When I think of Laredo I think of the sun. Nothing in that place escaped it; even the wind blew warm well into the evening. I think of all the things that surprised me. I would never have guessed the most popular spectator sport along the US-Mexico border was hockey (Go Bucks!), or that Laredo's most lavish and axiously anticipated annual civic celebration was George Washington's Birthday. Nor was I aware words like "greibi" and "sonovabiche" were common nouns in a uniquely eloquent and endlessly inventive language called Spanglish.
But once these recollections are filed away in memory, my mind drifts to the most important thing my year-long sojourn in Laredo taught me. I think about what a sad, cruel, stupid hoax this country's so-called "illegal immigration problem" is. More than Satanic daycare cults, marauding teenage "superpredators," impending Social Security collapse, or any other pseudo-crisis of our day, the "broken borders" issue is all about political posturing and has zero to do with serious policy proposals. It is pure political theater, of the most base and vulgar kind. Except that on this stage, when Brutus lunges with his dagger, he really does draw blood.
To live in Laredo is to confront the business end of America's border control apparatus face to face every day. Border Patrol (BP) SUVs are a more common sight on Laredo's streets than police cruisers. BP choppers clop-clop-clop back and forth across the sky, day and night, endlessly. You cannot drive away from Laredo more than fifteen miles in any direction without stopping at a BP checkpoint. BP police even meet you on the entrance ramp each time you board a plane. Yet, for all this flexing of federal law enforcement muscle, living in Laredo convinced the kind of border control Lou Dobbs and other nativists clamor for is a practical impossibility. Even if it weren't, the realization of their vision would mean catastrophe for both the US and Mexico. Spend some time in Laredo, or in any other border town, and there’s a good chance you’ll agree. It was from the heat-shimmering vantage point of Laredo, Texas that I could see, for the first time, what "securing our sovereignty" would really require at ground level.
At a minimum, it would mean stopping (and searching!) every car, every truck, and every container entering the US from Mexico. It would mean interdicting every passenger plane entering US airspace and interviewing every passenger (although seldom mentioned by the close-the-borders crowd, many "illegals" are people who flew to the US on tourist visas then simply never flew home). And it would mean erecting, and guarding, a veritable Maginot Line across almost 2000 miles of open desert. The resources this would require, in terms of money, personnel, fuel, equipment, and man-hours would make our current crisis of spiraling health care costs seem trivial by comparison.
And that is only the minimum program. What about the "illegals" already here? What about the estimated 12 million undocumented Mexicans (and others) currently picking lettuce, laying asphalt, waiting tables, and wiping white babies' butts all across the fruited plain? Now the bill just doubled; probably more than doubled. Plus, you'll need a plan to locate, capture, detain, and deport a population almost as large as that of Illinois, spread over a discontinuous land mass of almost 10 million square miles. Good luck with that. Coincidentally, 12 million is the total number of people killed during the holocaust (the more commonly cited figure of 6 million excludes non-Jews). Will Dobbs and Co. take a cue from Eichmann and ship the Bad Brown People back across the Rio Grande in cattle cars?
It will not happen. It cannot happen. It will not happen because it cannot happen.
But let's pretend it could. Let's pretend, just for a moment, that the US population at large could somehow be duped into making the sacrifices needed to realize this herrenvolk fever-dream of Fortress America. If that ever happened, they'd slam face-first into the other great contradiction of total border control: the very methods needed to achieve that level of security--all that stopping and searching, interdicting and detaining--would paralyze US-Mexico trade. Let me be clear: I am not talking here about cheap Mexican labor. I am talking about trade; the movement of saleable goods. Secure the border and, within a few weeks, US-Mexico trade will grind to a virtual halt. Within a few months, millions of dollars will be hemorrhaging from both the US and Mexican economies, with economic depression, mass unemployment, and generalized misery close behind.
And this is not just some thought experiment. Back in 1969, then-president Richard Nixon launched Operation Intercept (OI), an all-out, unilateral, charge-the-windmills effort to halt the smuggling of marijuana into the Southwestern US from Mexico. Massive law enforcement resources were brought to bear, and la frontera was effectively sealed for several weeks. OI didn’t stop too many people from getting stoned (Mexican growers simply waited out the effort, betting—correctly—it could not last; US growers stepped in during the interim and reaped a windfall). However, OI succeeded brilliantly in creating chaos along the border. As Time magazine reported: “U.S.-bound traffic on busy Mexican routes 2 and 15 backed up for miles while drivers waited as long as three hours to get thought customs. Many U.S. tourists were unwilling to put up with the delays, and many Mexicans, outraged at being ‘searched to the skin,’ joined a boycott against nearby U.S. cities.” Mexico, being the smaller, weaker partner in the bi-national relationship, suffered most. During OI, trade in Mexican border towns declined by between 40 and 75%. Had Nixon not terminated OI when he did, his get-tough policy would surely have led to a massive increase in attempts by Mexicans to escape their fate by crossing into the US illegally.
It will not happen. I cannot happen. It will not happen because it cannot happen.
Yet, the phony debate about “immigration reform” plods on. Why?
The remainder of the article will be posted no later than Sunday, Febrary 22nd, 2009.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Why People Walk Away From Me At Parties
Sometime in the early 1940's, Malcom Little--the man the world would later come to know as Malcom X--landed a job washing dishes at a diner in New York City, somewhere in the vicinity of 42nd Street. Malcom hailed from Lansing, Michigan and had a slight reddish tinge to his hair. Nobody at the restaurant had ever heard of Lansing before, so Malcom's nickname became "Detroit Red."
One day, another young man came to work as a dishwasher at the same restaurant. He too had reddish hair. But he came from St. Louis by way of Chicago, so his nickname became "Chicago Red."
For months, Detroit Red and Chicago Red labored together in that humid kitchen. They stood shoulder to shoulder, hour after hour, scrubbing pots, scouring pans, scraping plates, hands perpetually plunged in scalding, soapy water. Twice a day, they got a smoke break. They would untie their aprons, sling them over their shoulders, and wander out the back door of the restaurant to sit, side by side, on a pair of upturned milk crates. There, they would close their eyes and turn their faces to the wind, blow smoke rings and share daydreams of making it big in Hollywood.
Needless to say, Detriot Red never made it to Hollywood. His life took a radically different path, and we all know his story. But Chicago Red finally did find success in show business. However, by that time, he had changed his name--to Redd Foxx.
My brain is crammed with little anecdotes like that. My eagerness to share them, one after another, without being asked, without warning, without let-up, without mercy, is why people walk away from me at parties.
One day, another young man came to work as a dishwasher at the same restaurant. He too had reddish hair. But he came from St. Louis by way of Chicago, so his nickname became "Chicago Red."
For months, Detroit Red and Chicago Red labored together in that humid kitchen. They stood shoulder to shoulder, hour after hour, scrubbing pots, scouring pans, scraping plates, hands perpetually plunged in scalding, soapy water. Twice a day, they got a smoke break. They would untie their aprons, sling them over their shoulders, and wander out the back door of the restaurant to sit, side by side, on a pair of upturned milk crates. There, they would close their eyes and turn their faces to the wind, blow smoke rings and share daydreams of making it big in Hollywood.
Needless to say, Detriot Red never made it to Hollywood. His life took a radically different path, and we all know his story. But Chicago Red finally did find success in show business. However, by that time, he had changed his name--to Redd Foxx.
My brain is crammed with little anecdotes like that. My eagerness to share them, one after another, without being asked, without warning, without let-up, without mercy, is why people walk away from me at parties.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
25 True Things About Me (Or That I know Are True)
1) My attachment to the city of Chicago is downright neurotic. Being away from Chicago for any long length of time has always left me feeling lost and depressed.
2) I am certain the great love of my life is behind me. That I met the perfect person even once is remarkable. Searching for someone else like her would be like trying to grab hold of the moon.
3) I spent several years as a political activist, but ultimately realized I had the wrong kind of kind of personality for it. Effective activists have to be organized, gregarious, and outgoing. I am more the slovenly, surly, reclusive type.
4) Over the course of my life, I have probably poured more booze down my throat than Al Capone ever smuggled across the Canadian border.
5) When I was six, I had a dream I cannot remember waking up from.
6) I hate places built around cars rather than people. One of the things I love about Chicago is I do not need to drive here.
7) I have never cheated on anyone.
8) I speak fluent Spanish. Tambien lo puedo leer y escribir, pero nomas un poco.
9) I have considerable talent as a writer, but have accomplished little thus far because I never learned the discipline it takes to be successful.
10) I have often hurt people's feelings, but never out of malice. It has always been out of thoughtlessness, insensitivity, and stupidity.
11) Broadly speaking, there are two types of Rogers Parkers: New School and Old School. New School Rogers Parkers search for the heart of Rogers Park somewhere around the Heartland Cafe; Old school Rogers Parker know it actually beats on Devon Avenue.
12) I love children, but am far too selfish, neurotic, and irresponsible to ever be a father.
13) Most often, what attracts me to a woman is her possession of some positive personal quality I wish I had, but don't.
14) Whenever I hear someone use "upscale" as a term of praise, I have to fight an almost overwhelming urge to walk up to them, plant my feet, unzip my fly, and pee on their shoes.
15) I am a weird dog.
16) Graduating from college cum laude was my greatest personal achievement.
17) I finally feel as though I am on the cusp of some major break-through as a writer, but I am not sure what that break-through will be.
18) The truth about quitting drinking is no one ever does. Not completely. A "reformed alcoholic" is simply a drunk who has learned to make his or her binges so infrequent--sometimes years or even decades apart--that they are able to live a normal life.
19) I am not at all career-oriented. All I want from a job is that it pay enough to live on, that I not hate it, and that it not require me to do anything harmful to anyone.
20) My high school years were a nightmare. Even now, I try not to think about them.
21) My last two years at St. Henry's grade school were among the happiest of my life. For years afterwards, I could summon up a warm, nearly narcotic wave of nostalgia just by thinking about them.
22) In my experience, how you treat people has almost no influence on how they treat you in return.
23) My brother is the most decent, loyal, and trustworthy man my own age I have ever known.
24) I still feel more at ease perched on a barstool in some hole-in-the-wall tavern than anywhere else on earth. And I suspect that will always be true, even if I never take a drink again.
25) Much of my writing these days is driven by melancholy, the gnawing sadness I feel as I watch Chicago--my Chicago, city of secrets and shadows, memories and dreams--get buried beneath an avalanche of chi-chi restaurants, trendy bars, overpriced condos, and Starbuck's coffee franchises. I have this desperate need to capture in words, before it's too late, a city that once was, and still is, but may soon no longer be.
2) I am certain the great love of my life is behind me. That I met the perfect person even once is remarkable. Searching for someone else like her would be like trying to grab hold of the moon.
3) I spent several years as a political activist, but ultimately realized I had the wrong kind of kind of personality for it. Effective activists have to be organized, gregarious, and outgoing. I am more the slovenly, surly, reclusive type.
4) Over the course of my life, I have probably poured more booze down my throat than Al Capone ever smuggled across the Canadian border.
5) When I was six, I had a dream I cannot remember waking up from.
6) I hate places built around cars rather than people. One of the things I love about Chicago is I do not need to drive here.
7) I have never cheated on anyone.
8) I speak fluent Spanish. Tambien lo puedo leer y escribir, pero nomas un poco.
9) I have considerable talent as a writer, but have accomplished little thus far because I never learned the discipline it takes to be successful.
10) I have often hurt people's feelings, but never out of malice. It has always been out of thoughtlessness, insensitivity, and stupidity.
11) Broadly speaking, there are two types of Rogers Parkers: New School and Old School. New School Rogers Parkers search for the heart of Rogers Park somewhere around the Heartland Cafe; Old school Rogers Parker know it actually beats on Devon Avenue.
12) I love children, but am far too selfish, neurotic, and irresponsible to ever be a father.
13) Most often, what attracts me to a woman is her possession of some positive personal quality I wish I had, but don't.
14) Whenever I hear someone use "upscale" as a term of praise, I have to fight an almost overwhelming urge to walk up to them, plant my feet, unzip my fly, and pee on their shoes.
15) I am a weird dog.
16) Graduating from college cum laude was my greatest personal achievement.
17) I finally feel as though I am on the cusp of some major break-through as a writer, but I am not sure what that break-through will be.
18) The truth about quitting drinking is no one ever does. Not completely. A "reformed alcoholic" is simply a drunk who has learned to make his or her binges so infrequent--sometimes years or even decades apart--that they are able to live a normal life.
19) I am not at all career-oriented. All I want from a job is that it pay enough to live on, that I not hate it, and that it not require me to do anything harmful to anyone.
20) My high school years were a nightmare. Even now, I try not to think about them.
21) My last two years at St. Henry's grade school were among the happiest of my life. For years afterwards, I could summon up a warm, nearly narcotic wave of nostalgia just by thinking about them.
22) In my experience, how you treat people has almost no influence on how they treat you in return.
23) My brother is the most decent, loyal, and trustworthy man my own age I have ever known.
24) I still feel more at ease perched on a barstool in some hole-in-the-wall tavern than anywhere else on earth. And I suspect that will always be true, even if I never take a drink again.
25) Much of my writing these days is driven by melancholy, the gnawing sadness I feel as I watch Chicago--my Chicago, city of secrets and shadows, memories and dreams--get buried beneath an avalanche of chi-chi restaurants, trendy bars, overpriced condos, and Starbuck's coffee franchises. I have this desperate need to capture in words, before it's too late, a city that once was, and still is, but may soon no longer be.
The Adventures of Sven and Ollie: Part I
Three years had passed since the crash of ’29. All across America, hunger and desperation festered like open wounds. Sven and Ollie, laid off and destitute, decided to try their luck riding the rails. One rainy night, they hopped off a train and began slogging through a muddy field, drawn by warm light burning in the windows of a nearby farmhouse.
A burly farmer answered the door. Sven and Ollie, mud-spattered, cold, and soaked to the bone, begged for lodging.
“Well,” the farmer said, pulling on his beard. “I suppose there’d be no harm in my letting you boys sleep in the barn.”
Sven and Ollie nodded eagerly.
"But I warn you," the farmer said. "I'd better not catch either one of you rascals anywhere near my daughter."
Sven and Ollie agreed. However, human nature being what it is, they were unable to keep their promise. Just as the first rays of dawn touched the sky, the farmer caught the hapless pair creeping towards his daughter's bedroom. He met them in front of her door with a loaded shotgun.
“All right,” the farmer said. “You boy’s ‘ve had it.”
He leveled the shotgun at them.
Sven and Ollie fell to their knees. They pled loneliness. They pled insanity. They pled for mercy. Both began to weep.
Luckily for them the farmer, although gruff, was not a vicious man.
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t kill ya.” He lowered the muzzle of the shotgun. Sven and Ollie, still on their knees, began to kiss his feet.
He kicked them away. “Cut that out! I said I weren’t gonna shoot yas. I didn’t say yas was getting’ off scot-free.”
Sven and Ollie were mute. The farmer stared at them, silently twisting his beard.
After a few moments, he said, “Well, I figure you’re both about equally guilty in this here thing. I want each of you wing-nuts to go out to my garden and bring back one-hunnerd of yer favorite fruits. If ya don’t,” the farmer raised the shotgun again. “I’m gonna paint this here hallway with yer livin’ guts.”
What could Sven and Ollie do? They did as the farmer commanded.
Sven returned first, a burlap sack filled with ripe cherries slung over his shoulder. By this time, the farmer had retired to his kitchen and settled into an old rocking chair. The muzzle of his shotgun rested on one knee. Above the sink, a picture window opened onto the garden outside.
The farmer framed Sven in his gun sights. “Now here’s what yer gonna do: yer gonna open up that sack, and yer gonna stick ever one ‘o them there cherries up yer backside.”
Sven's eyes bulged. But what choice had he? Slowly, painfully, he shoved one hundred plump, red cherries up his rectum.
The farmer rocked and smiled.
Just as he finished pushing the final cherry into place, Sven glanced out the window.
He burst out laughing. Instantly, one hundred cherries blasted out of his anus and went bounding across the kitchen floor.
The farmer leapt to his feet. “What the hell’s a matter with you, boy? What ‘re you laughin’ at?”
“I’m sorry,” Sven said. He was gasping for air, barely able to speak. “But I thought you said me ‘n Ollie were going to get the same punishment.”
The farmer pressed both barrels of his shotgun into Sven’s skull. “That’s right. You are. What of it?”
Sven jerked his thumb towards the window. “See for yourself. Ollie’s out there picking watermelons.”
A burly farmer answered the door. Sven and Ollie, mud-spattered, cold, and soaked to the bone, begged for lodging.
“Well,” the farmer said, pulling on his beard. “I suppose there’d be no harm in my letting you boys sleep in the barn.”
Sven and Ollie nodded eagerly.
"But I warn you," the farmer said. "I'd better not catch either one of you rascals anywhere near my daughter."
Sven and Ollie agreed. However, human nature being what it is, they were unable to keep their promise. Just as the first rays of dawn touched the sky, the farmer caught the hapless pair creeping towards his daughter's bedroom. He met them in front of her door with a loaded shotgun.
“All right,” the farmer said. “You boy’s ‘ve had it.”
He leveled the shotgun at them.
Sven and Ollie fell to their knees. They pled loneliness. They pled insanity. They pled for mercy. Both began to weep.
Luckily for them the farmer, although gruff, was not a vicious man.
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t kill ya.” He lowered the muzzle of the shotgun. Sven and Ollie, still on their knees, began to kiss his feet.
He kicked them away. “Cut that out! I said I weren’t gonna shoot yas. I didn’t say yas was getting’ off scot-free.”
Sven and Ollie were mute. The farmer stared at them, silently twisting his beard.
After a few moments, he said, “Well, I figure you’re both about equally guilty in this here thing. I want each of you wing-nuts to go out to my garden and bring back one-hunnerd of yer favorite fruits. If ya don’t,” the farmer raised the shotgun again. “I’m gonna paint this here hallway with yer livin’ guts.”
What could Sven and Ollie do? They did as the farmer commanded.
Sven returned first, a burlap sack filled with ripe cherries slung over his shoulder. By this time, the farmer had retired to his kitchen and settled into an old rocking chair. The muzzle of his shotgun rested on one knee. Above the sink, a picture window opened onto the garden outside.
The farmer framed Sven in his gun sights. “Now here’s what yer gonna do: yer gonna open up that sack, and yer gonna stick ever one ‘o them there cherries up yer backside.”
Sven's eyes bulged. But what choice had he? Slowly, painfully, he shoved one hundred plump, red cherries up his rectum.
The farmer rocked and smiled.
Just as he finished pushing the final cherry into place, Sven glanced out the window.
He burst out laughing. Instantly, one hundred cherries blasted out of his anus and went bounding across the kitchen floor.
The farmer leapt to his feet. “What the hell’s a matter with you, boy? What ‘re you laughin’ at?”
“I’m sorry,” Sven said. He was gasping for air, barely able to speak. “But I thought you said me ‘n Ollie were going to get the same punishment.”
The farmer pressed both barrels of his shotgun into Sven’s skull. “That’s right. You are. What of it?”
Sven jerked his thumb towards the window. “See for yourself. Ollie’s out there picking watermelons.”
Saturday, February 7, 2009
No Lies
You can do just about anything else.
Kiss me and kick me,
Praise me and punch me,
Thank me and throttle me,
Caress me and curse me,
Grace and aggrieve me.
Go ahead. You choose.
Light up my life or shit in my shoes?
Bring your best and your worst to this party, baby, and stand them on the rail.
Chances are I'll swallow both down, wipe my lips, smile, and come back for more.
But lie to me just once, and this thing we do is done. Dead. Gone.
And no kidding.
Kiss me and kick me,
Praise me and punch me,
Thank me and throttle me,
Caress me and curse me,
Grace and aggrieve me.
Go ahead. You choose.
Light up my life or shit in my shoes?
Bring your best and your worst to this party, baby, and stand them on the rail.
Chances are I'll swallow both down, wipe my lips, smile, and come back for more.
But lie to me just once, and this thing we do is done. Dead. Gone.
And no kidding.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Ramblings of a Literate Barfly
Morning at Cafe Ennui.
As I write these words, a snowy-haired black man wearing a kippa hobbles past my table, ragged tassels of a prayer shawl dangling beneath the bottom of his coal-gray sweatshirt. Knees locked, he plods painfully towards the service counter, hips lurching forward and back as he shifts his weight from side to side. The barrista, a teenage Mexican with a bald head and neat goatee, stares at him blankly. The old man reaches the counter, steadies himself with one hand. He plunges the other into his right front pocket, hauls out a fistful of change, and dumps it out next to the cash register. Eyes narrowed, he jabs at his loot with a gnarled index finger, plucking one coin after another out of the main pile and sliding it across the counter towards the barrista. He stops when he has counted out exactly one dollar and eighty-eight cents.
"One small coffee, please, " the old black Jew says.
I decided to start visiting coffee shops exactly one week after I decided to stop visiting taverns. I decided to stop visiting taverns because I had, by the age of twenty-eight, become a red-faced, bleary-eyed, heavy-gutted, chain-smoking, beer-swilling, shot-slamming, front-lawn napping, broad-daylight back-alley pissing, obnoxious loudmouth drunk. Which was a shame, because I really liked taverns.
My love of taverns was not synonymous with my lust for alcohol. Think about it: no one goes to a bar for the booze. Had it been all about the ethanol, I could have gotten loaded just as easily sitting around in my apartment. Plus, I could have done it cheaper. And in my underwear.
But instead, I sat around in taverns. And I sat around in taverns for the only reason anyone does: to be around other people. Other drunk people, sure, but so what? The important thing was I was a social drunk, a sociable drunk. A sociable drunk could be many things. I was, by turns, a happy drunk or a sad drunk, a loud drunk or a quiet drunk, a clever drunk or a stupid drunk, a witty drunk or a rambling drunk, a smiling drunk or a scowling drunk, a patient drunk or a fed-up drunk, a friendly drunk or even (but only rarely) a mean drunk. But so long as I was willing to pull my clothes on and trudge down to the nearest tavern, so long as I remained a sociable drunk, I would never be a lonely drunk. And lonely drunks were the only drunks who scared me.
For a moment, the barrista just stares at the scattering of coins the old man has pushed towards him. Then he uses his own index finger to count them again, plucking one at a time from the counter into his waiting palm. He is almost through counting whem he stops and frowns.
"Hey," the barrista says. "This one's Canadian."
The old man doesn't seem to hear him. He just stands with his eyes closed, fingers drumming the counter. His head bobs up and down slightly, as if to music.
"Sir," the barrista says, louder this time. "Did you hear me? I said this coin is no good."
The old man's eyes pop open. "What?"
The barrista holds the offending coin up between two fingers. "This coin is from Canada. It's no good. You gotta give me another quarter."
The old man grunts. He scans his main pile of change for a long time. Sweat is begins to glaze his forehead. "You said a quarter, right?"
"Yeah, a quarter. Twenty-five cents."
The old man stares, stares. He fishes a rumpled white handkercheif from his back pocket and wipes his mouth. The barrista doesn't speak or move. Finally, the old man pushes another coin in the barrista's direction.
"Okay," the kid says. He takes the quarter, turns around, fills a paper cup to the brim with hot coffee.
By the time he turns back around the old man has pocketed the remainder his change.
"Thank you." the old man says.
The kid nods.
The old Jew settles himself at the nearest table, carefully setting the steaming cup down in front of him. For nearly a minute, he just sits there, stone still and mute, eyes squeezed shut as if aginst some inner pain. But then his body begins to rock back and forth, gently. His lips begin to move, and the old man begins to pray.
In his 1993 novel Trainspotting, Irvine Walsh's protagonist, Marc Renton, lays out exactly what the general public fails to grasp about addiction: "People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shite, which is not to be ignored, but what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it."
The "it" Renton is referring to is heroin, but the same holds true for booze. And make no mistake: the pleasure of it as every bit as real as the misery.
It has been raining all day. I squat in the alley outside Durland's tavern, back pressed against the damp brick wall. I am wild drunk and trying to light a cigarette. Trying and failing. A Marlboro Red dangles between my lips. Left hand cupped above it to shield it from the pattering rain. Right hand flick-flick-flicks away at a cheap lighter that spits sparks but brings forth no flame.
I don't see Tonya walking towards me. Don't hear her footfalls splashing through tiny puddles that glisten, like uncut jewels, beneath the sickly glare of the overhead streetlamp. The only sign of her presence, in that split second before she touches me, is a subtle tingling along my neck as atoms brush past, shifting away from the space she suddenly fills. That, and a breath of lavender perfume.
Then her cool palm against my cheek, fingernails tracing a line in the tender flesh below my jaw. She guides me to my feet, slips her hands beneath my shirt, digs into my shoulders with her nails.
She is drunk as I am. Eyes bloody red, her lips slightly parted, lower jaw slack. She kisses me. Our lips press together and my tongue slips past hers and she rakes my back, painfully. I plunge my hands into her hair, rain-drenched, slick and black as ravens' wings...
Is anything in life so exciting as a really great kiss? Had someone asked me before that day, I would have made a list. Now, I can only think of one thing: a really great kiss you weren't expecting.
And you just don't that many really great kisses in coffee shops.
As I write these words, a snowy-haired black man wearing a kippa hobbles past my table, ragged tassels of a prayer shawl dangling beneath the bottom of his coal-gray sweatshirt. Knees locked, he plods painfully towards the service counter, hips lurching forward and back as he shifts his weight from side to side. The barrista, a teenage Mexican with a bald head and neat goatee, stares at him blankly. The old man reaches the counter, steadies himself with one hand. He plunges the other into his right front pocket, hauls out a fistful of change, and dumps it out next to the cash register. Eyes narrowed, he jabs at his loot with a gnarled index finger, plucking one coin after another out of the main pile and sliding it across the counter towards the barrista. He stops when he has counted out exactly one dollar and eighty-eight cents.
"One small coffee, please, " the old black Jew says.
I decided to start visiting coffee shops exactly one week after I decided to stop visiting taverns. I decided to stop visiting taverns because I had, by the age of twenty-eight, become a red-faced, bleary-eyed, heavy-gutted, chain-smoking, beer-swilling, shot-slamming, front-lawn napping, broad-daylight back-alley pissing, obnoxious loudmouth drunk. Which was a shame, because I really liked taverns.
My love of taverns was not synonymous with my lust for alcohol. Think about it: no one goes to a bar for the booze. Had it been all about the ethanol, I could have gotten loaded just as easily sitting around in my apartment. Plus, I could have done it cheaper. And in my underwear.
But instead, I sat around in taverns. And I sat around in taverns for the only reason anyone does: to be around other people. Other drunk people, sure, but so what? The important thing was I was a social drunk, a sociable drunk. A sociable drunk could be many things. I was, by turns, a happy drunk or a sad drunk, a loud drunk or a quiet drunk, a clever drunk or a stupid drunk, a witty drunk or a rambling drunk, a smiling drunk or a scowling drunk, a patient drunk or a fed-up drunk, a friendly drunk or even (but only rarely) a mean drunk. But so long as I was willing to pull my clothes on and trudge down to the nearest tavern, so long as I remained a sociable drunk, I would never be a lonely drunk. And lonely drunks were the only drunks who scared me.
For a moment, the barrista just stares at the scattering of coins the old man has pushed towards him. Then he uses his own index finger to count them again, plucking one at a time from the counter into his waiting palm. He is almost through counting whem he stops and frowns.
"Hey," the barrista says. "This one's Canadian."
The old man doesn't seem to hear him. He just stands with his eyes closed, fingers drumming the counter. His head bobs up and down slightly, as if to music.
"Sir," the barrista says, louder this time. "Did you hear me? I said this coin is no good."
The old man's eyes pop open. "What?"
The barrista holds the offending coin up between two fingers. "This coin is from Canada. It's no good. You gotta give me another quarter."
The old man grunts. He scans his main pile of change for a long time. Sweat is begins to glaze his forehead. "You said a quarter, right?"
"Yeah, a quarter. Twenty-five cents."
The old man stares, stares. He fishes a rumpled white handkercheif from his back pocket and wipes his mouth. The barrista doesn't speak or move. Finally, the old man pushes another coin in the barrista's direction.
"Okay," the kid says. He takes the quarter, turns around, fills a paper cup to the brim with hot coffee.
By the time he turns back around the old man has pocketed the remainder his change.
"Thank you." the old man says.
The kid nods.
The old Jew settles himself at the nearest table, carefully setting the steaming cup down in front of him. For nearly a minute, he just sits there, stone still and mute, eyes squeezed shut as if aginst some inner pain. But then his body begins to rock back and forth, gently. His lips begin to move, and the old man begins to pray.
In his 1993 novel Trainspotting, Irvine Walsh's protagonist, Marc Renton, lays out exactly what the general public fails to grasp about addiction: "People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shite, which is not to be ignored, but what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it."
The "it" Renton is referring to is heroin, but the same holds true for booze. And make no mistake: the pleasure of it as every bit as real as the misery.
It has been raining all day. I squat in the alley outside Durland's tavern, back pressed against the damp brick wall. I am wild drunk and trying to light a cigarette. Trying and failing. A Marlboro Red dangles between my lips. Left hand cupped above it to shield it from the pattering rain. Right hand flick-flick-flicks away at a cheap lighter that spits sparks but brings forth no flame.
I don't see Tonya walking towards me. Don't hear her footfalls splashing through tiny puddles that glisten, like uncut jewels, beneath the sickly glare of the overhead streetlamp. The only sign of her presence, in that split second before she touches me, is a subtle tingling along my neck as atoms brush past, shifting away from the space she suddenly fills. That, and a breath of lavender perfume.
Then her cool palm against my cheek, fingernails tracing a line in the tender flesh below my jaw. She guides me to my feet, slips her hands beneath my shirt, digs into my shoulders with her nails.
She is drunk as I am. Eyes bloody red, her lips slightly parted, lower jaw slack. She kisses me. Our lips press together and my tongue slips past hers and she rakes my back, painfully. I plunge my hands into her hair, rain-drenched, slick and black as ravens' wings...
Is anything in life so exciting as a really great kiss? Had someone asked me before that day, I would have made a list. Now, I can only think of one thing: a really great kiss you weren't expecting.
And you just don't that many really great kisses in coffee shops.
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