. Maybe the distance between my life and theirs as well.

—I briefly returned to Printers Row on Sunday. My main reason was to hear Rick Kogan interview Colin Asher about his great Algren biography. Afterwards, Asher, Michael Caplan and family, and I got some brunch. It was good to meet the guy in person after corresponding for all the years that his book was in the making. It made me feel part of the literary community in a way I rarely do. I hope we cross paths again.

—I wrote about catching Tav Falco and his Panther Burns at a crappy bar and grill.

Boris Fishman was in town a few months ago to promote his Soviet memoir with recipes called Savage Feast. He gave a talk at Columbia College at the invitation our mutual friend, Don De Grazia, who’s taught writing there for ions. I’ve gotten to know Fishman a little since reviewing his previous book a few years back. He’s one of the few literary types I know who’s savvy about the racket he’s in without being smug. Our shared lineage probably makes him familiar as well. Though our paths through immigration and into the book biz could hardly be more different.

I finished his book a few days ago and was very moved by it. His tormented devotion to his parents and, especially, his grandfather are palpable and made me a little envious. His methodical attention to the particulars of the culinary arts made me want to make a reservation at the café he daydreamed about opening with his grandfather’s Ukrainian caretaker, Oksana. Fishman has managed to somehow honor his Soviet past and become part his American present in ways I’ve never managed to. He straddles two distinct societies—as every immigrant does–but seems to assimilate huge chunks of each.

He called me an antisemite half-jokingly after I shared my sketches of his Columbia visit, but we’ve remained in touch since. I connected him with my pal Gil and they recorded a conversation for Gil’s podcast, which i’m anxious to hear in the coming weeks. I was surprised to learn recently that he’s as despairing of his literary prospects as I am. Despite having an agent, a major publisher, and a PR machine to push his books, Fishman is considering other ways of getting by. I flippantly suggested getting into the cooking business, but he wrote back that he’s seriously been thinking along the same lines. I wish I had some other skill I cared about like he does. I bet he’ll succeed whatever he sets his mind to. He’s a hustler (in the best sense of the word.)

My connection to restaurants is a lot more tangential than Fishman’s. I bartend at a bar that serves food but have no desire to get in the kitchen. I turned off my refrigerator at home a few months back because the noise of its groaning motor bothered me and it was a waste of electricity to keep it on just to have ice cubes available and for leftovers not to spoil.

One of my favorite nearby restaurants is the Duck Inn. I’ve started going pretty regularly of late, especially for Sunday brunch. I’d noticed their collection of duck-themed art and memorabilia and thought I’d add my take. I brought in my rendition of the world’s largest rubber duck last weekend and they instantly hung it in a place of honor by the bar.

Having my pictures in bars and restaurants I love makes me feel like I’m part of a community in a way I rarely feel. It’s the same place which cooking seems to hold for Fishman. A way to belong in the world.

—RIP Roky Erickson. 

—Featherproof Books is publishing the first of a two-volume set of Luc Dardenne’s film diaries and screenplays. The Dardenne brothers are among the greatest filmmakers going, so I was flattered to contribute some portrait paintings for the cover. Sharing real estate with Martin Scorsese’s blurb has to be some sort of career highlight. Order yours here.

—One of my drawings was featured in an article about Marc Fischer’s Court Residency project, in which i took part.