The Easy Chain

by Evan Dara

  Presence. Pure, invincible presence.

  O Editor, My Editor:

  Well, how about that: It’s an update. And if that weren’t enough, it’s an update about one L. Selwyn.

  I.e.: Greetings.

  Such an intriguing tale! But before the official missive: one of the most startling things about my research is how consistent it is: virtually everyone I’ve spoken with has nothing but the highest of praise and the sweetest of reminiscences about the guy. What I’m finding is nothing short of, well, reverence, and I must say it’s touching to find such outpourings of affection, appreciation and, most of all, admiration for what was, after all, just one man.

  As a consequence, the city is a-bubble with rumors. Some, inevitably, are rather fanciful: That Selwyn was resisting entreaties by the Democrats to do more for the party, and felt it safer just to take a powder. That some kind of imminent banking scandal is coming down, and Selwyn, as a foreigner, would be the fall guy. That he decided to pursue his beloved Amazonia project and didn’t want to be dogged by publicity. (One bit of scuttlebutt puts Selwyn in his apartment with 18 women. But that’s a discussion for another time.)

  Again, however, the most persuasive of the theories involves Auran Beede: that her ex-boyfriend, Larry Lipkin, from the real-estate family, had begun to threaten Selwyn (jealousy), and there’s evidence she tried to protect him. (The real-estate connection may also account for Selwyn’s stint with Didi Metzger, non?) Something, clearly, went wrong, details of which I hope to have for you by next week.

  Hey: A technical question: what’s the magazine’s policy on using unnamed sources? If OK, are there limits on how many I can use?

  Best,

  TK

  Charismatic like a God. O rare Lincoln Selwyn!

  And now it’s tomorrow, which is beginning to pinch, and the morning sun’s got a good deep glisten, and that’s beginning to pinch too, you know how things are contagious. And I show up, and checkpad up, and say Yo to ’Los, and take an order for two deluxe huevos rancheros from a middle-aged couple in pressed, though rather wide, jeans, and see that the same Samby from yesterday is back in the back. And I drop the zaftig couple’s order off with Carlos, and tease him that he’s got another fan. Brand new bagman’s discovered his cooking, I say. Even came back for a second round. And Carlos says Don’t tink so. Don’t tink the guy ordering anything. And I say What, Agnes afraid of him? Don’t wanna get close? And Carlos shrugs his shoulders and he’s got a lot of work to do.

  So I go into the back room and over to the Samby, who’s sitting on the banquette along the side wall, and say What’ll it be? And the guy turns his head, and looks up at me, and just keeps looking. But hard, you know. Mean. At me. Most unmistakably at me. And so I say again Can I bring you something?, but the guy just keeps staring at me, almost glowering, as in glowering straight at me sans chipping in lip. And of course that’s fun, so I say OK, I’ll get you a menu, and I go get one and drop it off on the small table in front of the guy – actually, beside, cause now he’s turned to face the rear wall, one thigh kinda up on the banquette – and say You let me know, OK?, and then go pick up the other order, the duet d’huevos rancheros.

  And make a mental note not to go back to the back room all that quickly. Not to go back to the back. Not to go back to the back. All that quickly.

  Selwyn! Just think about what he did. Just look at what he accomplished!

  A titanic achiever. A titanic over-achiever!

  To: Tracy Krassner

  Please be advised that we do not comment publicly about any aspect of our business practice.

  DRAPPER & CARVER, REALTORS

  And the day simmers by and we get our allotment of tourists, and a few CU’ers, and a few college-age guys hoping they don’t come off as tourists but I see them sneak out the Let’s Go, and now it’s maybe three hours later and I’m wondering about the Samby. The Samby in the back. Guy probably needs something to eat. So I check with Agnes and she says she didn’t serve him, not once since yesterday. And then there’s What?, and Agnes says Yeah. Guy’s been there. Here. All the time. Didn’t leave last night. Was here today before I was.

  And now I’m dropping a second menu on the Samby’s table and saying OK, if you didn’t like that one, try this. And the guy again turns to me and again just stares, but even more gloweringly this time, like he’d turned up the treble. And I say Really. Take it from me. The stuff on this menu’s really good.

  And here this guy can’t be more than around my age, and has got kinda fine, long-ish light brown hair, uncombed but no worse, and nice-colored blue eyes, and only some scraggle, so I just don’t know. He’s not all that dirty, and there’s nothing coming off him that’ll blot out the fry-basket, and his clothes, khakis and a dark-ish brown shirt, are OK, but some kinda screechy thing goes off inside you when you get inside that gaze. I decide to use my checkpad as a shield.

  Come on, I say. It’s on me.

  And the guy whips back around and eye-howls and snorts and here I am back in the kitchen picking up pancakes no-butter for table 12 and thinking, as I walk to delivery, Guy’s got to get hungry sometime.

  And the afternoon moves on and escorts in its stream of chompers and chatters, and here’s Gerry asking if he can put down, as if we’d say no, a few of his many many little B&W half-page xeroxed announcements, this time about his annual festival of short films made with a toy camera, a device manufactured by Hasbro for about eighteen months back in the late ’80s that actually records video images on audio tape. Gerry shows the films for free over at the video store on Pico and gets a lot of people, maybe fifty. McLuhan says We drive into the future using only our rearview mirror, Gerry says, and goes off with a smile, and here’s his stack of announcements.

  Maybe ten minutes later I find myself thinking that Gerry, or McLuhan, or both, is, or are, right, so I make a request to Riqi, who came in at two, and he says Sure, give me five minutes. So here I am walking with a steak-sandwich plate with fries, and putting it on the table by the Samby in the back. And the guy hears the clump of the weighted plate on the wood, and then turns to face it, or us. And without flinch or fuss or pause, the guy just starts in to eat, picking up the sandwich, then putting it down, then using the silverware that’s been waiting for him all along. And he doesn’t acknowledge me and I like that fine, cause on all grounds that sandwich’s better looking than I am, Riqi did a real good job, and here this thirty-ish couple sits down a few tables away, palavering about who knows what, probably the natural-resource curse in emerging economies, and suddenly the Samby pivots towards them and hurls lightning from his eyes, which are now real white-showing and glare-y and wild, and the thirty-ish couple hears his move and sees his eyes and shuts right on down. And stays shut down. And then I get it: No speech.

  And here I am walking back to the front room and thinking Well, OK. Why not. That’s the guy’s non-thing. Be a professional and deal. Would welcome a little unbilgefulness myself some time, like the time that happens to be now as I pick up table 12’s guac and see Yuck, the brother, walk in with some guy in a boy-does-that-look-expensive beige suit and sit at table 2, in the center of the sunny front window. And happily that’s Agnes’ territory, but I see her wincing as she has to go over smiling to receive their orders of iced teas or whatever, because she knows what they’re talking about, she knows what they’re talking about, and there they go talking about it. Yuck is indicating aspects of the layout, that’s his word, I’ve heard him say it twice on previous visits, to the guy in the beige suit, who sits there taking notes on a palm pilot, as if it’s a business deal. And nodding, as if it’s etc. And then Yuck thinks he’s, well I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing when, every time, he puts down such a big tip when he leaves. But at least he leaves.

  And so I decide I’m gonna give the Samby dessert. And then I think the Samby looks like a pecan pie kind of guy, in fact like the kind of pecan pie kind of guy who doesn’t care what he gets, because we’re out of pecan
pie, and here I am leaving a fruit cup on his table, and a spoon, and taking away his formerly steak-sandwich plate. Which has been quite wonderfully cleaned. And he doesn’t look at me, and just sets in to spooning, which is also quite nice, and so I turn to go.

  … And I see, scattered throughout the back room, a few people just sitting there, looking, with softness, at him. At the Samby. And not really saying much. Distributed around tables, with soft drinks or light eats, but all turned in one direction. Looking. Just looking at our man. Showing face, and eye …

  Well, the Samby doesn’t seem to mind, he spoons, looks up, looks down, spoons, and it’s a free country, in a tight rental market, so here I am back in the front room, cleaning table 8. Napkins and placemats and ketchup-spill, silverware used and un, but all destined for the sterilizing steam, plates of many sizes and glasses that are exclusively very big and straw rinds and straws, and untouched slaw and abandoned tooth-carved bun-perimeter and half-torn, tenth-used sugar packs, and asked-for ignored extra virge, served in its own little square scalloped dish, and more, and all this slop-sprawl for a tab of 14 bills 20. Plus, to make sure I get the point, a rolled-up ad-rag from a few-blocks-away pharmacy. The point that we like to leave trace.

  So maybe the Samby is right. And maybe the Samby is finished. So here I am going back into the back room, back into the back, to see if he’s done with his fruit cup, and with his spoon, and he is. So now I can make my contribution, and as I’m lifting away the chiseled glass that we call a cup when we use it for fruit, and the spoon, sui generis, I feel something beside me, and here I’m turning and seeing that it’s a customer, a gal in snug jeans and very elegant shoes bound by little leather crosswise straps who had ordered spinach pie, and that she’s placing a cup of hot tea on the Samby’s table. For him. And then going back to her table and sitting down. With a guy, who, it must be said, is cute. And then the two of them not looking at their cute selves, because OK the gal also qualifies, but at the Samby. In a rear room, among maybe ten other people, all marked by rigorous squawklessness. Now this is impressive.

  And even in the front room, where I am now, the chat-level has dipped, with of course a few normal jawers but also several people, mostly younger, kind of whispering behind their hands. When they feel they have to talk, which, it seems, has grown sporadic.

  And even, I see, the Gore Vidal Memorial Anagram Board has caught on. Someone, sometime, got to the eraser, and to the pink chalk, and replaced the reigning rearrangement with Regal Void.

  Dear M{ . }:

  On {July/August ##} I sent you an e-mail containing a few questions about Lincoln Selwyn and, to date, have had no reply. (In the chance that the e-mail was not received, a copy is pasted below.) As my investigation for Chicago Magazine is ongoing, I would still very much welcome hearing from you. It shouldn’t take more than just a few minutes of your time.

  Or, if you prefer, we can speak via telephone. Just let me know.

  Thank you again for your kind attention to this matter.

  Sincerely,

  Tracy Krassner, Journalist

  Dear, Dear Z—

  I am dying. I simply cannot wait to touch your body, to drink your scent. I know it’s only 4½ weeks away, but that’s 4½ weeks more than I can possibly stand. My longing has become a second self, a blue-cloud being coterminous with my body and my singing spirit, filling it from the inside, matching its every movement, coming into contact at shifting flashpoints of electric-exquisite torment. I want to touch and cup your curves, hold back, then finally send my hand to slow-slalom your breasts, learn again to swoon at shoulder blades. In other words, I received the new picture. Thank you.

  Darling, I am living,

  xxoo,

  TK

  Now I know good stuff when I don’t hear it, but also, every now and then, come to acknowledge the merits of sleep. It was tough for me to walk from the eat-spot’s crescendoing quiet, but after helping with the Midnight Special, which happened just fine, and in just the most tonic calm, thoughts turned bedward. Then, slam, wouldn’t you know it, slumberlessness, not exactly a stranger. So by around 2:30 I got up, went to the kitchen for a yin dose to help me glide off, probably one of those almond-anise-y biscotti that sometimes, OK always, materialize in my shopping basket, but somehow I ended up on the other side of my main room, poking into the little shadow-gap beside my accordion file. And here I’m slitting open and reading the letter that Stanford sent me two months ago, and seeing courteous greetings and gentle wonderings and eventual plucky optimism about right choices and confidences how I could really rise in my matriarchal-economic field. Boy did that do the trick. Back in bed I’m out like a light, hymning my new fave mantra: Kinda defeats the point, don’t it? Kinda defeats the.

  All of which has left me wonderfully hale today, as, now, I arrive and see, the second I turn in the café’s front door, propped with a stop, what must be thirty or forty people in the back room. Sitting there. And, miracle, I don’t have to describe them more.

  Cause that’s all they’re doing. While facing in one direction, the Samby-direction, being Sambydirectional. I mean, you don’t note that a stone isn’t moaning. And so I’m wow and Agnes sees me and ups her eyebrows in a way that’s also wow, and I put down my checkpad and fill four glasses with grape juice and carry them between spread hands into the back room, where I distribute them to four receptive-looking tables. And here I leave. To go back out front, to exile. Where there’s still work to do, grouse grouse, though wow.

  Throughout the day more people arrive, in all kinds of clothes, and take a place, and sit. On the floor, on crammed-tight banquette space, on chairs that are already narrowly wedged in, and then on even more chairs brought in from the front, which they somehow make room for. And all, OK most, are ordering smallish things to eat, requesting with menu’d finger-points then paying silently. Sometimes they pay for things they haven’t ordered at all. And that’s it. There they are.

  Yeah, they get up to take care of necessities, and some leave, but some are staying on for a long long time, as in they ain’t showing no sign of the old hurry-hurry to get somewhere else. At first, replenishment takes place via primary engagement, as people, walking by outside the restaurant, look in and see something they like, then be something they like. Eventually we develop second-level participation, as people, of the non-tourist genre, and whom I’ve never seen around these parts, just show up and plunk down. I.e., someone must have told them, or some organization did, or, why not, the net.

  Mostly there’s just more folks.

  Inevitably, a few newcomers don’t know the non-rules, and whisper – a holler here – something to one-another. Upon which the Samby shoots a glance at the unknowing, a glance that’s a klieg of outrage and discipline and fury, and then they know, for good. Occasionally someone, kind-hearted or oblivious, slowly gets up, and slowly makes her or his way to the Samby, threading through the still, densely set-down bodies, and says, or asks him, a maximum of two words. Because by the second word the Samby has turned away so violently that further expression seems wasteful, or, more likely, you don’t want to give the guy whiplash.

  Mostly, though, there’s just more folks, arriving, sitting, departing, slow-snacking. But principally being. And I hear one of them, a woman in lady-blazer, hose and pumps, who’s walking past the register on her way out, after maybe four hours here, giddy-whispering to another gal, in jeans, who’s also moving on: a one-man Information Counterrevolution.

  And here it’s tomorrow, as in tomorrow plus developments. Like more people, which isn’t much of a development, and people showing up with food, which is. Because it’s food they’re bringing in for us, for the café, we’re being fed for a rather lovely change, because they know we’re just gonna turn around and make the munch available to the unspeaking sitters, so we’ll have enough and therefore they’ll have enough. And we accept it gratefully, and the quick but meager differential it makes to our bottom line, and what we’re really grateful for is
when, spontaneously, some people go on KP duty and start taking care of the public, i.e., private rooms. They just get up and ask for the mop and the brush and the scrub-cloths and the pailful of cleansers, and get a few very big smiles thrown in for free.

  And by now all what’s going on in here is inescapably being noticed by even more people outside the restaurant, walking by, ambling by, or futzing in the sun, and they’re intrigued and they’re piqued and some of them even come in. Because by now there’s no avoiding the swelling numbers of sitting listeners-to-no-one who are spilling from our back room, overtaking the front dining area and squeezing out the sugar-wasters. And now some employees from nearby stores are risking all and stepping out to see what’s not going on, bringing fine styling from behind counters and atop salesfloors to peer into our body-crowded windows, and besides there’s been a drop-off in the number of their shops’ customers, the employees aren’t needed in there all the time any more, truth be known.

  And now the shops’ owners, sorry: managers, are ending phone calls and ordering younger support-staff to post big, busy, color-splattered signs advertising Sales, Super Sales, Blow-Out Sales, who knows what kinds of Sales, and the managers are clarifying their dedication to these propositions with numbers like 10 and 15 and 50, followed by the percentage rune. But now, here, even the thrill of quantification ain’t what it used to be, and the customer-numbers go down as the sale-numbers go up and questions arise about the best use of windowspace, windowspace that might be used to see people bringing flowers, flowers that range from lone roses and peonies to full and blustery bouquets, into the rattletrap café on 14 block, the one with all those people sitting around inside it. And outside it, facing the front door.