The two cops turned toward the window and, for one odd moment, all three men stood watching, their shadows forming an unlikely tableau on the browned lawn. A beat, then everyone shifted back to their assigned roles.
“Okay well, Shakespeare, time to move on,” the first cop intoned. “And probably smart to stick to the commercial streets from now on. It’s a lot safer that way.”
Safer for whom? Chris thought but didn’t ask.
Both cops gave him a nod, climbed back into their cruiser, and pulled slowly away. Chris started toward the intended destination, then stopped, deciding there was nothing at the store he needed that badly. He turned and headed back to The Church parking lot.
SEVEN
MONDAYS WERE SIDONIE’S SUNDAYS, MAKING THEM AS close to perfect days as she got. They lent themselves to sloth and serenity, luxuriating in warm blankets, good coffee, day-old Sun-Times, scones from A Taste of Heaven, and agendas free of obligation. Patsy Gilmore’s presence, therefore—with her charts and spreadsheets, short, stubby legs pacing the room, red hair flying, and voice decibels louder than necessary—was an unwelcome Monday incursion.
“They want visuals, Sid, not just ideas. This is a serious group, with serious funds, and they have serious demands.”
Patsy was a brilliant chef, in constant demand for high-end events around the city. She was also Sidonie’s former college roommate and the partner with whom she was planning her next career move. They were in the nascent stages of raising capital for the restaurant-club they’d dreamt up years earlier, and with their complementary skills made a good team. Sidonie had an impressive list of business contacts she wasn’t afraid to tap; she managed the minutia of putting their offering documentation together and wrote a brilliant and detailed business plan.
Patsy, on the other hand, brought her “sparkling personality,” as she so immodestly put it, to her role as the pitch person: she was funny, smart, and charming, and had been successful in convincing seed investors to provide development funds the previous year. Now, with coffers dwindling, they were making another push to raise the capital necessary to actually launch. Patsy had a hot prospect on the line, making her weekly report, typically reserved for Friday lunch, urgent enough to break the harmony of Sidonie’s weekend.
“What does that mean: ‘They want visuals’? Actual restaurant blueprints? We don’t even have a location. How would we do that?”
“We improvise. Remember that place on Halsted we liked? It’s been on the market for almost a year. They lowered the price two months ago and it’s still on the market. Odds are good we could grab it on the low once we have funds.”
“So you want to invest in sketches for a maybe location? That doesn’t seem wise use of the little money we have left.”
“All I know is, they want to see some semblance of this grand plan, and I get it—I would too. Since we’ve identified Halsted as ideal, why don’t we sketch a loose floor plan, and if we ultimately don’t get it, at least we’ve got something rough on paper we can tweak later.”
“That won’t be cheap.”
“I’ve got a friend in the architecture department at Illinois Tech and we’ve already talked about giving it to one of her master’s candidates. They get a grade and a decent stipend. We get cheap sketches. Want me to set something up?”
“Sure, if that makes sense. But if this new guy I’m talking to doesn’t take the sound job, I’m in for some serious headhunting. I won’t have much available time to meet.”
“No worries. I’ll give her a call and we’ll figure something out.” Patsy finally sat down, grabbed a scone, and with an expert twist of her knife, spun jam and honey into an irresistible drizzle that ultimately found its way down her chin. “I’m so good at this food thing!” She laughed. Loudly.
“You are a child,” Sidonie retorted, handing her a napkin.
“I think we could actually get this one, Sid. These guys are bona fide, and they really want a presence in Chicago. This might be our team.” She leaned in and gave her partner a hard look. “So don’t screw it up.”
Sidonie recoiled. “What does that mean?”
“Oh my God, I’m kidding!” Patsy yelped. “What would you do to screw anything up? You’re the most toe-the-line person I know. I’m counting on you to wow them with your predictable know-how and expertise!” She laughed again. She was very loud.
Sidonie wasn’t thrilled at the assessment of her character, especially since it had crossed her mind lately that she’d become stodgy and uninteresting, a dreaded event to her way of thinking. She also harbored creeping doubts about whether she was as excited about this project as she’d once been. Beyond the many and recurring disappointments inherent to the process of raising money, the energy they expended on it came in fits and starts, determined by the two women’s work demands and time availability. Both were busy enough that, despite mutual and stated commitment, momentum often stalled, long enough and frequently enough to dull Sidonie’s enthusiasm. But before she could ponder the dilemma further, her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, then deadpanned to Patsy. “Theo.”
“Are you going to answer it?”
“No.”
“Do you ever?”
“No. Why would I?”
Theo and Sidonie had been married for six years, six turbulent, sexy, deeply disturbing years. During that foray he developed an opiate problem, she miscarried a pregnancy, his multimedia production company tanked, and he left her for a young model who left him two months later for a rich mogul. It was both a cliché and a swirling heap of personal failure, none of which was worth rehashing—ever—particularly since its denouement was well over a year ago. Why he’d taken to calling in the last month was perplexing, but so far she’d resisted the bait.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“No.” Not true, but all Sidonie would admit.
Patsy cocked her head, disbelief registered. “I’d be dying.” Patsy had been the maid of honor at the wedding, a splashy affair Theo deemed necessary to properly fete his new marriage and the prestigious business contacts in attendance, and she reveled in her role as the couple’s booster. Sidonie suspected that, despite Patsy’s appropriate commiserations of hate and rancor during the divorce, her best friend retained a soft spot for her ex, who, she once cooed, was “one of a kind.” It was not a topic they broached easily.
Cuing off Sidonie’s reticence, Patsy changed the subject with a glance around the notably minimalistic living room. With its gray, nondescript couch, two wooden Ikea folding chairs, and a coffee table that looked like a back-alley garage sale find, it inspired a familiar retort. “I see you’re still going with temporary-college-housing motif.”
“I am.” When Theo left, he took most of the more artful furniture he’d personally acquired during their marriage. It was a point of contention at the time, but Sidonie ultimately capitulated, realizing she didn’t like most of it anyway. Now she couldn’t raise the interest to do anything about the resulting domestic deficit.
“So you’re just never going to put this place back together? Some decent furniture, maybe a few things for the walls—something, anything?”
“Ambiance is overrated.”
“Philosophy that may contribute to your hovering depression.” Sidonie finally looked around as if noticing the place for the first time. “It is hideous, isn’t it? But I honestly don’t have time to decorate. Nor do I have the talent. That was all Theo.”
“I could argue the point, as I knew you before Theo and remember you having some swell interior design impulses.” Patsy got up with a long stretch. “But since I never win those debates, I’m gonna go cook up something scrumptious, and we’ll share a nice lunch in this shitty room. That, I guarantee, will brighten your day!”
She was right. Patsy went to the kitchen and rustled up the best meal Sidonie would have that week and, for the moment, that was enough.
EIGHT
CHRIS’S MONDAY WAS SPENT PONDERING THE
JOB OFFER. Regardless of how it was parsed, he couldn’t figure a way in which it was honestly feasible. He liked his freedom. Liked being able to schedule his life around the clients he chose to work with. He didn’t want to be beholden to higher-ups who’d expect things he might not want to give. The entire reason he’d set out on his own was to avoid micromanagement and obligation. He wore entrepreneurship well; what advantage was there to giving it up?
“The money, bro.” Diante Robinson, a childhood friend whose South Loop condo Chris had moved into four years ago and never left, sat on the couch in sweats and a dirty work shirt, a burning joint and cold pizza nearby, deep in a video game that involved sharp arm movements and visceral grunting. Despite the activity, he appeared to actually be listening as Chris debriefed the unexpected events of the weekend. “Plus, you’re not giving it up—you’re adding to it. The Church is a cool room, it sounds like a good gig, and, come on, you can never have too much green.”
Diante’s general philosophy was that, as forward-thinking black men, they were obliged to go after wealth like miners to the lode. He was in his seventh year at a small, rapidly growing financial management firm on LaSalle, the heart of “Chicago’s Wall Street,” where he’d worked up the corporate ladder with astonishing speed. Despite being a comer in ways that didn’t necessarily align with Chris’s more measured life strategy, Diante’s financial acumen was unassailable. Chris’s concern was that his old pal wasn’t taking in the bigger picture.
“I can’t just add to it, D. Alchemy takes all my time now. This feels either/or, and it doesn’t make sense to even consider shelving what I’ve sweat over for the last five years.”
“Who’s talking about shelving it? That would be damn stupid. Farm it out. You’ve got, what, how many guys on call now?”
“I don’t know, seven, eight.”
“Hire a few more, get them trained up. Be a CEO instead of a grunt. If your teams are tight, which they will be if you hire the right guys, you keep building Alchemy while running The Church. Sounds win-win to me.”
“Or a whole damn lotta work. And what are the odds they’ll offer anywhere near what I’d need to offset what I’m farming out?”
“Sounds like you’re talking yourself out of it.”
It did. “I don’t know. Maybe.” The admission deflated him. Interesting.
“Bottom line, putting aside logistics, are you interested in the gig?”
“Somewhat. The club’s got a big name. It’d raise Alchemy’s profile.” He avoided mention of the intriguing woman behind the offer.
“Then do this: crunch the numbers so you know exactly what it’ll cost to farm out the bulk of your gigs, make sure you build flexibility into your contract with The Church so you’re available for any really big Alchemy stuff, then throw out a figure so damn high they either walk away, no harm done, or you bank a serious pay raise.”
Impressive prescription. Chris stood up and grabbed his bag. “Not bad, Robinson. I’ll give it some thought. Thanks.”
“Let me know what happens.” Diante suddenly leaned back. “But hey, before you go, I’ve got something to run by you, too.”
Chris, surprised, sat back down. “What’s up?”
“The time has come, my man.” He grinned.
Chris had no idea what time that might be or why it had come, but he bit. “Okay . . . for what?”
“Jordan’s moving in.” Diante looked like a boy who’d just won his first trophy.
Chris’s response was more muted. “Seriously?” Jordan was one of Diante’s revolving posse of women, making this an unforeseen development. In fact, the most salient aspects of Diante and Jordan’s relationship, at least from Chris’s perspective, were that she was young and staggeringly hot; Diante generally acted stupid around her, and their default rapport was incendiary.
Diante, clueless to his friend’s assessment, nodded gleefully. “Yep, we figured it was about time.”
“That’s . . . random. I thought you were edging away from that one, said she’d gotten too needy or whatever it was.”
“I did and I was, but we spent a lot of time talking this past weekend and decided part of why she’s so insecure is that she can’t tell how committed I am.”
“Not hard to understand, since you’re still hooking up with Tiana and that other chick you had over here a week or so ago.”
“DeDe? Nah, that’s all done now.”
“Yeah? Didn’t look so done when she was bent over the chaise lounge the other night.”
Diante flung his remote to the couch. “Why are you breaking my balls, man?”
“I’m just being real, D. You’ve been through some raucous shit over the years and I don’t want to see you go down that road again, that’s all.”
Diante took a swig of beer, calmed himself down. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I appreciate you lookin’ out for me, I do. But, seriously, man, I love this girl and I think the fooling around was just ’cause I was scared. I’m still scared, but I’m more scared of losing her than living with her. Hell, man, I’m thirty-four, been divorced almost five years, and one of these days I want a family. I gotta at least try again, don’t I?”
Chris could see the man was struggling. “Hey, if it’s honestly what you want, go for it.”
“It is. For her too.” Diante then paused awkwardly.
“What’s the tag?” Chris sighed. “I can tell there’s a tag.”
“If I’m gonna run with this, I gotta approach it like the real thing. Like we’re doing it right, grown people building a home together.”
“What does all that mean?” Chris knew exactly what it meant; he just didn’t want to deal with what it meant.
“I need the place to myself, bro. I gotta fully take it on, you know? Her and me living together like a real couple, not just hanging out with my buddy in the next room. And, come on, you have got to be wanting your own pad by now, right? I mean, when was the last time you had a girl in here? Jordan was just sayin’ that you live like a goddamn priest. What’s it been, like, two years?”
Beyond the inaccurate time gap, Chris bristled at the thought of Diante’s damn-near-teenage girlfriend critiquing his love life. His last relationship had been with a dancer he’d met doing sound for an Oak Park wedding about three years ago. She was beautiful, incredibly sexy; they dated seriously for two years, then she got recruited by the Alvin Ailey Company in New York, left with promises made, and never came back.
“It’s not even been a year and I’m too busy for all that right now, that’s all.”
“Not even a booty call? Come on, man, you’ve got to get back in the game! That’ll be a hell of a lot easier if you don’t have me and Jordan around.”
Chris and Diante had roomed together, on and off, since they’d graduated from college. Despite their many differences, both personally and professionally, they’d managed to maintain enough common ground to keep the arrangement workable, one they returned to time and time again while rolling through the process of growing up. The current chapter began about six months after Chris launched his company; Diante was newly divorced, his condo was centrally located, and he had an industrial-sized storage locker available for Chris’s sound equipment. When the invitation was extended, Chris was happy to grab it. He was less happy to leave it at this particular moment.
“I know this is a little abrupt,” Diante continued, “so I don’t expect you to pack up tonight—”
“Well, shit, I hope not!”
“But I do want to move things along pretty quick.”
“How quick?”
“Could you be out by the first?” That was fourteen days away.
“What are you doin’ to me, D? I just told you what I’ve got going on right now! When am I going to have time to look for an apartment?”
“I could do some scouting for you, make some calls, and, look, if it takes a little longer, no big thing. You can keep the storage locker. I don’t think Jordan’ll need it and if she does, I’ll help you find an
alternative. I would’ve given you more notice but this just kinda sprang up—”
“You’ve been seeing her for over a year.” Chris was authentically annoyed.
“I mean the living together thing. I’m sorry, bro. We’ll make it work—I got you covered.”
Diante reached over for a fist bump, but Chris wasn’t feeling the solidarity. He got up, his knee jostling the table just enough to splash Diante’s beer over his latest skin rag.
“Hey now!” Diante yelped, picking up the dripping magazine.
“Better get rid of that shit, brother. As I recall, Jordan takes competition very seriously.”
The wet magazine flew in his direction.
NINE
IN THE THIRTY MINUTES SHE’D BEEN WAITING, SIDONIE mentally assessed every detail of her current surroundings at least twice. She was seated at a table in a pop-up farmers’ market, alternately checking her phone and sipping latte on this pretend-spring day, the kind Chicagoans know as the “tease before next week’s snow.” The ice of mid-March had begun to melt, leaving the adjoining park awash in tiny, misguided buds that crept early from their green shells, all poised to be cruelly glaciated in the next freeze. Still, it was a lovely backdrop: the air was crisp, the sky blue, and every single person she looked at appeared to be part of a couple.
Maybe it was a subverted form of Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon, that frequency illusion where a random concept is suggested and suddenly it’s visible everywhere. But after a year spent reclaiming her “stable singlehood” (as Patsy so charitably put it), focused on identifying herself outside the framework of wife or couple, Theo’s calls started, and from then on, coupledom seemed everywhere.
Loving twosomes reveling in their twosomeness. Gentle touches and heads teased inward; the gaze of attachment, the soft laughter of shared, easy conversation. Connected and conjoined. Walking down streets with hands held, hips bumping, shoulders leaned; their coupledom as solid as the ground, the floor, the earth beneath their feet, and upon that foundation all happiness could be built.
The Alchemy of Noise Page 3