There was a laundromat on Damen, close to the house thank God because dragging your laundry out into the City of Chicago was never an easy task. The machines were kept clean enough and if you knew when to go, you could avoid the mothers with all of their children and 15 washers worth of dirty clothes.
It was a spring evening after work, still cold enough to wear my brown, fleece-lined, flight jacket unzipped. It was originally my father’s jacket, a gift he bought himself many years after he left the Navy. I inherited it after he died- well not right after. I first had to finish grade school, then high school, then flight training in college before I felt right about wearing it and before it would fit, frankly. It was one of the only things of his that I owned. Continue reading “Laundry Day”
“My band was banned, man,” said ‘Razor’ as he threw the dirty utensils into the sink. His real name was Francis but that was no name for the lead singer of the hottest new local rock band. “Your girlfriend works for the St. Mary’s radio station. It’s a Catholic college. What did you expect?” replied Steve-o. “Unsuitable for minors? Kiss my entire ass! How about my rights?”
Razor shouted as he scrubbed out the large kettles that boiled the sausages. They were both line cooks at the busiest restaurant in town, Porky’s, where they served up a large selection of meat on a bun. It was famous for good food and lines around the block to get a bite of it. The job paid Razor’s bills while he tried to make a real go of it as a musician. Steve-o just needed a way to buy beer. Continue reading “Blood, tips, and Gore”
My father hunted with my uncle. It’s all they ever talked about really. That and fishing and football. When I was younger, before the divorce, I was often forced to sit at the dinner table until I finished every last bite of the game my father had shot and brought home for dinner. “Why can’t I just have a bologna sandwich?” I would ask. I was sick of spitting out the shot. “Hunter Bartholomew Green!” my mother would say in exasperation with a nervous glance at my father. Then he would give me the lecture about the importance of providing for one’s family and how there was a long tradition of hunting in our family that I needed to respect and how years ago a gun meant having meat on the table and freedom from starvation. My uncle just smirked. Continue reading “Hunter Green”
Tyrone’s wedding day- a day we did not believe would ever happen. Tyrone was a six-foot four, 400-pound black man who looked like Buddha and though in fact a devout Buddhist, still managed to intimidate a lot of people by the sheer mass of his presence. But those of us who called him friend knew his gentle personality made him more suited to wear a pink tutu than a studded motorcycle jacket.
His ‘Best Man’ Jenny described his bride Mary as “a potato with red hair”. Mary was about five feet tall and white but only her family thought that should matter. Despite the fact that Tyrone treated them with respect and provided for Mary, he was black and in their mind that meant she could do better. In our mind, he was too good for her. Continue reading “The Wedding”