The Easy Chain

by Evan Dara

  Delling drew his chair closer. You may notice a certain ascetic tendency within the group, he low-whispered. Well, at least in its outward aspect. No doubt this is allied to our deepest undercurrents, where I find the defining axioms of our humble ensemble, and which may be characterized, in sum, as an aspiration toward the sublime. Certainly so. Sent from the messy human sphere, people enter, in the ad-world, a realm of the efficient, the effective, the faultless, the perfect, one in which everything works. Everywhere in that charmed ensconcement, results are assured, justice is universal, desire becomes delight. In short, at such times we find, finally, the honeyed sublime …

  Only, I repeat, through adhedonia …

  Thus acquainted with the highest, have I, Diogenes-like, become immune to other blandishments?, he continued. It may be so. A pornographic film, or images from a magazine that dare not advertise its name – all such stuff leaves me cold. But a trailer touting the virtues of that same movie, or a half-page notice calling one and all to savor that very rag – now we’re talking …

  And perhaps – perhaps – when we come to know each other more closely, I will tell you of the time when I, one wind-torn April evening, went on what is commonly known as a date with a print model, a North Carolina gal widely known for her comeliness …

  It is not what you think. By the end of our fine supper’s first course, this model had, under the pretext of visiting the powder room, fled through a kitchen door. It seems she had not found much to favor in my yawning …

  Delling drew breath. He looked down, then raised his gaze to Lincoln and Auran. He nodded, and exhaled heavily …

  So, he then said. He leaned forward, and started to stand. If you’ll excuse me …

  He rose in his spot, and swept the room with a glance. He took his glasses from his broad temples, showing small, shining black eyes. He indicated the glasses. Blurberry’s, he said. Airbrushers …

  He folded the glasses into a hidden breast pocket, nodded, and took his leave. Delling walked towards the wide room’s longest wall, a nondescript scrim interrupted by a series of gray-brown doors. Lincoln had not noticed the doors before. But now he saw, as Delling approached and stepped through one dark portal, that a few other people, at slow intervals, were likewise rising from their seats within the main parlor. And they, too, were walking forth and entering one or another of those unseen rooms. When the doors unto the rooms opened, and during the brief whisks until they shut, there leaked, from sound systems invisible within, Chevron’s rendition of the Schubert Eighth, the Nike Revolution edit, Vivaldi’s Concerto in D for Guitar and Insurance Company.

  —When Lincoln went over and hugged the guy, well, it was really great. Everybody talked about it a real lot. I mean, at first, when the guy called Lincoln a college dropout, you know, it wasn’t very nice. But then he said Hell, if that’s what dropping out does, I’m re-enrolling in school! … I’m sorry, the guy also added – For a week! And, Lincoln, you know, he’s so great, he played along, he laughed, he took a sweet thing and made it sweeter …

  Later that evening, the reception started to cook, people just kept filling up Jimmy Connolly’s apartment, even like knocking into the art frames on the walls, and Karin Nordhoff also asked Lincoln about his schooling. You know, about his going back to the University of Chicago. Sure, Lincoln said: I’ll go back some day. Some day?, Karin Nordhoff said. Right, Lincoln said: Some day. There was quiet. Man, then did everybody laugh.

  —And at the reception at the Monaco, Lin—

  —The cake came out at five o’clock. It was a big, baroque thing in the shape of an open book, white icing whipped into scrolls and tufts, brown and orange frosting-ornaments making it all festive. Oohs and gathering and big-eyed smiles came when it was wheeled into the front room. When Lincoln arrived, everyone pretended nothing was unusual. But when, walking towards the storage closet in the back, Lincoln came upon his tribute, everyone turned and clapped and cheered. They all rushed over. And when Andrew Carver took Lincoln in a hug, he just hugged hard back …

  Today, Carver said in a speechifying voice, when they had unclenched, you are a man. Everyone whistled and cheered. Today you are eighteen. More whoops. With this afternoon’s closing on the 119 East Goethe duplex, Carver said, you have reached eighteen million dollars in sales – cheers, whistles – and have reached this figure far, far quicker than anyone else in the history of this institution. Including, I might add, me. And this while you’re still studying contracts and disclosures! Lincoln, dear Lincoln, our new man, we are happy to have you here.

  —Plates and forks. Lucy began to cut. Big slopping pieces for the guys, halfsies or less for all the women. But the cake, rich chocolate and white, was great. The cake was great.

  —Yeah and hey Lincoln?, the handpiece said. It’s Auran—

  —They met that Wednesday night. Auran had gotten a pair of tickets to see the reunion tour of Popular Science, the early-Eighties ur-spazmo band, at the Elbo Room, and the show was urgent fun: an audience of torn clothes and skin-smears. Afterwards, she led him to an unnamed bar-club near Oz Park, neon letters in the window simply saying Here. They sat in a side booth, all angle lights and back chatter, and Auran ordered Taittinger: mentioned something about an expense account …

  So, she said. Cold enough for you? She took a quick horizontal sip, bobbed in her place. I mean, I’ve gotten used to it, and I still haven’t gotten used to it, if you know what I. That wind isn’t a Hawk, it’s a Hurried Lover. Takes off your clothes …

  But things are good, she continued. Busy, busy. Chicken without a chance. My mom is in town, so I have to pretend the unities are still up and running. But she’s a sweetie. Knows what she wants, and how not to get it …

  She took another sip. But listen, she said. While we’re here. Why we’re here …

  She tabled her champagne glass and looked at Lincoln: flicked a lick a hair from her forehead. And then she asked him if he’d be interested in something, a proposition. A business proposition. She was wondering if he’d ever thought of getting a publicist. A personal one, just for him and his activities. Not just his business activities – all his activities. She was wondering if she could help him in this regard.

  —I would take it on as a side-project, she said. You know, in addition to my work at the Academy. Sometimes I might get a little crowded by my obligations there, but mostly this would piggyback on all the opportunities that come from the Academy. It would be great …

  So what do you think?, she continued. I mean, come on, Lincoln, you don’t want to stay in real estate. I’m sure you’re already thinking that. I mean, real estate is OK. It’s great. But Lincoln, you’re the best property you’ve got! Manage it! Sell it! And guess what. Lincoln, your surface area, your square footage, is the whole world. You have a footprint the size of the planet. If, of course, you manage it right …

  So let me start taking you around. You know, to places. Hot places. The hottest places in town, the places that the people in the hot places would wish they can get into, if they knew they were there. Let me be your cicerone to the real heat, to the real people here, business opportunities …

  And I know where they are, she continued. Through my boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend. My boyfriend. An older guy. His family, his family’s name, is on a plaque on every other building in Chicago. You’ve sold his properties without even knowing it. Or sold properties to his family. Without even knowing it …

  So that’s my basis. And with that, I will keep you happening. Red hot. Well-read hot. Lead singer for the Greek chorus, so they only see your back. Lincoln, I saw your mention in the Sun-Times, when you attended Elena Ferrante’s Strawberry Ball. But Lincoln, anyone can do that. Anyone can get his name in the paper once. The goal is to get back in, regularly, all the time. To be news that stays news. Lincoln, starting right now you should conceive of your life as a work of art, with art’s sovereign goal: make it news! So I won’t just be your publicist. I’ll be your re-publicist, putting you where the kl
ieg is sliding next, where it’s landing next, back where you have to be in order to manage your property. In our glorious re-public …

  Why? What’s it worth? One word. Access. Ask anyone who’s scrambled. The biggest difference in the world is between outside and inside. You know this. That’s the leap, the quantum shift. There’s an invisible threshold in the world. The guys at Chiat-Day call it the ontological bikini line. Below it, the whole system works against you. Denying, blocking, preventing, throwing down obstacles. But above the threshold, all of a sudden the entire system works for you. You know this. Above the line, magically, suddenly, it’s all there. Everything everyone wants, everything everyone is dying to obtain, and cannot, is all of a sudden thrown at you, hurled at you, endlessly, automatically. In bottomless abundance. Actually, topless. Topless abundance. Lincoln, go topless …

  And that’s access. And what is access? Opportunity. Opportunities to, opportunities for. Just do the math: To and for …

  Like I said, opportunities …

  Some more? You want some more of this?

  —She refilled his glass with Taittinger. OK?, she continued. Sure, money talks. But publicity commands. It’s like a sex thing: Promote it and they will come. Delling understands. So Lincoln, let me be your tracklayer. Your burnisher. Let me provide the self-salt, the image MSG. I can tear you through this place and make you the most visible man in Chicago …

  And I’ll help you in ways that go beyond conventional re-publicity, she continued. I can be your organizer, your secretary. Your assistant. But always – always – within limits. Strict limits. Your personal life is your business. Your Chicago life is mine. It’s better that way. That’s the way that you, that everybody wants it. But within those limits, I’ll be available to you twenty-fours hours a day. For anything you need. OK? That’s the limit of what I’ll do for you: Anything …

  Including helping you take care of that cough. You OK there … ? You sure? I’ve got lozenges if you’d … Well, they’re here …

  So OK? And guess what. Here’s the best part. Pay me what you want. When you want. How much you want. That’s the least of my concerns. When you see what I do for you, I’m sure you’ll respond appropriately. Generously. You’ll want to. We’ll work all that out later …

  But let me be straight. There is something in this for me. Every time I place, or sell, you, I place-sell myself. Capiche? Charisma is contagious. It’s the fourth kind of heat-transfer …

  So OK? Lincoln, if you give me a chance, I will perform for you. I will put out.

  —It was really something. The darkened room, the unexpected quiet, Lincoln walking in and stopping, and looking around – then the lights flooding and everyone Surprise! and Shelly emerging forward and hugely smiling and taking Lincoln in a big cheek kiss. And we all cheered and whistled and held up glasses, and Shelly kissed him again and said loud that we were all here to congratulate Lincoln on his milestone at work, really great, so impressive, she was thrilled to share it with him …

  And then she handed him a small present, a jewelry box in a red blush bow, and Lincoln smiled and unwrapped it and curiously pulled out two keys. And then Shelly said she had found the keys several years ago and didn’t know where they fit, but now she was sure Lincoln with his career would soon get to the right door, but until then he shouldn’t worry about his key skills because he had already unlocked something in her.

  —He was in a four-bedroom on Burton Street when his cell played the Eroica. He excused himself from his clients, a chesty Board of Trade executive and his wife, and took the call, turning and moving a few steps away. On the line was Touvil Vidaky, a fact-checker with the Sun-Times, nice to say hello, he was wondering if Lincoln had a second. He was proofing a story for tomorrow’s Urban Style section, a piece on the Lyric Opera benefit, and he wanted to confirm the spelling of Lincoln’s date’s name. Was there a second e … ?

  Lincoln, drifting back to his clients, said S-h-e-l-l-y. He asked his clients for another moment of their patience, then confirmed with the journalist that the article was for the Sun-Times, and that it would run the next day. He said thanks and folded away his cell, then showed the executive and his wife the remaining bedrooms in the apartment.

  —Dr. Tappet was a jolly man, and Lincoln was glad Auran had recommended him. Pink, 50-ish, shiny-bald, with a white horseshoe of hair, he wore a white smock and a hairtrigger smile and took small, calf-y steps, past office walls that bore rich mementos of flyfishing …

  He sat Lincoln down on an inner-room gurney, then peered through his otoscope into Lincoln’s open throat, his upturned nostrils and ears. Yep, he said, while changing specula, a bit of irritation is common when it gets a little cold here. Especially with all the particulate matter that rises from the Gary stacks and takes a tour on the winter winds. Usually nothing to worry about, nothing serious, we’ll have you checked out in just a …

  And he said he saw nothing alarming in Lincoln’s cough – no rhinitis, no drip – so he’d only recommend an over-the-counter expectorant, Mucinex, and perhaps a little tea and honey when etc. They shook hands and talked for a moment more, and Lincoln left with a receipt from his Mastercard and information for listing Dr. Tappet’s house in Riverside.

  —Such a, really, just so great, he—

  —Auran was waiting under the restaurant’s canopy as he drove up, her smile broad and bright atop her puffy gray furlike coat. As he parked, a lucky two spots down, she positioned herself within the angle of his opening door. She gave him a hug before the angle slam-vanished …

  Inside Emperor’s Choice, Auran spotted the two men seated at a table in the corner, nibbling spring rolls. Auran and Lincoln swerved past tables sat-at and empty to accept smiled greetings. Auran made introductions: to Bud, dark-haired and slender, with a well-wing-fleshed Slavic nose and one pendant earring; to Theodore, dark-haired and slender, but rounder-faced and sporting black Bill Cullen glasses. Both wore simple clothes: loose-slung jeans and soft-cloth shirts. First Bud, then Theodore, wiped his hand on his napkin before accepting Lincoln’s grasp …

  All sat, and a gifted waiter was soon among them. Auran and Lincoln ordered only tea; both had eaten previously, as this was a business meeting.

  —Well, actually … , Theodore said.

  —The two guys had met about four years earlier, while working as graphics designers for a New East Side insurance company, devising logos, layouts and type-assortments for policies, ads and brochures. Both had attended college in Amherst – Bud at Hampshire, Theodore at U Mass – though two years apart: Bud was the older. And both had been members of the Black Moon Zendo in Northampton, but at different times. They knew many of the same people there, and had studied with the same master – solid Will, former truckdriver – but had never met while away from the meditation cushions. So when they crossed paths a few winters later in Chicago, one work-desk distant, and found themselves still tussling with the same, the same … – soul-grumblings, is how Theodore put it – they started meeting at Bud’s apartment every Thursday night …

  We would just talk about this and that, Bud said. But when we came to grips with the fact that both of them — the this and the that — weren’t where we wanted them, we began to say, Well …

  Bud laid his hands flat on the table as he talked. We both wanted to make some substantial changes, he said, and we decided to start with the means of production, so to speak. For a while I’d wanted to do something better with my money-earning aspect, to pay greater heed to right livelihood, and so I presented an old idea of mine, to start a restaurant. The idea was to open a place in a low-income neighborhood, and make it somewhere that only carried good healthy food, at good healthy prices, to give the locals an alternative to their usual starch-, sugar-, and esters-fest. So we scoped out a storefront in Pilsen, and put together financing really pretty painlessly, and then started to look at fixtures—

  But it’s only like when you’re loading packages that you use no hooks, Theodore said, and I t
hought, hey: why don’t we—

  Hold on, boy, Bud said. We’ll get there. So. So we thought about the kind of resto that would represent right action, and my first idea was to open a really good salad bar: lots of good fruits and veggies, transfatless hot dishes, you take what you want so that militates against waste, etc. Theodore immediately put up the forefinger of assent, and we started planning. Our design took in all the virtues: totally nitrite-free, washable plates and silver, water-recycling steam tables, intermittent-flame soup pots, extended sneeze-guards, the whole top-end configuration—

  And then, you know, one of us had an idea, Theodore said …

  Go to it, kid …

  Deal. So, OK, before we opened, I came up with this concept of – well, you know how in every living salad bar you pay by going up to the cashier and putting the food-tray on the scale and multiplying by five ninety-nine? Well, why not, I wondered, why don’t we have a thing where the people themselves are weighed when they come into the store, and then again when they leave, and charge them based on their difference in weight, and I mean it’s all the same but that, my friend, is a hook! …

  Precisely, Bud said. And there would be another snazzer in that people would get their weight checked for free, and maybe also a smile on top of it all. It seemed a virtuous path. We had to invest a few more centavos for a reliable Salter Brecknell floor scale, entirely digital, and one that would print results on a card for customers to carry with them, store-emblem included. But we were blessed to open up The Weigh We Were about eighteen months ago, street-banners, splashy pop-letter signs and all. And we also had a take-out spot next door, Weigh To Go …

  And it worked, Bud continued. Kids didn’t come and gorge and run off without paying, our biggest concern, and we found a really versatile chef, the venerable Harry, maestro of sauces. We overestimated our electricity costs, and suppliers were supportive. It was all good. Until, well, it wasn’t all that good. By around the fifth month of our passage we were met by the challenge of falling sales. Forty-five percent in revenues, fifty-two percent in heads. A supplemental challenge came in the form of waste: significant discards, which, in addition to compromising our business model, saddened me. I could hardly turn my eyes to the back alley, knowing the truth of its dumpsters. Ultimately, it was proving more difficult than anticipated to transit an underprivileged population from starch and grease to better. To establish a beachhead on unjunk …