Chapter Four: Maryann

I locked the door after another successful evening at Hal's Place. Alyssa was wiping down tables and putting chairs on top of tables, I was doing the nightly paperwork, Charlie was drinking a beer and pointing his misery face at us in that way young men have been pointing misery faces at women since time immemorial.

Forty plus years ago, Gloria Gaynor told the men of the world that when you stand there with that sad look upon your face, we should change those stupid locks, we should make you leave your key.

Well, shoot. Now I was thinking of Gloria Gaynor and it was hard not to be cheerful when thinking of Gloria Gaynor! But, this was not a situation that called for cheer. This would be a conversation that called for a gentle, concerned demeanor. I could do that. Plus, I wasn't too annoyed with Charlie's misery face. My husband, Jason, had learned years ago not to point his at me. But when it's some sweet 25 year old kid, I mind a bit less being tacitly asked to step into the role of makeshift mom. What is the wisdom of experience for, after all, if not heartening the dampened spirits of the young?

Alyssa was oblivious, humming Here I Go Again. Her gift for blithe oblivion was one of the reasons she was my favorite niece.

In the manner of bartenders throughout history and around the world, I said, "Why the long face, hon?" And he told me about Elizabeth's pregnancy.

Elizabeth had come by Hal's not too long ago to hear Charlie perform. I was impressed and not a little intimidated by her. Her hair was flawlessly coiffed in that effortless way that I believe comes naturally to some lucky few women. I am not one of those women. I have only managed to look even moderately coiffed shortly after a hair appointment or by accident. I am a woman prone to mess. I have never worn a white blouse that did not end up stained with some condiment drip (this is why I stick to dark colors). But Elizabeth was elegant and graceful and, above all else, competent.

I admire competence.

It was very clear to me that Elizabeth used Charlie for sex (as did he with her  - no judgment) and then when she came up pregnant, decided to keep the baby and raise it because she was thirty-eight and she wanted a baby and there was only so much time left to make one. She certainly had ample resources to raise a child on her own. 

"I'm not ready to be a father," Charlie whined into his beer.

"Charlie, love," I said. "No one is ever ready to be a parent. But, is Elizabeth actually expecting you to.... actively parent this baby?"

"She said she wasn't expecting anything," he said.

"HOLY SHIT!" exclaimed Alyssa, in typically dulcet tones. "YOU'RE GOING TO BE A DAD?!?!" 

I sent Alyssa home. This was a conversation that called for serenity.

"Well," I said to him, as I opened a couple of more beers. "There's nothing for you to do here, but follow Elizabeth's lead. It sounds like she plans to raise this baby on her own and I think you're going to have to let her. If you want my advice, end the romantic relationship, if it's not already, and become her friend."

"Exes can't be friends," he said.

"Oh, Charlie," I said. "You're a smart kid. You know that there wasn't enough 'relationship' between the two of you to generate 'ex' tension." (I was a little pleased with my wordplay there, but Charlie was too distracted to pick up on it)

"Just tell her you'll be there for her," I said. "You'll want a relationship with your child, and you can be whatever kind of father Elizabeth and this baby need you to be. For now, just be her friend."  

It's difficult to impart to young people that there's no real control over the future and that things tend to shake out how they're going to shake out. Sure, invest in a retirement plan, insure your worldly goods. Don't smoke, drink in moderation, take care of your body. Make friends, form community. But life is a crapshoot and you have to take it as it comes and only try to control the things that are within your control and that invite your control.

Poor Charlie was watching his future shrink. It's shame he couldn't see it expanding.

He would, if you'll pardon the callback, survive.

  

Chapter Three: Charlie

A third of my brain was focused on tuning my guitar, a third on what I was going to play that night and a third on Elizabeth and the goddamn bomb she dropped on me this morning. 

Alyssa interrupted my thoughts by shouting at the top of her damn lungs, "MARYANN, TIM WANTS TO KNOW IF YOU GOT THAT CHARDONNAY?!"

Alyssa was loud. Cute! But loud. I guess when you have the lung capacity for large brass instruments, you just get naturally loud. And she was really cute. It would be nice to focus on her cuteness. But I didn't think I'd be able to quarter my brain. Thirds was about the best I could do. 

"Alyssa," Maryann said. "I am right here. I am handy. Close. Nearby. Accessible. Please, for the sake of all that is good and blessed in my little store, take it down a notch!"

Alyssa laughed and Maryann started talking, in a normal speaking voice, about what kind of chardonnay she was currently pouring. And I went back to my thoughts.

But the guitar was tuned and Maryann had already asked me to stick to an 80s theme (she was partial to my version of The Go Gos "Vacation" my acoustic coffee house version of "West End Girls."). So that left just Elizabeth to think about. 

Elizabeth was pregnant.  

It was never supposed to be a thing, y'all! Elizabeth is 38 years old. She is a whole practicing lawyer! She owns a three bedroom Lincoln Park condo. She leases a Lexus. She shops at Whole Foods. I am 25 years old, a recent college graduate (which took me seven full years, by the way). I share a Rogers Park apartment with three other 25 year old guys. I ride a bike to get where I need to. I work at Whole Foods.

That's where we met, by the way. She was strolling the aisles, doing a weekly shop, and she asked me where to find soy noodles. And Elizabeth is hot, y'all! She has this whole sexy, sophisticated lawyer lady thing down. I mean, of course, I chatted her up. 

I don't do the apps. I'm better at meeting girls in real life. Women. Elizabeth is fully a woman. So I chatted her up, she showed me some wine and cheese she'd bought, we chatted some more, she asked me when I got off and next thing you know we had kind of an arrangement. She'd text and I'd come over and we'd drink wine and have sex and watch TV. It was chill and fun and relaxing until this morning when she told me she was pregnant.

She was planning to have it. She said she was 38 and the clock was ticking. But that I didn't need to worry about it. She said she would raise the baby on her own, but felt like it would be dishonest not to tell me.  

So here I am. 25 years old. An employee of Whole Fucking Foods. A dude who plays guitar at a little bar on weekends. A father.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.?

I decided to just start playing. I needed to do something else and I was tuned up and amped up so I said into the mic "Hey" and then started in with "Papa Don't Preach." Sometimes the music leads me in weird directions.

Hal's was hopping that night, or as hopping as it could be (Hal's was not large). Tim was there with his husband, Dan. Some of Alyssa's friends were hanging out with her. Hyacinth was off in the corner, holding court among some other Hal's regulars, Maryann was at the counter, singing along Daddy daddy if you could only see, just how good he's been treating me...  

Maryann was having a good time. That's the thing about Maryann - she was usually having a good time. It made it kind of hard not to have a good time around her. My mood lightened just a little. I played The Go Gos and Duran Duran and then moved into some of the hair bands.

Alyssa ran back to Jason and Maryann's and got her tuba. She joined me on Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again." You wouldn't think a tuba would work as well as it did with my guitar. But she was really good.

I was going to be a father.

I was playing Whitesnake with a girl and her tuba and was going to be a father in seven months.

God, my life was weird. 

Chapter Two: Alyssa

I walked into Hal's and slammed the door startling (and probably annoying) my aunt, Maryann. But I was mad for cause! I had just been dumped by my boyfriend who was named, of all the boring boomer basic bullshit, Jerry.

Jerry!

He could have just gone by "Jerome" like he was born in this millennium. Instead he went by "Jerry." On purpose. 

Whatever.

He said that he was going home to Colorado over the summer so there was no point in carrying on as boyfriend/girlfriend and we could just see what happened when we came back to school in the fall. Jesus, Jerry. He could have just cheated on me over the summer like a normal person and then in September when we came back things would be weird and awkward and the relationship would end naturally. Organically. As God intended.

Instead, in service of being a "good guy," he had to put me through the humiliation of being dumped by a Jerry. 

Ugh.

I told Maryann all of this and she said that she thought I was fixating too much on the name and asked if I'd actually liked him. 

"I mean," I said, "He was OK. He was cute and we had fun playing Overwatch."

"What did you like more,' she asked. "The boy or the game?"

That was a good point. I did like Overwatch more than I liked Jerry.

"Let's forget about Jerry," Maryann said. "And his jejune designation, which should be easy as that kid was pretty forgettable. Let's talk about Alyssa instead because I like you a lot. I've been thinking: how would you like to stay here with us for the summer and work at Hal's?

Oh my god. I was having an emotional roller coaster of a Thursday. From the depths of humiliation (dammit, Jerry!) to the heights of dopeness. Stay in Chicago without going to school? Just working at my aunt's bomb-ass bookstore? Folx, I was turning 21 in a couple of weeks. This was going to be epic. 

I leapt up from the chair I was sulking in and gave her a big hug and we jumped up and down for a bit until she said she was pretty sure that her squealing and jumping up and down days were behind her.

Maryann is my aunt-by-marriage. Her husband, Jason and my mother are siblings. But despite the lack of blood-connection, she's always been my favorite. She's funny and has this weird, cool way of talking. I mean, you caught "jejune designation" right? When I was a little kid, I thought she was totally glamorous. She wasn't really- but I was from a small town in Wisconsin and she was from Chicago and had cool bangs and wore statement eyewear and interesting tee shirts. I loved her from the start.

When I was picking universities, I chose Depaul because it was close to Maryann. That's how much I loved her. It was going to be a total blast living with Maryann and Jason this summer. And I love Hal's! I'd even started watching Barney Miller on my phone before I went to bed at night. Dietrich was my favorite.

Maryann gave me keys and sent me back to her place to get acclimated. 

I'm so excited! Man, I hope Maryann and Jason don't mind all the noise. Tubas are loud and I will have to practice.

Chapter One: Maryann

I haven’t believed in God since I was a kid, but I kind of missed praying. So one night, when I was trying to drift off into sleep, I started cycling through celebrities who seemed like they’d be good God substitutes. I entertain myself in harmless and strange ways. At first I thought about Alanis Morisette, since there’s practical deity experience there. And then I thought about Emma Thompson, because I just love her. But I think I’d rather go out for drinks with her than appeal to her divine ministration. She seems like so much fun. 

Suddenly, out of nowhere, an image of Hal Linden popped into my head. TV’s Barney Miller. This guy:

There’s something about his rumpled 70s era  mustachioed-ness that felt wise, but benign and kindly.

If I’m being honest, I was probably praying to Barney Miller himself. I only know Hal Linden from that role and that one episode of Gilmore Girls where he hit on Emily and was kind of suave and horny. But the rules of my weird-but-entertaining new religion were that I had to pray to the actual celebrity and so I prayed to Hal Linden and pictured Barney Miller.

“Please, Hal Linden,” I said to myself and then giggled because I may find my late night mental meanderings kind of hilarious. “Please help me out of this samey morass. I just want to do something new.”

Night after night, I soothed myself to sleep picturing Hal Linden in his wide 70s tie, nodding kindly as I whined at him about how bored I was. Sometimes he winked! 

I was in a strange malaise in those days. The stuck-in-it place. My kids were out of the house, my husband was busy with his work and a host of home improvement projects, and I was sick sick sick of corporate America. I didn’t want to do another conference call, didn’t want to manage another project, plan another budget, fill out another Gantt chart, none of it. I was done.

Strangely, it worked. Hal Linden and his silent late night ministrations (dirty!) snapped me out of it like he’s Cher in Moonstruck.

I quit my job and signed a lease for an empty storefront on the far north side and called it “Hal’s Place” I installed a frosted glass door like the one from the show. I painted the inside that 70s green color. I kept a needlepoint of Barney Miller that I bought on Etsy in a little easel at the counter. It looked pretty cool. Familiar to the long-in-the-tooth. Charmingly retro to the kids. 

Hal’s Place was a few things. 

It was a bookstore, focusing mostly on Chicago books - set in Chicago, about Chicago, by Chicagoans. I was pretty liberal with the boundaries of what made a book Chicago-esque; e.g., if it was a book I really liked, I stocked it because I am a Chicagoan and that’s connection enough.  It was fun digging up books to put on the shelves. There may also have been Chicago-y tchotchkes. 

It was a bar. Sort of. We had wine and some spirits and nibbley things. Folks would come in and browse the books, then sit in an armchair with a glass of wine or a whiskey or diet coke and read their books or chat with me. I love to chat, so long as we’re in a chat-appropriate environment. I am pretty conservative on what environments are chat-appropriate. A neighborhood sort-of bar is. An elevator is not. One day I’ll delineate the full rules. 

It was a performance space, with a small one person (two if they squeeze) stage in the corner by the front. We did poetry slams or storytellers from time to time - those alternated between delightful and unbearable with very little middle-ground. But my favorite performance nights were when Charlie was there, standing on the little stage with his guitar, singing songs everyone knows the words to. It was always a blast when Charlie was there.

So that’s Hal’s Place: books and music and wine and company. It barely makes enough to keep the shelves stocked and the rent paid. But it’s mine and I love it.

My name is MaryAnn, by the way. I own Hal’s Place.