1 Skylark

A stoop-shouldered man with sparse hair stumbled into the Skylark bar from the bright, blue skies of October in Chicago. He perched on a bar stool and grinned at Mike White, the barkeep, “Make it a double.”

     “Heck, yes,” Mike said, slapping the bar, “I thought you’d never ask. Hey, how are you doing this morning? Hope you had a good night, Bill,” Mike said.

     The gentleman, Bill Porter, waited for the drink to arrive. He surveyed the room of his daily social club, where he distracted himself from his disappointments. He looked over the clientele for friendly faces, seeing Milo Górecki and a few others. He swiveled back to the bar’s edge as his bourbon neatly slid to rest near him. It was not his first adult beverage of the morning.

     The footprints of smoke and time smudged the brick walls of the joint. The bar-long mirror reflected the foggy reflections of the other patrons: disheveled drinkers with tales of loves lost, jobs lost, families lost. Some wait for someone to sit by them so they can sneak in a few war stories, share the scars, show the scars. Some plug the jukebox, whose keys show nicotine remnants and cracks of age as some seated nearby.

     The jukebox—nicknamed Jerry—looked over the room from a position he had enjoyed since 1956 when the Skylark owner installed the newest Wurlitzer 45 rpm record slinger. Jerry recalls the workers’ proud comments about his shine, record collection, and state-of-the-art sound system. “Nothing can touch this. Chicago is gonna’ be impressed,” the factory workers said as they lowered him into his packaging crate. And off he went in the truck to the Cleveland train station.

     He noticed the shippers were not as impressed with his importance—tipping him over, shoving the container along the concrete, and dropping him onto the boxcar floor. Didn’t they know he was a precision instrument bound for musical glory in Chicago? He was fearful of damage and a return to the plant. The two-day long trip passed, and he wheeled into the Skylark.

     The new purchase felt hands remove him from his confinement. A group of admiring men moved him to a position along a sidewall close to an electrical outlet. The owner inserted the plug; the lights flashed on. He selected Whole Lot of Shaking Going On by Jerry Lee Lewis. The piano music exploded from his speakers, and the patrons whooped. “By God, we’ll call him Jerry.” Whoo hooo! Jerry thought. I have a name.

     But that was nearly thirty years ago, and Jerry suffered from spilled drinks, kicks from drunks, infrequent polishing, and many of the same old records. Yet, over the decades, there were a few folks that Jerry liked. They loved to play him, and he got to know them by their selections. They were his buddies, and his closeness to them stimulated Jerry’s electrical pathways to stretch his cognitive powers. They had no idea.

     Jerry noticed Bill, a son of a Pittsburgh steelworker, as he nursed his double of Old Charter; it looked like Bill missed his sleep and wash cycles; he gazed straight ahead; he rubbed his jewelry-free hands together and examined his fingernails. Is he too distracted to play his favorites? Jerry thought. He seemed to find solace in song titles that conjured up sentimental memories. Why does Bill, an out-of-work rambler, drift someplace else when Johnny Mathis croons “Moon River;” he notices how Bill, a man of the street, perks up to Elvis and “Hound dog;” he sees how Bill, a man with no rural addresses, lip-synched as he two-steps to Hank Williams when the country-legend flirted, “Hey, good lookin’. What cha’ got cookin’? How’s about cookin’ something up with me?”

     The Skylark’s slightly irregular regulars loved Jerry’s selection of oldies, regulars who suffered from the challenges of real-world reality who slugged it out every day. Some were rough when they pushed the keys to select songs, and Jerry took aim at their disrespect and played a song or two he chose instead of theirs. Sure, Jerry took notice of their presence at the bar, but they did not have a relationship with the Wurlitzer like Bill. A telepathic wavelength—hard to describe—allowed Jerry to process the double-drinker’s actions and grant the music-maker occasional access to Bill’s conversations, revealing personal information, concerns, and opinions. Jerry saw all that happened in the Skylark, yet the wavelength was not available to anyone else; they were none the wiser.

     When Bill was not at the Skylark, Jerry played a tune for himself: The Wurlitzer Prize, I Don’t Want To Get Over You: “I’m not here to forget you, I’m here to recall all the silver I let slide down the slot, playing those songs sung blue, I don’t want to get over you, they ought to give me the Wurlitzer prize.”

     Across the room, Jerry saw the bartender’s Chihuahua, Carl, sitting at the foot of Bill’s stool.

     Jerry watched as Bill, lost in his thoughts, removed a tattered, folded paper from his coat pocket. He looked left and right. Assured no one was near, Bill unfolded his father’s letter informing him his mother had passed. ‘Please, come home.’ Jerry did not know the contents, but he witnessed Bill wince each time he read the passage.

     Jerry had watched this scene unfold numerous times. Why does Bill spend so much time looking over the same crumpled paper? What must it say, and why does it seem to disturb?

**

     The Skylark provided non-liquid sustenance—one-stop shopping for beer nuts, twisted pretzels, Fritos, and pickled, hard-boiled eggs shrouded in the cloudy solution of a half-gallon jar. Today was the twentieth of the month, several weeks after welfare checks arrived, so the groceries collected dust, except for the eggs. Today, the early crowd drank slowly and considered the dilemma of spending booze money on food. Milo mulled the notion.

     “Well, it seems to me if ya’ want ice cream, ya’ go to an ice cream store. Hell, we’re in a bar. That answers that,” declared the man in a fatigue jacket. The loudest drunk in the Skylark let loose, “Hell, yeah!” A former blonde sported an FU logo hat positioned sideways on her head and added to the pronouncement, “Damn straight, Milo. We got all we need right here. Good drinks, good friends, good times. Yeah…good times.” Bill raised his drink to toast. The front door opened.

     The glow of the Grain Belt beer sign confirmed she was in the Skylark. Would Bess’s guy-pal, Bill, be there? Compromised by a recent plunge to the bar’s floor from an unattended beer spill, she limped to the stool Bill saved for her. He quickly refolded and hid the document in a shirt pocket. Bess Martin, draped in a sweatshirt and cargo pants, rustled her short, brown hair as she settled beside Bill. He slid an arm around her shoulders and offered a smile. Bess shrugged off his embrace. She did not comment, except to the bartender’s dog, “Hey, Carl.”

     Frustrated, Jerry could see their mouths move but could not hear the words. Hey, Bill, play something. C’mon. Will ya’? He boosted his light over the song list—tried to gain Bill’s attention, longed for it. You know you want to play those tunes for Bess. The ones you think she likes, despite her complaints. Watch this. I’ll get your attention. The room brightened like the headlights of a passing car, but no one seemed to notice; crestfallen, Jerry dimmed his light.

     Bill scrapped up the change from his drink, patted Bess on her thigh, and strolled to Jerry with Carl at his heels as if on cue. He didn’t need to read the list of tunes. The metallic sound of the coins traveling down the chute to the cash box clanged. Knowing patrons, crouched in their positions like pheasants hiding in corn rows,  gazed at Bill and bet about the order of his choices; Hank, Johnny, then Elvis was an unlikely wager. They watched the keys depress. Milo whooped, “Yeah, baby. Make it a double, Mike.” Bill returned to Bess.

     Jerry and Bill were intimates. The non-judgmental jukebox had listened to Bill speak private thoughts when the troubled man sat alongside, faced the back wall, listened to his songs play, and entered a reflective world for a while. The melodies blocked out his monologue from the ears of the others.

     There was something other-worldly about Jerry. Bill sensed it. When he shared his concerns, Bill recognized the Wurlitzer responded with yes and no answers; bright flashes of his interior light for “yes” dimmed for “no.” If Bill’s topic of the day was very private, Jerry played the music louder, further shielding the confessions.

     The four quarters he dropped into Jerry gave Bill ample time to get things off his chest and rely less on the booze to soothe his hurts, putting the animate and the inanimate mates on a symbiotic frequency. Neither could know the peace these moments gave Bill nor the satisfaction they provided Jerry, who felt his role was that of a surrogate mother, listening to her child speak and consider solutions while she relished the trust. It was a liaison between a mortal and an immortal; the strangeness of it was too risky for Bill to share with Bess.

     As clear as an FM radio station, the conversation between Bill and Bess played for Jerry only as long as their selections lasted and only for Bill and Bess. Jerry vibrated as the music started. Ah, this is the life. That’s more like it. He could detect emotion in their speaking, hear Bill’s affection, and sense her uneasiness. Jerry flashed his lights, hoping to notify Bill this subject was taboo—that this was only a friendship, not a romance.

     Bess ranted about the tunes playing—a personal comment for Bill but not the type he desired. Bess blasted Bill in her West Texas drawl as Jerry listened in.

          “Why not Roberta Flack or Carole King? You always play the same damn tunes.”

          “Yeah, I—”

          “I like ‘em, too, and I like you, but, jeez, Louise, and there’s another thing…there is something I’ve been
meaning to say…I decided to move to my sister’s house in Texas. Chicago’s long winters kill me. I can’t stay
warm in my flat—the super doesn’t care the radiator needs to be flushed so it can generate heat. Maybe he
might fix it if I were one of those high-rent folks who live upstairs instead of a low-rent bum in the basement
storeroom. I would do it for him.”

          “Sure, I know you would.” Bill shuffled his feet against the bar rail and choked back a tear.

          “I mean, come on! We are all in the same universe, right? We all got to survive.…let’s get some fresh air.
Someone around here needs a bath.”

     Hatching a plan to avoid the devastating comments about her moving and those that mention his hygiene, Bill nodded towards the door. They stepped off their stools, left their glasses as occupied notices for their seats, and headed for the portal. Carl fell in behind them. The intense light of the outside world blinded the duo; Bill chirped, “Holy crap, who made the sun so bright?” Carl seemed to squint. The brisk air of early fall rustled the leaves, soon earthbound, in the park across the street.

     Bill fired up two cigarettes simultaneously and passed one to Bess, who offered, “Well, another day in paradise, eh?” They watched the traffic while Bill spoke about his thoughts of them role-playing. He imagined their acting parts like a movie in his head—said his ideas out loud. It seemed like nervous talk to Bess, but it didn’t matter.

     Bess listened to every word tumble from Bill’s lips. She valued him as her boyfriend-of-sorts, but the time had come to move forward. Bess thought It happened all the time, right? Move somewhere, figure out the social benefits, find a flop house…and repeat. The problem of wanting to move and how to tell Bill had weighed on her psyche. Now breached, Bess was ready to let go a little.

     Bill was aware of Bess’s extra attention to him. The noise of the traffic and the motion of people in transit disappeared. A vacuum. He wanted to tell her his heart ached from knowing about their upcoming separation. But he couldn’t bear it. Bill changed his tactics as he stubbed out the remnants of his smoke against the exterior bricks. Grabbing Bess’s arm playfully, he smiled and led her down the sidewalk, marching like the drum major in Sousa’s band. She joined in the exaggerated strides and grinned as wide as Lake Michigan, shining in the distance. Their arms swung front to back in unison.

          “I tell you what. Let’s imagine I am the President of these United States, and you are the Secretary of
Bourbon. I have just been elected in a landslide, and you are my first and most treasured appointee. Yeah,
that’s the ticket. The crew readies Air Force 1 for us. Destination unknown. Just a joy ride to heaven—or
nearby.”

     His chin jutted proudly towards the blue sky. The two dreamers laughed and marched along the buildings, unlocked their arms, and pretended they played trombones. The celebrants crossed the road to the park and pulled up to a bench littered with the yellow leaves of a shedding oak. Bill swept the leaves away with great flourish, and they sat facing the street with Carl in his lap. Nothing else mattered to Bill, just these moments.

          “Once seated, I’d say, Give me a shrimp cocktail. Make it a double,” Bill said.

          “And I’d demand the best Tennessee bourbon, maybe a Dickel. Make it a double Dickel, I’d say.” (They
laughed.)

          “Then, we’d shower and sauna while handsome young people massaged our feet and applied expensive
ointments on our faces.”

          “And we’d retire to the club room for cigars, Cubans, no doubt. Light this for me, I’d say to the handsome
young people. Yes, Ma’am, they’d say.”

          “Oh, this is the life, isn’t it, Madame Secretary?”

          “Yes, Mr. President.”

     The dreams stopped as the plane in their minds landed softly. A fall breeze cushioned their return to the park bench across from the Skylark. Bill looked away and then back to her. Bess was watching him. Both were quiet; each memorized the creases in the other’s face; each remembered when they first met; each recalled when they first cried together over their choices to hit the streets; each dreaded but understood the scene about to play out.

     “You sure about the move? Why not stay, or I can go with you?” Bill said.

     Bess hesitates, then looks directly at her admirer. “Listen…I need to do this on my own. Maybe there’d be a time for us to chat or something. And, yes, I am sure this is what I want to do.”

     Sadly, Bill nodded his head toward the front door of the Skylark. Their cosmic moment ended. The former national leaders crossed the street, swaying gently, allowing their bodies to touch lightly. They admired the new graffiti on the door’s metal canvas, opened the access, and entered the other dimension.

**

     Jerry perked up. Oh, boy. I’m ready to play! He flashed his light in response to their return as if to say welcome back. His joy went unnoticed. Jerry spoke to them, but he was not heard. “Your music stopped, and you went outside. I felt left out. What happened? Please, start me, and let me get caught up.” Based on her comment before their outdoor adventure about relocating to Texas, Jerry was concerned for Bill, for Bess. He had seen this scene before.

     They sipped some of the booze, moved to Jerry with arms around each other’s waist, and Bess chose a dance tune and several others. A scratchy record of “Be-Bop-a-Lula, She’s My Baby” boomed throughout the room. Stools, holding knowns and unknowns, swung around to ogle the two make their best dance moves. Stimulated by their shared flight of fancy, Bill and Bess closed their eyes to feel the rhythm wash over them. They undulated their bodies provocatively to the thumping beat. They opened their smoky eyes as if to say, “Hey, baby.” Good times, yeah. Those watching cheered and clapped. Bill and Bess returned to their positions and took a drink. Jerry played the other two tunes she chose and listened to their conversation.

          “We still got it, right?” huffed a sweaty Bill.

          “Yeah, we still got it, my friend,” assured Bess.

     The Bears played the Vikings on the tube at the end of the bar. A dozen others without a TV rambled in for the game. The background noise was loud enough to drown out the couple’s additional heart-to-heart; Jerry lamented the loss. How can I miss this part?

     At halftime, the couple oozed out into the street together, arm in arm, towards her basement apartment and strode below the gray clouds of the early evening sky that gradually replaced the remnants of a pink sunset. Bill broke the silence.

          “Maybe I should try to reconnect with someone in my family. It’s been five years. They didn’t understand my
choice of the streets. I mean, what do my nephews look like? How about you? Are you afraid? Will your
sister’s family be understanding?”

          “Not sure. My sister seems reluctant to welcome me back.”

          “Not sure I have the stomach for the possibility of disappointment. This life is simple; there’s no one to
answer to. You know? So, when do you think you will move on?”

          “I got a bus ticket for tomorrow at 10 AM,” Bess said, her words dropping like bombshells.

          “Oh… Good for you. Good deal… I guess.” Why hadn’t she been honest with me earlier? Bill turned towards
the cars parked along the street and feigned interest in them, hoping she wouldn’t see him wipe his eyes.

     The last few steps to her staircase felt like the final refrain of a blues tune; it would end badly. They glanced awkwardly at each other—soon to part ways. Bill gave Bess a tender kiss on the cheek. They exchanged taps on each other’s shoulders; their distance grew. She promised to write as they said goodbye. As Bill turned and headed down the sidewalk, her door closed.

     Bill was unsteady as he struggled down the concrete and stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk. His mind raced about losing his mate; his mind flooded with remembrances. There was the accident when Bess fell to the floor of the Skylark and hurt her hip; Bill had picked her up. There was the anguish when Bess cried over her chosen life on the streets; Bill had soothed her. Memories.

     Out of sight of her doorway, Bill stopped his journey away from Bess and pulled a half-full pint of bourbon from the back pocket of his jeans. He took a swig and slammed the container against the sidewalk. The sound of shattered glass brought him back to the moment. With several sweeps of his boot, Bill cleared the debris of his pint smashed against a brownstone.

     He walked the short distance to the Skylark. The door shut with a clatter. With their dollars spent, the football crowd and the regulars put on wool coats and slung their backpacks into place. They looked steadfastly at each other—kindred spirits on the same path, hoped this moment would not be their last sighting of each other—and left for wherever home was tonight. The room was empty except for Bill, the Chihuahua, and his master.

     Bill stood transfixed. Why didn’t I protest more about her leaving? What’s wrong with me? Why was she so sure? I never thought she would leave me.

          “Hey, Mike, can you stay a little longer?”

          “Sure.”

          “Make it a double.”

          “Sounds good. Me, too.”

     Bill shuffled to Jerry. He placed his hands on either side of the Wurtlitzer’s edges for support. Did the booze or the emotions make him unsteady? “Mike, think I’ll play different tunes this time, ya’ know. Kinda’ turn the page… ya’ know.” Bill cranked up All My Exes Live in Texas and San Antonio Rose. Jerry’s sonar kicked in.

     The lonely man drifted back to his stool and sang along with George Strait, “All my exes live in Texas, and Texas is the place I’d dearly love to be.” He changed his tune.

          “How about those Bears? Think they have a chance?”

          “Nah. Too many linemen hurt, and the quarterback sucks.”

     But idle chatter about the prospect of a Bears winning season was not why Bill lingered.

          “Bess leaves on a bus tomorrow for her sister’s house in Texas.”

          “Kinda got the drift. Bartenders hear everything. Right?”

          “Ya’ know, it really chaps my ass they changed the bus schedule again! Really? Come on, people! I liked it the
way it was! Didn’t you?” Bill said.

          “Well, I guess… Bess leaving has got you worked up.”

          “Yeah, well…”

     Even in Bess’s absence, his girlfriend was always somewhere in his thoughts, just below the surface. Tears rolled down Bill’s face. He wiped them away with a dirty cuff and downed the last drops of the day as Mike turned off the Grain Belt sign.

          “Well, shoot… guess I better go,” Bill said.

          He stopped at the door, gave it a stare, and looked back at Mike.

          “You’ll be OK, Bill.”

          “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. See you tomorrow.”

          “Yeah, be safe.

     The evening turned windy and cold. Bill walked the two blocks to the bus stop, numb to the elements and the world around him—more numb than usual. Although the alcohol buzz heated his core, the blustery cold began registering with Bill’s exterior. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down Halstead Street for the bus that took him the half-mile home. It was late.

     Bill used one of his free bus passes from the Salvation Army and held onto the overhead rail as the bus lurched forward. He staggered to a seat across from a man he did not know. The image of the passenger was a blur.

          “Ain’t it a bitch?” Bill asked the man.

          “No doubt.” (Both laughed.)

          “Just when you think you know someone, they up and leave. Complete surprise.”

          “Yeah. It’s happened to me. What can ya’ do? Down the road, Ace,” the stranger said.

     Bill reached his Archer and Green Street stop and exited the #8 Halstead bus. He walked past the Hammerhead Tattoo shop, The Money Gram check cashers, and the welfare office—his path made visible by the beacon of light from the greasy windows, fronting the Early Bird Café just beyond; a light that guided night-roamers to safety like the lighthouse Bill remembered on a family vacation to Maine. He stepped into the shelter of a doorway to recollect and have a cigarette.

2 Early Bird Cafe

     The #8 stopped suddenly. The abrupt move caused the bus to bounce gently on its suspension. Bill joined Milo, who was already at the café and sat beside his buddy. The smell of bacon filled the air. Thinking it might help Bill turn the corner about losing Bess, Milo made an off-handed remark about her. “Bess. What a mess. She’s really a piece of work.”

     Hurt, Bill erupted. “Hey, don’t talk about my girlfriend that way. I’ll knock your head off.” Bill jumped out of the booth, grabbed Milo by the collar, and pulled him to his feet. Startled, Milo covered his face with his arms. They gained some distance from each other, hurling insults like left hooks. Clenched fists and flashes of rage turned into nothing—just emotions leaking from the frustrations both felt.

     The night manager told them to leave, to sleep it off. Still steaming, the pair made an unchristian gesture to their friend and walked out. As Bill and Milo stepped into the night, another customer gave them a “take it easy” and a nod of understanding.

     They walked by the Chinese martial arts studio next door to the cafe and turned down a short, dead-end alley to the fire escape. They climbed the steps, and Milo pushed open the not-so-secure door to the fourth floor. Water ran to the upper floor of the building, undetected by city meters, making the bathroom functional and providing a sink to wash clothes and body parts. An electrical socket in Bill’s room got juice from the tenant below to power a small space heater and traveling clock. Bill reckoned he was faux-homeless, just a person without an address, just a person who lived on the streets.

     The labyrinth of rooms provided shelter from the storms. The pair shared the space since the summer heat. It was their secret, yet the neighborhood knew. Dark passages offered no threat nor impeded progress down the hallway to their rooms.

     Milo stepped into Bill’s bungalow and pulled up a floor cushion near the candle Bill lit on the floor. They laughed at their antics.

          “I thought you were really going to punch me this time,” said Milo.

           “Well, I was too drunk to lay a hand on you, anyway,” Bill said, “But I might kick the crap out of you now!”
swinging arms and pretending to do a 1-2 punch. Laughter filled the space, and Bill slugged Milo in the
shoulder with friendly force.

           “You know I like Bess. Everyone does.”

     Milo hugged Bill and encouraged him; good nights exchanged—they were alright. But Bill needed to talk it out with his jukebox confidant, his therapist, who could not speak advice but listened with gratitude as Bill’s songs played. Although Jerry was unavailable, his presence was, his importance was, his purpose was. Bill spoke quietly, recounting the goodbye conversation with Bess and the row with Milo. Comforted by his chat with a distant Jerry, Bill drifted off to sleep.

**

      In the morning sun, Bill walked to the bank of windows three floors above the Chinese martial arts studio; the din of the interstate played through the back wall. People of many colors and means moved down Archer to the Dunkin Donuts in the next block. Looking past the sets of railroad tracks, past a branch of the Chicago River, he imagined he saw Bess’s former building, imagined where her Greyhound might be on the concrete ribbon south. The noise of the passing train and the stench of its exhaust filtered through the sills. He was used to that.

     Bill took a swig from a new pint, his eyes softened, the distance slightly out of focus. He cranked up his daydreams of Bess and him—of their happiness together, of Bess realizing she can’t live without Bill. He scripted and directed those moments he imagined in which he played a role— today, a losing part. Desperate to work through his emotions, anxious to create his role as a man who successfully negotiated the critical loss of a second female, Bill accessed a remote Jerry, unable to sit by his side. He put some quarters on the windowsill and sat down, sharing in whispers what he saw and felt and wanted to happen. Bill was in pain.

      “This is gonna’ be tough, old friend. First, I lost mom, now Bess. I mean, Bess and I were not lovers, but damn it, I gave her my soul; I listened to her, and she listened to me. We comforted each other; we listened and danced to you. Bess no longer lives just over there. She’s on a bus, ‘course you know that. I feel lost again. Help me.” Afraid Milo might walk in, Bill ended his counseling session and rose from his chair.

     After rinsing off at the sink, Bill descended the fire escape and stood by the trash cans. His next move undecided, he returned to the comfort of Bess’s memory. His morning movie-in-his-mind ended. There were no credits, no final song, just quiet. Deciding he could use a little Old Charter and a face-to-face communion with Jerry, Bill headed for the bus stop and got onboard.

     The Skylark was empty except for Mike, several new street residents, the Chihuahua, and Jerry. The Grain Belt sign looked more gloomy than usual. He sat beside Jerry, away from the others, and Mike brought him a double without a sound. Bill selected a string of melancholy tunes, removed the often-read letter, couched in his pocket for five years; a letter he shared with no one, not Bess…no one. He read in hush tones from the document.

     Jerry thought, Oh, that’s what he’s been stewing over all this time. Why didn’t he stay with his mother? Why didn’t he correspond with his father? He has tremendous guilt. Bill put the letter away.

     Then, he spoke to Jerry about seeing Bess as an inspiration and, perhaps, he should go home to Pittsburgh. No, no, no, Jerry shouted. You’re the most normal person at the Skylark. Don’t leave me with these degenerates, who have such bad taste in music—if I hear Roll Over Beethoven one more time, I’m gonna puke! I want to be your chum, your bosom buddy. You can count on me. Please don’t leave me.

     Bill placed two bucks on the bar without comment, without being noticed, even by Carl, and left. He walked to a payphone and dropped in a couple of quarters.

4 Pittsburg

     Bill gave his dad a call.

          “Hey, Pops. Think I could visit for a while?”

          “Sure,” was the indifferent answer.

          “Could you pick me up at the bus station tomorrow afternoon at about 4?”

          “Sure.” The line clicked dead.

     It surprised Bill that leaving was emotional. He couldn’t face anyone. Didn’t want a farewell party, a cake, or a pat on the back from the Skylark crew. No. He had had enough private chats with Jerry, sounding board sessions seasoned with the jukebox’s responses. In the end, Bill reckoned solutions came from within his own mind, but Jerry’s influence was undeniable—no need for an adios.

     Bill wanted to slip away undetected. Stuffing his second change of clothes into his Army duffle bag, he left unceremoniously, boarding the #8 for the Greyhound station, fifty bucks for the Pittsburgh fare in his pocket. Finding a window seat, Bill settled in for the six-hour ride home. What waited for him there? Mom was gone. What would he say to his dad? Could he be honest about his street life?

     Ralph waited in his car by the curb. Bill recognized him and the old Ford of many years. He grabbed his duffle from the overhead rack, smoothed his hair back, and licked his lips as he negotiated the steps to the concrete. His Dad stayed seated in the car. Bill tossed his bag in the back seat and slid next to Ralph.

          “Hello, Dad.”

          “Hello, son. How was your trip? Did you stop anywhere or go straight through?”

          “Stopped in Toledo. Had a chance to stretch my legs and get a sandwich from the vending machine.”

          “I see.”

          “Had good weather? The trees look great with their fall foliage.

          “Yeah, been good.”

          “Well, you look good, Pops. Any aches or pains?” Bill said.

          “As it turns out, I’m on my last legs. All those years of smoking…let’s talk about it later.”

     Bill tugged at his shirt collar, shot a glance at Pops, “Okay.”

     The remaining miles passed quietly.

     Turning onto Theil Street, Bill teared up, looked at his dad, his stubble, his Pirates ball cap, and back at the road. The old home looked worn but inviting. Bill sat his bag by the familiar hall tree.

          “I’m kind of tired, son. Think I will take a nap, and we can catch up later. OK?”

          “Sure, Pops. I’ll get settled into my old room. Sound good?”

          “You betcha, son “

     Suffering from nausea and shakes, Bill felt for the usual pint in his back pocket, but there was none.

     Bill heard the squeak as the elder lay on the bed under the front windows, and he turned the round, brass doorknob of his childhood quarters. He settled in the bed, his bed, and, exhausted, fell asleep.

     The sun shone through the lone window, bringing Bill back to consciousness. The house was quiet as he padded to the kitchen and rustled up some coffee in time for Ralph’s entrance into the room.

     Bill started across the room, visibly emotional. He wrapped Ralph in his arms, “I’m so sorry. Sorry for everything.” The two held each other.

          “Well, how about that?” Bill said.

          “Yeah. Two grown men sharing a moment.”

     The ideal moment for deeper conversation evaporated.

**

     Like an addict, Bill yearned for a fix of his freedom in Chicago. He thought about Jerry. Did he miss me playing the same tunes? Did he think about me at all?

     Sometimes Bill sat in his mother’s spot on the worn davenport, thought about her, thought about her dying from brain cancer, unaware he abandoned her in his grief, unaware her only boy walked the streets of Chicago, far from her. He vowed he would not leave this time. He would stay with his dad, comfort him, take care of him. Pops declined.

     They watched Pirate baseball games and bet quarters on the total runs that would score. Two stacks of quarters rested on the end table, never claimed. Pops ebbed. Bill made the meals, washed the clothes, deposited Pops’ social security checks, and picked up Ralph’s medicines. Still, he spent more time in bed and passed on a warm July day with soft moving cumulus clouds overhead.

    And he wondered about Bess. Did she sit in a bar in San Antonio and think of him? Did Bess mention him to others? He wondered, What did she look like? Would he make a trip to see her? Would he take that chance?

     Would Bill succumb to the draw of a faux-homeless life and find another warehouse for shelter? He felt buoyed by his Pittsburg sojourn but still felt the pull of the simple, isolated existence of the streets. He was attracted to the idea of walking through the door of the Skylark, shouting, “Give me a double, Mike,” petting Carl, bro-hugging Milo, and playing Jerry until he tired of the noise.

 

5 Jerry

   Bill bought a bus ticket and boarded early one morning, heading towards Chicago. 

     He got off and took a room at a modest hotel on Halstead. Bill showered and shaved, put on a fresh Polo shirt and his favorite Wrangler jeans, and walked to the Skylark for a rendezvous with an Old Charter double and who knows what else?

     The glow of the Grain Belt beer sign confirmed he was in the Skylark. Bill searched the handful of drinkers for familiar faces. There was Milo. “Hey, Bill!” Milo chimed, “Long time no see.” They hugged and grinned. Milo looked thirty years older and smelled terrible as always, Bill thought. But things were not the same. Milo turned back to the bar and took a pull on his drink.

     Jerry occupied his usual spot. His former crony did not recognize Bill when he strolled in, no flashing light.

     “Give me a double,” Bill asked a new barkeep. He gripped the glass of alcohol, walked purposefully to his old friend, and looked over the selections. The same. He remembered his favorites, remembered their numbers. Two quarters fell into the slot, and Jerry lit up. (Welcome back, Bill). The light seemed dimmer than he recalled; maybe it was. He selected Hank, Elvis, Be-Bop-A-Lula with Gene Vincent and his 50’s rockabilly band. Bill sat next to Jerry, rested his arm on the edge of the Wurlitzer as if it were the arm of a couch, and took inventory of his old haunt.

     Bill spoke old memories aloud in low tones only Jerry could hear. He missed moments with Bess, playing with Carl, and bantering with Mike. (I hear you, man. I miss them, too.) Bill assured Jerry that his chats with him were his biggest loss. (Aw, shucks.) Once again, life was good for the disc player.

     Jerry had pined for Bill. He’d been bored stiff. The “regulars” came and went. He only felt close to any of them when one played one of Bill’s favorites; he flashed his light and hummed to the chorus. He missed being Jerry’s shrink, hearing Jerry work through problems, and knowing that he, Jerry, made a difference.

     When Elvis began “Don’t Be Cruel,” Jerry boosted the volume. Milo looked over at his old friend, sitting in the near-dark. Bill stared back at him… neither responded. Milo turned back to his booze and his conversation with new cronies. Bill closed his eyes, swayed gently to the thumping beat. When the Be-Bop moment ended, Jerry’s light went out, and Bill headed for the door, unnoticed, his double untouched. He opened the portal, a sliver of light shined into the room. Bill stepped over the threshold.

 

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