Chi-Town Blues

by D. J. Herda

  A couple more hours! John knew he couldn't wait that long. He was straining now. A couple more hours and he'd explode!

  "I thought maybe Old Man Feeney's niece come down to work in her uncle's shop. She does that sometimes in the fall. Likes to make a little money before the start of school, although I can't picture the old coot paying her enough to make it worth her while. The old tightwad."

  John paused. "His niece?"

  "Yeah." John's uncle pulled an orange from a sack he'd brought along with him and began carving into it with a small pocket knife. "Goes to school at the University of Minnesota or someplace like that. Straight-A student, I understand. You know, Dean's List and all that kinda crap. She's studying to be a doctor or a lawyer or something, I forget. Old Man Feeney near as talked my head off about her last time I come out. Saying how proud everyone in the family was of her. I can't see how anyone related to that old buzzard could be worth a damn, but people say she’s pretty smart ... and quite a looker."

  John’s ears shot up. “Did you say hooker?”

  “What? What are you talking about? I said she’s studying to be a doctor or something.”

  John's mind raced. A doctor. A woman who looks like that and a doctor, too?

  His uncle nodded. "Doctor or lawyer. I forget which.” He popped a slice of orange into his mouth and held a piece out to John. John shook his head.

  "You know what?”

  His uncle craned his head and peered up at him. "What?"

  "All this coffee I've been drinking, I'll be damned if I don't have to take another pee."

  His uncle shook his head. "Kids. I swear, when I was your age, I didn't pee but once a ..."

  "Yeah, well, I won't be long. Then we'll check the net again, huh? See if they're running."

  John peered back over his shoulder. The sun had begun warming the early morning air. The wind had died down, too—as much as you could expect this time of year right off the lake. As he thought about his uncle's words, he felt his legs involuntarily pick up their pace. He felt, too, the sudden release he would know, felt the easing strain on his bladder as he pictured himself before the porcelain god, listening to the stream working its way up and down against the back wall of the urinal, down across the oversized mint in the bottom, up the side again. He quickened his pace some more, knowing that if he was lucky, he’d make it just in time. And then have that second cup of coffee.

  He bounded up the steps to the shop, pausing just long enough to push his hands through his hair. He took one last look in the glass and reached for the knob. He had some heavy-duty peeing to do. And some pretty serious schmoozing, too. He couldn't believe he'd been so dumb. He couldn't believe he'd let his imagination run away with him like that. That whole Vegas thing, that whole episode.

  What's past is past, he thought. You've got to quit worrying about every little thing and get hold of your senses.

  John opened the door to the shop and glanced around for Old Man Feeney's niece, but she was nowhere in sight. Must be in back. He angled his way across the floor and stopped before the doorway leading to the men’s room. Just in time, he thought as he grabbed for the knob.

  Suddenly the door flew open, and standing before him was Old Man Feeney, himself. The old geezer took one long, squinting look at him, and John at him, at the broom in his hands, at the stubble on the old man's face and the queer look in his eyes.

  "Excuse me," John said.

  The old man's eyes exploded. "Excuse you? Excuse you? Ain't you the son-of-a-bitch what's been putting the make on my niece? Ain't you the good-for-nothing two-timing little bastard what's got the hots for my younger brother’s daughter, Sweet Mary Lou?"

  John shook his head. "I ..."

  The old man suddenly threw the broom into the air, swinging it around him like a palace guard wielding a scimitar.

  "Go on, don't lie to me, you Goddam little punk! Why, I'll teach you to go creatin’ trouble around here. I'll teach you to go bothering innocent young girls when all they want is a little peace and quiet. Go on, now, Mister Punk! Go on, now, and get your skinny ass the hell outa my place. Now! Before I do something I’m gonna regret. Like call shove this broom up your scrawny little ass!"

  "Hey!" John cried as the broom caught him flush on the hip. Another blow struck him on the arm, and a third missed his head by inches.

  "Jesus Christ, are you nuts?"

  "Go on, I'll show you who's nuts and who's not. Git the hell outa here, now. Git the hell outa my shop, before I really lose my temper!"

  John grabbed the door knob and rushed over the threshold just as he felt the old man's boot skim his ass. As he emerged in the sunlight, the door slammed shut so hard, one of the panes of glass shattered.

  “Somabitch! Goddam little sneak! You keep your dirty little ass away from my Sweet Mary Lou, you hear? You keep clear of my niece, you know what’s good for you!”

  John glanced back inside the shop where Old Man Feeney was still swinging the broom around his head like a lariat and shouting at no one in particular.

  “The guy’s a loon,” he said softly. For a moment, he couldn't believe what had just happened. He couldn't believe the old man had mistaken him for someone else. He couldn't believe ... Shit! He couldn't believe he'd ever see Mary Lou Feeney again.

  Shit! Double shit! And she's gonna be a doctor!

  John took one last look over his shoulder as he walked down the steps to the pavement, and then he stopped to look out over the lake. The waves were rolling in gently, now, their early morning thunder all but quashed. They lapped lightly at the shore, sheeting up and over the rocks and moving the sand and small pebbles first in and then out, again, as they receded back into the lake, only to be replaced by a new ebb and flow.

  “Feel better, now?” John’s uncle asked when his nephew arrived. John could only nod his head and stare blankly out at the waves. His uncle squinted up at him. “Say, what’s the matter? Something wrong?”

  John shook his head and scowled. “Ahh, it’s just that I’ve still gotta pee.”

  “You just went, for God’s sake!”

  “No. I forgot.”

  “Forgot? How could you forget? I thought that’s what you ...”

  “Well, you know, I got me another cup of coffee, and the next thing you know, I’m heading back out here. Just slipped my mind.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have had to go very ...” He stopped, grinned, and craned his head. “Say, is Old Man Feeney’s niece working here today? Is she back in town?”

  I shrugged.

  “Uh-huh. I thought so. I figured there was something a little strange going on from the look on your face the first time you got back. So, go on, tell me. Is she ...”

  He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes bulging, his mouth opened wider than the fish we’d caught that morning. I turned to see what he was staring at and suddenly understood why.

  “Hi!” she called, lifting up her hand with a white paper bag glued to her fingertips. “I brought you something.”

  I felt myself smile instinctively. She was even more radiant, her skin more translucent in daylight. Her hair shone like the fjords in Norway in mid-summer. She oozed life.

  As she approached, she lowered the bag to her waist and opened it, pulling a go-cup of coffee from inside. And a couple containers of cream and a pack of sugar. “I’m not sure how you take it, so I brought you some of this, too.”

  “Wow,” I said, instinctively regretting that she hadn’t dragged along a port-a-potty, too. “That’s really ... you know. Terrific. Very thoughtful.”

  I introduced her to my uncle, who knew enough to grunt and busy himself rummaging through his fishing gear so we could have some privacy. I guessed that was the reason, anyhow.

  “I just wanted to apologize for the way my uncle treated you earlier. I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately.”

  “He was a little, umm, terse. She laughed; I smiled. “I thought for a minute or two that he just hated fishermen.”

&nb
sp; She shook her head. “No, he’s been like that for a while. Ever since he got this notion in his head that someone has been embezzling funds from him."

  Embezzling? From where, the cash register? How much business does he do in that shop, anyway, twenty, thirty dollars a day? How much could anyone embezzle?

  “That’s good to know. I mean, not about the embezzling. I mean, for a while, I thought he had a special gripe against me. Even though I’d never met him before. I guess we just sort of got off on the wrong foot.”

  “Well, that’s another thing I wanted to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How much I enjoyed having you stop by. Meeting you. Getting to know a little about you, John John John.”

  “You know that’s not my real name.”

  She laughed, loud and raspy, a smoker’s laugh. Deep and mysterious and sexy as hell. “I sorta guessed.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, holding one out to me. I waved it off and watched as she took it out and placed the business end between those two ethereal lips. What I wouldn’t have given for a shot at them!

  “Here,” I said, fumbling through my own pants pocket before pulling out a Zippo. “Let me ...”

  She leaned forward—her stunning architecture evident even beneath forty pounds of compacted goose feathers—breathed in once, twice before exhaling. Slowly, the smoke rose in a thin, steady plume into the sky. She raised her head slightly and closed her eyes as if in the midst of an orgasm.

  “I’m going to quit one of these days,” she said. “Maybe when I get back home. You know, for school.”

  I nodded. “Good idea. That can’t be doing you any good.”

  “That’s another reason I stopped by.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just to see if maybe you wanted to ride with me to the train station. I have a ticket for the 10:35 to Minneapolis.”

  “Oh, wow,” I said, glancing at my watch and then looking over at my uncle, trying not to look over at us. At least not so that we’d notice.

  “I ... I’d love to. Really. But I’m here with my uncle. You know. Maybe I could take a rain check. You know? Maybe next time you come to town, we can get together for lunch or dinner or something, and then I can drive you to the station when you have to return home.”

  She looked down. Her eyes rubbed against the jagged rocks beneath our feet. “That’s just it. I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

  I took the empty sack from her, crinkled it up, and stuffed it into my pocket. “What do you mean? Why not? I thought you liked working here during the summers. You know, to get extra money for school and all.”

  “I guess ... Well, I just don’t think I’ll be coming back, that’s all. But it would be great to have someone to talk to on the ride to the station, instead of looking at the back of some cab driver’s head the entire way. I could use someone to talk to. I just hate the thought of driving all that way alone.”

  The offer was tempting, I had to admit. But I couldn’t see how I’d explain it to my uncle. We’d come out there together to fish, not to chase women. Besides, I figured the only real reason she wanted me along was to pick up the fare once we got to the station. After seeing the bait shop and her uncle and all, it was a cinch that, if she wasn’t dead-ass broke, she was close to it. That’s why it just didn’t make sense for her to up and quit like that. It just didn’t make any sense at all.

  And then she played her ace. Stepping closer to me, she unzipped my coat, pulled open hers, and pressed her body against mine. She put the cigarette to her mouth, inhaled, and held the smoke in as she opened her lips enough to throw them across mine. I heard my uncle cough involuntarily as we probed one another with our tongues before I felt a sudden warm surge sweep over me. And a sudden urge to cough, which I did, as smoke lunged out from between my lips.

  “It’s called French smoking,” she whispered, “and it’s the most intimate thing a woman can do to a man.” She paused before whispering again, “Practically.”

  I breathed out in shock. “Wow.”

  She looked down at my pants, at the obvious bulge, peeked over to where my uncle was pretending not to be pretending not to see us, and looked back up into my eyes. “Yeah, wow.” She stepped back enough so she could run her hands up the lapels of my shirt, stop at the collar, and slowly wrap both arms around my neck. “Did I tell you I have a train ticket for Minneapolis?”

  I tried to say something, but the words never came out. I nodded.

  “Well,” she said, leaning in to kiss me again, long and lingering this time, before breaking away. “I lied. I have two.”

  Two? Two tickets all the way to Minneapolis?

  Well, it was the most difficult thing I’d ever done in my life, I’ll tell you that—even tougher than walking away from that hooker in Vegas—but I clasped her hand and squeezed it gently as I gave her a kiss on the cheek. Not to be anticlimactic, but I simply wasn’t sure my lips could survive another round. And, as she walked up the embankment to the parking lot and the cab stand just a few dozen yards beyond, I stared after her, half expecting her to turn around and wave or motion for me to follow or give me the finger or something. Anything.

  But she didn’t. She just walked on. And I stood there, watching. And wondering. Until my uncle came up beside me. He hesitated before clearing his throat, and I finally turned to face him.

  “Did you see that?” I asked.

  “See what?”

  I turned back toward where I had seen her last, seen the apparition slowly fade into the early morning mist clearing itself from the lake, seen her disappear from my life probably forever.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing, really.”

  That evening, while I stood fanning the coals in my grill, trying to keep the hotdogs and buns from scorching, the phone rang. I pushed the food off to one side and closed the lid before answering.

  “Did you hear the news?”

  It was my uncle, sounding more excited than I’d heard since we’d stumbled across a mob hit at a small lagoon years earlier. “No,” I said. What news?”

  “It’s all over the television and radio and everywhere. Old Man Feeney.”

  “Yeah, what about him? He become a born-again Christian or something?”

  “Worse. He was killed earlier today. Cut right in two with a meat cleaver. Right down the center of the skull.”

  “What?”

  “Honest to God. The police said his place was locked up until one p.m. or something like that, and they got a couple complaints from a few of the fishermen wanting to know what was up. I guess not long after we left. That’s when they went down to investigate and found the place all closed and locked. They forced their way in and found him on the floor behind the counter in a pool of blood, dead as a doornail.”

  ”Wow. I can’t believe it. And I saw him only this morning.”

  “Say, that’s right. You were down there a couple of times, weren’t you? And you saw him, and he was alive and well.”

  “Absolutely. Too much so. He threatened to kick my ass out of there if I didn’t leave his ...” I stopped short.

  “Kid? Kid?” My uncle’s voice rang hollow on the line. “You still there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. Just a little in shock, that’s all. Yeah, I saw him this morning. For a couple of minutes. He must have locked the place up right after I left. Someone must have broken in.”

  “Wow, amazing. Alive one minute and dead as a doornail the next.”

  “Did they say anything about who might have killed him?”

  “What I heard, they haven’t got a clue. All they know is that the cash-register drawer was open, and all the money from inside was gone.”

  I stopped again. Frozen for all time. And when I heard my uncle’s voice on the line again, I snapped out of my stupor.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, Unc. Thanks for calling. Thanks for telling me. It’s pretty remarkable. Yeah. But I’ve gotta go. I�
��ve got dinner on the grill, and I’d better get back to it before it’s burned to a crisp.”

  After I hung up, I thought about the grill and I thought about Old Man Feeney and what he had said to me before he kicked me out of his place. And how I didn’t quite understand what had gotten him so riled up all of a sudden.

  And I thought, too, about Old Man Feeney’s niece, and how she went out of her way to bring me a cup of coffee afterwards, just before heading back ...”

  I rubbed my chin, my eyes glancing around the apartment on their quest for the Holy Grail. And, when they failed to find it, I felt my feet begin to move. Slowly. Ever so slowly. Toward the front hallway. The entranceway. Toward the clothes tree on which I usually hang my coats and sweaters and things such as that when I come in from the cold.

  I grabbed the coat I had worn that morning and reached inside one pocket. I came up empty. I reached into the opposite one, my fingers instantly brushing something and grasping it. And when I pulled it out, I was clutching a crinkled-up white-paper bag. When I unwadded it and took a closer look, I saw it.

  I saw Old Man Feeney’s niece’s blood-red lipstick along the top edge of the sack where she must have accidentally gotten some when she placed my coffee and creamer and sugar inside.

  Except that, as I recalled both times I had seen her, she wasn’t wearing blood-red lipstick. In fact, she wasn’t wearing any lipstick at all.

  THREE: Greatness

  THEY ALWAYS CALLED my grandfather a great man. But I knew better. There is something about great men that they cannot hide and something about un-great men that they could never feign.

  But they persisted with their tales of greatness. So, what's a young boy to do?

  It's important, I realize now, for a kid growing up into manhood on the Great South Side of Chicago to think of his grandfather as a noble fellow—or at least not as a schmuck. Your father can be an idiot; your mother can be a loon. That doesn't matter. You have to love them, anyway. It's in the rules. But a grandfather? Well, he pretty much has to earn your respect, deserve your admiration. And for that, I had to give the old boy credit. He worked hard at it. But great?