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.
“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.
