A Perfect Blindness

by W. Lance Hunt

  We climb the short staircase.

  “Good to see you again,” Randal says, shaking Scott’s hand. “Soon we won’t have to wait so long.”

  We stroll across the entrance bridge, down the spiral stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door. It’s a perfect sixty-eight degrees, with a light breeze. Smoke wafts off the grill in ragged white streaks. An eight-foot blond-wood fence blocks out the neighbors and the alley from the lush emerald lawn spreading across the yard. At the sound of our entrance, Tanya, Michele, and AnnMarie look up from under a huge, lime-colored parasol sprouting from the center of a bright, daisy-yellow flower-shaped table.

  As our host leads us down the five steps, my shoes sink into the grass and the sweet, herbaceous scent of freshly cut grass blends into the rich, faintly petrol-laced odor of burning charcoal.

  A wine bottle is hoisted from an ice bucket, and two glasses are flipped upright and filled. Michele brings over our glasses.

  Why are you even here?

  She thoughtfully purses her lips as if to answer the unspoken question, but instead, turns and walks to our host, who’s fanning the coals in the grill. Flames jump and crackle. Smoke bellows out in a thick cloud. Next to him, steaks are laid out in a glass dish, covered with red wine, red onions, and herbs. Ears of corn are piled in a pyramid, their husks pulled back into handles. Around the parasol’s pole, a tossed salad and potato salad wait in deep bowls next to neatly stacked plates. It looks like a magazine ad Amy would’ve put together.

  “Where’s that photographer, Ron?” Scott asks AnnMarie.

  “Some job he didn’t want to do,” she says. “A wedding out in the ’burbs.”

  Our hostess raises her glass. “To distant friends,” she says. “Hey, you two. Randal? Michele?”

  Soda water, not wine, fills her glass, and I wonder what she has up her sleeve this time.

  “After we’re fed,” she says. “Road trip. I don’t think we have to go very far. This is the neighborhood to be in. But you need to see where isn’t that good to know why this is so good. So then: Lincoln Park, Boystown, Uptown, Andersonville, Rogers Park, and then Bucktown, and home to Wicker Park.”

  “We’ll take your word for it,” I say.

  “Oh, no you won’t. I’ll not have you blaming me. For anything. You’ll see for yourself.”

  The sudden sizzle of the steak Randal tosses on the grill stops the talking. As the marinade dribbles off the meat, the coals hiss angrily, shooting dark smoke up in trails. The scent of searing onions and flesh floats over us. Next to Randal, Michele takes the corn, ear by ear, and lays each across the rear coals; burning husk joins the medley of scents.

  Amy would hate this—two rich kids slumming: sham hip. She’d go off on them—bitch about ’em. Tanya especially. Don’t worry; you soon won’t have to hear about them. Ever.

  After the meal, four of us—our future drummer, our hostess, Scott, and I—leave the host and Michele behind and pile into Tanya’s Jeep Cherokee and start the tour of the neighborhoods. We leave Wicker Park, with the Chicagoans as tour guides. We head east toward the lake and through yuppie-infested Lincoln Park, and then we turn north up Halsted Street.

  As I’m looking at all these new streets, thoughts of Amy keep intruding—especially of her lying on the hallway table, half naked, saying, “Jennifer isn’t as good as me,” and of my whispering into her hair, “I’ll never let you go.” I squirm to escape these sights and then get looks like “What’s wrong with you?” from Scott, and I wave him off, saying, “It’s exciting. That’s all.” To hide from Amy’s intrusions into my mind, I concentrate on reading every store and restaurant sign, trying to figure out what each is like inside, or why the traffic lights are all on the sides of the streets.

  After a few minutes on Halsted, the street becomes lined with bars with names like “Manhole” and “Rawhide,” and the sidewalks bustle with mostly men, some holding hands.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to Boystown, 60657. Nice place if you are of a particular bent.”

  Scott frowns and shakes his head. “Not exactly my cup of tea,” he says.

  A couple of turns bring us to Clark Street, and after a few minutes, we pass Wrigley Field and then, down the street, Cabaret Metro. Where all the bands that matter play. Where I’ll play.

  I don’t remember the particulars of the rest of our tour: only lots of streets, three- and four-story buildings, and apartments over storefronts, going on and on in every direction I look. It all blurs into one vast city.

  “This is one big town,” Scott says. “We’ve been driving forever. What—three, three and a half hours?”

  “This is only part of the North Side,” AnnMarie says. “A little of the West. Most of the city, you haven’t even seen.”

  “Those are the parts you really don’t want to live in,” Tanya says. “Visit, maybe.”

  “It’s like I can take a vacation to a different city by hopping a ride on the subway,” I say.

  “The ‘L,’” she says. “This isn’t New York. No subway. We have the ‘L.’”

  “By hopping a ride on the ‘L,’” I say.

  “Much better. Now you’re starting to sound like a Chicagoan.”

  Nearing her place again, the houses get shabby, but the restaurants and bars speak to me: an Italian place with live music, and a bar with a sandwich board covered with Gothic letters, listing specials, cocked open in front of windows with deep red drapes and candelabras stuffed with thick white candles atop frozen falls of wax, waiting for night and resurrection.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I get why this is the hood to live in.”

  “I knew you’d understand,” she says, turning the Jeep onto Winchester.

  “Definitely,” Scott says.

  All at once, the move feels real, as if I can touch it. I want to get things rolling, see apartments, pack, and start living my new life. We must grab our opportunity before something happens.

  Before you can change my mind, Amy.

  It’s clear there’s no way I can let her know. Not until we’re already here. When it’s too late. Then I’ll have to ask myself all the questions Amy would have asked me, make the comments she would have made, explain to myself what I’m doing and why I’m doing it—have conversations for lovers, but with myself, alone. I wonder if it’ll make any sense.

  Once we’re back, we walk through Tanya’s place to the table out back, where Michele and Randal have cocktails and a spread of food for us. The evening feels calm. The traffic from North, Damen, and Milwaukee Avenues provides a soft white noise, accented by the rare car driving slowly by in the alley behind the blond-wood wall. Occasionally an ‘L’ train moves along its raised tracks far enough away that its rumble is a hum, and its screeches are like a distant bird’s calls. The dusk’s reds and yellows settle across the clouds. Everything is golden warm.

  “By the way,” Tanya says, picking up her glass and sipping from it. “I’m pregnant.”

  “Huh?” Michele blurts, looking to Randal, who raises his eyebrows and nods. Her expression clashes with the news: sour, as if she were watching a bad play.

  Still cannot get my head around you, Michele.

  “That explains the soda, you lush,” Scott says. “Designated driver my ass.”

  “When did you find this out?” AnnMarie asks, pinching her lips, looking disturbed, as if she were the one pregnant.

  “Confirmed it yesterday.”

  “And why didn’t you—”

  “More dramatic,” she says.

  “To say the least,” Michele says.

  “So,” Scott says. “This mean you’re going to get hitched? At long last.”

  “Not sure,” Randal says. “We—”

  “We don’t know,” Tanya says. “A shotgun wedding is so … 1950s white trash.”

  “Tanya,” I say, “that’s about the weirdest
thing I’ve ever heard you say.” The to-be parents look pleased, so I say, “Congratulations. That’s great. For both of you. Really.”

  I guess. What does this mean—you can’t help us now?

  Chapter 6

  Artful Dodger

  —Jonathan—

  The next morning, Scott, I, and the parents to be head to the Northside for brunch. It’s only a few blocks’ walk. I like the Sunday morning feel of our new ’hood: it’s quiet, but there’s still life. I can hear cars, and see people walking on other blocks. The city is waking up from a party—a little hungover but alive.

  At the Northside, we meet Michele and AnnMarie, and by the time we’ve killed our first round of drinks, Ron arrives at the table, camera hanging from his shoulder.

  “Well?” AnnMarie asks him as he sits down.

  “Well what?”

  “Congratulate the new mother-to-be.”

  “You’re pregnant?” he asks. “When did you start dating?”

  She laughs. “Not dating. And not me.”

  He looks at Michele.

  She shakes her head, “Hell no” all over her face.

  He looks at Tanya. “Bullshit,” he says. “Not possible.”

  She breaks into a smile.

  As quick as a falcon, he has his camera at his eye, and the shutter clicks at her, and then at daddy, and then at the parents together.

  “Good,” Tanya says. “Now that we’re all here, we can get down to business.”

  “Looking for a place to live,” Scott says.

  “Kinda depends,” she says.

  So then, this isn’t happening, right?

  “On?” Scott asks.

  “How much work you’re willing to do.”

  “How much work, meaning …?”

  “What I said,” she says, sipping her “just OJ in a champagne flute.” “You see, we, Harman Co., recently bought a building right around the corner. Big one. Former pencil factory. And we can make more money renting it as a work/live space.”

  “Residential makes more per square foot than commercial,” the new daddy says.

  “The only catch is that it needs work.”

  “Work,” Scott says. “As in—”

  “No,” she says. “Not that much. Mostly cleaning up. Some light construction.”

  “For you,” Randal says. “Three thousand five hundred square feet of open space. Empty. Twenty-foot ceilings. No kitchen, no bedrooms. Yet.”

  “Here’s the deal,” Tanya says. “The second, third, and fourth floors and the basement aren’t occupied. The first floor is already promised to a guy who’s opening a coffee shop. The second and third floors are in really bad shape, so we’ll have to pay people to reclaim them. But the fourth floor and the basement—whichever you want—you clear them. We do the plumbing, cabinetry. You take care of the rest. Bedrooms. Supply the kitchen appliances. This for free rent.”

  “Free?” Scott asks.

  “For at least a year. Then as long as I can keep it zero. Even then you’ll get it at a steep discount. Thirty-five hundred square feet of empty space. A place to rehearse, to live. With a last condition: it’s also a place for Ron, here, to shoot and store his gear.”

  “So,” Scott says, “this is really for the three of us.”

  “No. It’s for you two,” she says. “He gets to borrow it though. If he helps you two.”

  “Free,” I say. “As cheap as it gets.”

  “I’ll shoot around your schedule,” Ron says. “No problem. My equipment doesn’t take up much room. This—it’ll be sweet.”

  “As long as we can sleep and rehearse,” Scott says. “I’m all over this.”

  Sorry, Amy.

  “I thought you’d like that,” Tanya says. “Like I said, Ron, you’ve gotta pitch in. It’s not a small job.”

  “When can we see it?” I ask. “But thank you. Very much.” Can’t forget that. Tanya never would.

  “It’s only a couple of minutes’ walk from here,” she says. “But there’s no electricity. No running water. No heat. Nada. It’s a big, dirty, dark cave with crap in it right now. We’ve a couple of legal loose ends to wrap up before you can start doing anything. So, in six weeks, we’ll get you the keys.”

  The clock starts: Chicago has a date, and the end of my old life appears. It’s all getting very real, very fast.

  “A toast,” she says. “To Chi-town. Welcome.”

  Glasses clink. Amy, it’s a free loft. In Chicago. How can I say no?

  An icy cold sensation flows down inside me.

  No, girl. I shake my head. It’s you. You won’t move.

  I put down my glass and grimace at the empty seat right across from me as if Amy were sitting there all this time but was suddenly removed when I looked away.

  But what? And I quote: “We’re lovers, not each other’s purpose.” Those are your own words, dear.

  I shake my head.

  Metro matters. Playing there is a purpose. For me. I point my thumb at my chest. Look, we’ve still got six weeks, Amy. There’s still time for you to figure something out, right? You’re the one who’s good at this.

  Scott looks askance at me.

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and shake my head to knock this quarrel from my mind. To keep it away, I drink, smile, laugh, and talk, and the brunch melts into the afternoon, and the party moves back to their place. Then the afternoon turns into evening, and then into night. Then, around eleven, talk starts of going out again. A happy buzz floats through everyone’s mood. The host and hostess head to their room to get ready.

  “What’s this place we’re heading to?” I ask AnnMarie.

  “Artful Dodger,” she says. “A few blocks away. Think neighborhood bar plus dance floor. Locals only; no yuppies. Yet.”

  So Scott and I climb the spiral staircase to the spare bedroom to change for the night out.

  Getting ready to head out at night is like casting a spell for a good time. That with the right mixture of clothes, alcohol, and music, there will be dancing and, perhaps, a chance to step into someone else’s life, as I did one night with Amy. This is the purpose of tonight’s ritual: the cocktail I have to be drinking, the selecting of what to wear. These shoes or those? These pants? With this shirt? Or the other? This jacket? That? None?

  Though I’ve nothing to change into other than a second pair of black jeans and the single extra shirt I packed, I follow my ritual by lining up my wallet, pack of Camels, and Zippo as if I were at home with a closet of clothes to choose from. But this will work only with the right music.

  I turn on the radio to WNUR from Northwestern. I’d love to hear “Temple of Love” by the Sisters of Mercy. That’s a sign of a successful night, as it invokes the charm: “Life is short and/love is always over in the morning.” Instead I hear Joy Division’s “Isolation,” a bleak landscape of shame, devotion, and loneliness—of blindness, touching perfection, but hurting—like anything else. Yet I remain an optimist; after all, everyone going out has spent time getting ready, so wants something, though they may all pretend they don’t, and that something might be me.

  I toast myself in the mirror and set my martini so I can see exactly half of it reflected. The twist floats, slowly, to a stop, one yellow-and-white end poking through the surface: I take that as a good sign.

  Behind my reflection, I can see Scott taking off his shirt. He’s very big. Not ripped; rather, he’s thick. Like a college running back. Someone to avoid messing with.

  Once I take off my shoes and pants, it’s time to take another sip, but not more. The wine from dinner and gin from this martini warm me and give everything a pleasant glow; any more would tip the scales into drunkenness.

  He’s already finished and is in the bathroom, running water to splash his face.

  I take the next ritual sip, and then I pull
on my pants. They’re snug, even on my skinny ass.

  I see him watching me in the mirror.

  “You’re fine,” he says. “No one can see your chicken legs.”

  In summer, when I have to wear shorts, the Mexicans in my restaurant call me pollo loco—crazy chicken.

  After putting on my hefty black bus driver shoes, I brush out my hair using a steel-tine hedgehog brush. I make sure the part down the center of my skull is straight. My hair curls slightly at my shoulders.

  Then, stretching out my neck, I give myself three quick sprays of Versus cologne. It smells exactly like tonight’s going to be great.

  The radio’s providing the right songs for my soundtrack: New Order’s “Blue Monday” comes up.

  I’m ready to complete the charm by finishing the last sip of my cocktail. Practice, for when I’ll be alone again.

  Scott jerks this thumb toward the open door. “Let’s roll.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, we hook up with the others, and take off into the night, walking a couple of blocks to Wabansia and then left into Bucktown, where it’s deep residential: house after house, some detached, some three-story multifamily buildings—nothing to show any life except the flicker of TVs through windows.

  Then a dark green hexagonal tower bulges from the corner of a three-story brick house, the tower rising up to the fourth story, taller than all the houses around. A sign juts out above the street corner, carrying a mock coat of arms reading “Artful Dodger.” An oasis of fun in this desert of quiet.

  “Yep,” I say. “Looks like it’s going to be a great night.”

  We follow Tanya through the door.

  The Dodger envelops us. Smoke wafts in clouds over the bar, tables, and booths. Everything is wood: the benches, chairs, and even the walls. The Ramones’ “Sheena is a Punk Rocker” plays from the back. In the semidarkness, drinks glow in people’s hands like fireflies on a hot summer eve. I breathe in the smells of stale beer and cigarettes.

  “Smells like ex-girlfriends,” I say to no one in particular. Not that I’d know. Just sounds good.