The Easy Chain

by Evan Dara

  —And Oh, you know. Just Oh. Magnificent. That’s what he was that night. Just elegant, and magnificent. He had arrived, you know what I mean?, he had gotten his prize, and he was savoring it, second upon second. In burnished light streaming from ceiling spots. In arrayed canapés plattering from the kitchen. In cocktail-piano music, and warm-buzz understatement speech. In lapels …

  The American Progressive Group had needed a spokesman. And this, they decided, was going to be Lincoln. He received a note of congratulations from Gary Hart. He would be their voice, their face. He would present their papers, their positions. It would be an amazing springboard.

  —I was there, you know, that night at Richard Stern’s private club, for the welcoming. The induction. Lincoln, just being introduced to the group, seemed to know everybody. I can’t see how – he was new there, you know what I? – but he did. And you know, I overheard some gent with big shine cufflinks talking with Lincoln, and asking him if he ever got tired of all the receptions. And Lincoln said no. Never. For him, they were transmissions. Infomercials for myself—

  —In fact, he once told me something along those lines. That the light was working for him—

  —That he wanted to meet someone—

  —Told me that, too. We were at something or other, some kind of evening, who knows where or, and we were standing around talking with I think Jimmy Corliss about this and that. At one point the subject was the UBS merger or the Cubs, something like, and the conversation went off on a tangent and then Lincoln was saying he had someone in Chicago, that he was hoping this person would get in touch. With him. He said that.

  —His special someone—

  —If he raised his profile—

  —Yeah, he told me about her once. Jeez, we were over at the Carlyle?, and he mentioned how his aunt’d moved here from Holland, or Scotland, or – you know – and how she’d gotten married and divorced, and then kinda just slipped off the radar. His family – she was his mother’s sister – he said they all snuffled about contacting her, but they just kinda didn’t. Well sure, you know how that goes, time passes and then taking that like first reacquaintance step starts feeling kinda uphill and urg and resisty, and just gets more difficult and then more difficult—

  —And he said he understood; how he, how his parents – they didn’t want to know; they had thought, they were afraid she had gone wrong, or gone off, that she had become like an eccentric or a substance abuser or something; and so his family, he – I suppose it’s understandable. And the aunt never had kids, so maybe, you know, maybe she herself didn’t have much family feeling, maybe there was something off; and so Lincoln’s family decided to honor her decision, her choice; not to contact her out of respect for her—

  —At the Progressive Group night, the induction, when he put up his hand, when he was standing amid the waves of suits and skirts and just raised up his forefinger, floating it up into gold light, and he said Pardon me, Pardon me in a nice warm tone but loud enough to be just above the humming of the sea, and he got everybody’s attention and they quickly quieted down, and he gave just the briefest little thank-you speech, his expressing-his-gratitude speech – well, he was just, he was so—

  —He comes home. He’s tired. Auran had told him, and he had listened. They’d spent the entire afternoon at it, going up and down the Miracle. They’d looked, they’d hunted for what they wanted. For what she wanted. Finally he agreed. It would be the Patek Philippe: a nice, manually-wound Calatrava with 18 jewels and sapphire glass. Right size, right luster. Right face. Of course with sweeping hands. And then he agreed on the ring: 18-carat, white gold and platinum. Inset with five – not four, five: good to suggest the Olympic logo – half-carat diamonds …

  Something for each hand, she’d said. Do both sides. Everywhere they look. Subtle. But – unmistakable …

  But it had taken time. It had been work. He comes home, and the doorman hands him an envelope. Smaller than standard, one part ocher-yellow, one part covered with a checkerboard pattern. He opens: a telegram. A small folded sheet with four lines of letters, from Anderson, Alyria International. Notice of Attempted Delivery. Second Attempt. Please call with instructions …

  But from where, he wonders. No indication. He looks up, folds the envelope into his Paul Smith pocket.

  —Loved it … !

  I …

  LOVED …

  It … !

  I mean, the subtlety of it – the daring. The way he subtly subverted couture conventions in ways, in ways that were just so subtle but just so powerful. The jarring ties. The weird, weird color combinations: yellow and brown, ruby and blue – subtle, but very strong in their statement, if you knew how to look. And the socks. The amazing autonomy he took in socks. It was like the guy was deconstructing all the repressions built into our color-culture, and by extension into all hegemonies of taste, with all the implications that has for conceptions of power – and race. What an understanding of color symbolism. Not since – not since Filippo Parodi took an audience in his daysmock with Blessed Innocent XI to appeal for an end to the ban on cerulean – oooh, the Devil’s hue – has there been such a use of vestment to challenge structures of control. It’s inspired. It is so telling. Burroughs’ll have something about this. I’m gonna shoot something off to Conjunctions.

  —So when was it – two days later?, three days later? – and like Lincoln’s walking to a meeting, he’s crossing East Van Buren on foot to go sit with the Union of Charitable Givers on a nice sunny day, and oh, yeah and he takes out his cell and the slip of paper and he puts in a call to Anderson, Alyria. Something about a package – no, a delivery. He got a note. So he reads out the tracking number and he’s put on hold, and This is Hank gets on the phone and asks him for the information all over again, and then Lincoln asks him if he can leave a note. At his place. To give permission, to enable the delivery. So Hank says he’ll have to check, that depends on the originating instructions, so Lincoln gives the guy his cell number and tells him thanks and Hank says Soon, OK? Soon.

  —Then Auran drove up. Lincoln took a breath when the car approached – that thing gonna run up on the curb? – but she was pretty loose when he got in, and she said Hi and shook a sleeve and gave him a folder of letters, Sign these by Friday, she said, then looked at his watch, then smiled. Then she turned back to look at the road, but before she drove off, was that another smile?

  —They skidded across town in Wednesday-eve rush, slow and stoppy, lots of competition for slots, made Auran’s perfume welcome. Parking by Domaine is always torture, never anything close, but eventually Lincoln was up and striding and buttoning his jacket, Auran beside him, in a minute they’re transiting from outer carpet to inner.

  —Domaine was Domaine, you dig?, dark but lit, and the nice suits draping around the nice ladies at the bar, light-pings from bottles and glasses, in the mirror and real. Lotsa folk, lotsa platinum card, all of them talking, dig?, and Lincoln and Auran cutting through, swift, getting where they’re going, they ain’t looking nowhere …

  And Auran leads Lincoln to the back of the club, OK?, that’s what’s on the invite, and they find a guy in a double-buttoned suit standing in front of like a corner stairway. And the suit-guy checks the invitation, and opens an arm to like gesture, like: OK: Downstairs.

  —For Lincoln, it was funny. He had been to Domaine perhaps seven or eight times, but he had never known that the club continued, that it had a downward extension. And this lower level was an excellent space, even more inviting than the rest of eminent Domaine – as Bill Slosser likes to call it – with an immaculate bar, a circular dancefloor, a scattering of tables, and waitstaff prowling with round trays of canapés. There were perhaps ten other couples or small groups clustered throughout the space, chatting, leaning-to, and sipping, though just as Lincoln and Auran came in one fellow, walking past in a blue suit and white open-collared shirt, veered away suddenly, just as another couple entered right behind Auran and Lincoln …

  A and L took st
and-spots by a table in a corner, and listened to the attractive, atmospheric music being piped in – Esquivellike, it seemed, space-bachelor sounds that subtly lent the place a feel of the Fifties. It was fun. Auran said her contact was due any minute, and asked Lincoln if he wanted mineral water. He did, and she went, and Lincoln used the time to scan the room for familiar faces. There were several – was that Rick Staggler? – though not many, and when Auran returned with a bubbling glass for him and Scotch for herself, he heard someone speaking. Lincoln looked to the voice, and it turned out to be the fellow in the open collar who’d veered away as he and Auran were entering, and who was now standing by the bar, far over at one end. And this fellow was saying rather loudly, loud enough to be heard over room tone, I believe you want something of mine …

  Well. In a nonce, the room slid down quiet – even the atmospheric music seemed to dip – and all eyes went to the fellow in the open collar who had loudly spoken. And then, almost in a single gesture, all the room’s eyes followed this fellow’s gaze to the other end of the bar, where the couple – the couple who had prompted the first fellow’s rapid veer when they entered – was standing, ordering drinks. In the quickshot silence, Lincoln could see that the guy in the couple was a big buffalo of a man, resembling one of those Samoan gangmembers, with a flattish face and big lumpy arms and shining black hair paved back into a ponytail. And that the gal with him was slim and brunette, and wearing a one-strap, entirely silver, highly attractive dress …

  Now movement stopped, and silence rose further. And, then: I said, I believe you WANT something of mine …

  Well.

  —And you know like the dude in the couple, the big like Asian guy, well he’s just standing there at the bar, just standing still, and then slowly, but slowly, he like turns to the guy who’s talking to him, who’s challenging him, right?, and says, he slowly says something like Is that right … ?

  And everyone’s watching and everyone’s stopping and you can hear the adrenaline levels shotting up, your ears are like hearing like tense high-pitch scree-screes, ear-roars in all them locked bodies—

  Then Yeah, the first guy says. That’s right.

  —More silence. More stiffness. A woman reaching for the upper arm of her date. A waitress ducking back into the flap-door kitchen …

  I understand there’s just one glass of Tula left, the open-collar man says. And that you want it. That you’ve ordered it. That you think it’s yours …

  Lincoln looks to Auran, and widens his eyes. Auran returns bafflement. What a scene, their glances say. Only in Chicago …

  No, I know it’s mine, the man from the couple says. He turns to the bartender. Jimmy, he says, and pulls out a billfold—

  —Jimmy, the solo guy says. Jimmy, can I see you here for a second? …

  And the solo guy pulls out his wallet, and slow, deliberately slow, plinks down on the bar two folded, bank-fresh, standing on their edges so you can see them hundred dollar bills …

  And Jimmy, you know, bartender Jimmy, he’s standing near the big ponytail guy, and he’s got the bottle of Tula Honey-Pepper Vodka in one hand, almost horizontal, ready to pour, and the big guy’s glass is in his hand, ready to receive, and you know then Jimmy just stops, you know, the bartender doesn’t start the pour, and looks down the bar to the solo guy, and then at the big guy right near, then looks all around. Then he looks to the ground, he hangs his head, and then, well, slowly, real slowly, he walks down the length of the bar to the open-shirt solo guy laying out the hundreds. And pours him a drink, the drink, you know, real slow, a long spill, draining the bottle of Tula to the last drip …

  Thank you, Jimmy, the collar-guy says, and raises his glass, and looks at its crystal liquid. And before he sips, the girl – the couple-girl at the other side of the bar – the über-babe in the one-shoulder silver dress – well you know like fshew!, she just comes out from behind the big Asia-type guy, and walks – slowly! – down the length of the bar, and curves around to stand behind the guy who received the drink! And then she just slides her hand up on the drink-guy’s shoulder, and looks up, and smiles. At the other guy …

  And it’s like what?, you know, like what the hell is—?, and everyone’s jittering and Lincoln is looking over to Auran, and Auran’s just looking back in total astonishment when the guy in the open collar, now with babe attached, he says to the bartender, loud enough to be sure to be heard: And why don’t you ask our friend there what he’s having …

  And then, like, our friend there, he just lunges from his spot and charges down the bar and dives at the other guy and collars him around the neck, and then one goes down and then the other, stumbling and writhing, and the babe is just fretting and backing off and stamping and fretting, and it’s like this massive fight is starting and happening with pulling and pounding and just like slamming, slamming—

  —First one wrangles his way onto his feet; then the other rises and pushes the first guy half onto the bar, bending his back, hitting his ribs, his shoulder, pounding his jaw. Then there’s a reversal, when the first regroups and flips his opponent sideward and crashes him into a nearby table, which sends its glasses and small plates and people every which direction—

  —And when a guy standing at a nearby table gets hit in the face by a flying plate, he rubs his cheek and – as his friend looks on stunned – he goes and starts slugging and bashing the guy in the open collar. And when this new-entering guy gets cracked by the guy in the open collar, his friend – the friend he had left behind at the table! – then he jumps into the fray and starts roundhousing and elbowing and broadsiding away, seemingly slugging at anyone—

  —And then this wild multiplication of combatants takes over, uncontrollably, crazily, as more and more guys jump forward to help or hurt – like a dream, a bad dream, with pummeling and stumbling and pounding of bodies by bodies where you don’t know who’s battling who, who’s defending who—

  —And chairs are falling and glasses splattering, and some people are rearing and fleeing, and some are clutching and holding back others, clutching to prevent them from joining in—

  —Then there’s a gash, a big white gash all through a black suit-jacket—

  —And sleeve-cuffs torn, hanging open and torn and alpenhorny—

  —And everywhere, just everywhere, fists flying like meteorites, flashing and arcing and streaking—

  —And people pulling out cell phones and tables toppling and—

  —The sound, just the sound of all the crashing glass and the punches drubbing, just unbelievably loud and tumbly and terri—

  —And the why and the who gets, it just gets—

  —With fists and elbows pumping like pistons in a frenzied engine—

  —And it’s the nightmare, truly the nightmare: the cycle, the spiral that cannot be stilled, that feeds on itself, its own fury, to—

  —And a guy in a sheer black suit grabs an ashtray, a heavy faceted glass ashtray and he runs up to someone and he’s going – he’s going to use it as a—!

  —And this one BIG guy in a buzz cut falls, he falls away with a—

  —With a huge sudden thud, knocking over, scattering—

  —And a knife – a knife! – this guy with his tie loose goes over and grabs a shank of steel from a wait-station and—

  —But his hand is held by—

  —And the waiters, the helpers, standing pressing back, they’re too scared to—

  —And there must be two dozen people at it, there’s gotta be—

  —And Auran grabs Lincoln and he holds, he holds her to him—

  —As the spiral flares, the spiral of rushing and jumping and pummeling just, just—

  —With fists flailing and bodies jolting and blood on lips and noses and faces—

  —And this one big guy whose suit is torn, he grabs a table, he goes and grabs a cocktail table and upends it, he brings the whole table up over his head and charges for the bar at a guy who, who’s bashing—

  —And he raises th
e table way over his head, his back bending and curving under the weight, so he, before he—

  —Before he freezes.

  —He freezes!—

  —Everyone freezes—

  —Before everyone in the whole damn club stops dead and, right in the middle of—

  —Of what they’re doing—

  —Like a diorama of twisting and torquing and assailing bodies in a Greek entablature—

  —And they stay there, they just stay immobile for seconds, for—

  —Frozen—!

  —Until one man, a man lying on top of the bar—

  —He turns, he turns his head and starts – slowly, ever so slowly at first – the man starts to sing—

  —Hello, Mr. Selwyn …

  —He sings.

  —Hello, yessiree …

  —And as he continues, a few other bodies start to move, to come back to life, to right themselves and stand and brush off and join in singing—

  —It’s great that you can be …

  —And then there are more bodies peeling themselves from the frieze, getting up and straightening out, righting hair, aligning clothes, turning forward and singing, just smilingly singing—

  —With Tula while we’re tellin’ …

  —And now every mouth in the house joins in—

  —’Bout opportuni—

  —And you know, whew, you know, it’s like I saw them, I mean it was hard to look at, just this chick like dancing around him as he walked in nighttime across the macadam, walking to the carpark, she was bending as she ran along to follow him, flapping out her arms and talking and gesturing at him, but he just kept going, you know, just walking and going, going—

  —And he’s standing there in the parking lot, you know, he’s vertical among all the dark silent herd of cars, holding her, holding Auran as she clutched him, and cried, her head buried in his side, her hair wisping—