The bar down at 10th street is packed by 11 p.m. The married men sit in one corner, drinking and whining about their deranged wives who boss them around and make them sleep on the couch. The single men flirt with the blonds and brunets that throw themselves at them like hungry dogs. And then there is the quiet Andrew, who sits idly in a corner by himself, ordering a tall glass of whiskey, flirting with girls who sit next to him. He drinks a lot, but doesn’t call himself an alcoholic. He has money, coming from a middle-class family and all, but he likes to save his money from time to time. Andrew is a simple man, an honest, hardworking assistant professor at the University of Chicago. He doesn’t live idly. By seven each morning, he is right at work, going through papers and portfolios. During his thirty-minute break time, Andrew Madison writes because he loves writing. He writes about the things that fancy him, like his murals from Mexico, his rugs from India. Writing about his travels makes him motivated, hungry for more places, for more exotics.
It is 11 p.m. and the bar down on 10th street is packed. It’s a small pub, but somehow everyone fits in, conversations entice newcomers, and glasses are raised. Andrew is alone tonight, like all other nights. He is wearing a ruffled, black, collared shirt with dark blue jeans. He has forgotten to take off his glasses; he’s worn them all day long. He is too tired these days, too tired to even write.
He orders a tall whiskey, again. The bartender, a tall blond with a big chest whom they call Big Lola, knows Andrew by now. She knows how many glasses he’ll have by the end of the night, how many girls he’ll start a conversation with, what kind of drink he’ll suggest to them. She likes talking to him because he is a good listener, a fine drinker who appreciates good alcohol, a man of class, a charmer of women.
“Hey Drew, looks like it’s gonna be another crazy Friday night, heh?” she says, looking over his shoulder at the crowd.
“Yep,” Andrew says, not looking up.
“You seen anyone you like tonight?”
“Nah. Not tonight.”
Among the heavy drinkers, in the middle of the bar, not too far from Andrew’s sight, girls and boys play pool. Behind the pool table, four men play Poker right next to a table of eight girls. The girls are young graduate students. One of them is standing, moving her hips to the beat of the music. She has brown hair with reddish high lights. She is fairly tall, around 5’8, and is very pretty, with dark lashes, arched brows, and a pair of astonishing, green eyes. She looks younger from afar, like an innocent child playing a game.
Andrew is almost done with his first drink. He decides to look around. He is curious to see who looks familiar; he’s been coming to the bar ever since he moved to the town, every Friday for five months now. Just as he sees a bearded man who reminds him of his grandfather, the girl walks over to the end of the bar, and stands right next to him.
“I’d like a…” the girl begins, but then pauses as she looks over at Andrew’s dark eyes.
“What can I get you darling?” Big Lola asks, raising a brow.
“What do you think I should get?” the girl asks in her husky voice, looking straight at Andrew.
“Whiskey,” he says right away.
Whiskey’s been his drink for the past five months. Andrew Madison has had little time for change, for exciting new drinks. When he walks into the bar, he needs something strong, something his tongue has been used to tasting. The only time he orders something different is when he is ordering for a girl. But tonight he doesn’t feel like being a charmer. He watches the girl and listens to her husky voice, a kind of voice that goes well with Whiskey.
“Too boring,” she says.
Andrew wants to protest, but then the crowd suddenly screams and cheers at the TV screen. Chicago’s favorite football team is winning by two points.
By the time the commotion ends and the noise goes down, the girl has already ordered a drink and left. Andrew didn’t hear what she ordered. He watches her slender figure disappear to a corner, on the other side of the bar. He watches her as she leans on a wall, gulping down her drink. A broad-shouldered man offers her a cigar. She takes it, hesitantly, as if it’s her first time. She is not a smoker because she detests its smell and because it killed her father. The man lights it for her, getting closer to her face. They exchange words and he leaves. She has suddenly become a recluse, as if she has no one. Andrew sees a rather diffident face, a lonelier, more desperate set of eyes, and he wonders if she too understands the pain of loneliness, of isolation, of failing to become one with others.
It is 12:31 and Andrew Madison is perfectly sober. He had not intended to be a drunk. He had not intended to lose consciousness of the world around him. He would write about the bar and the green-eyed girl who left with the rest of the girls shortly after she exhaled her last smoke and stepped on her cigar with her heel. He would walk around town, breathe and inhale Chicago’s air. He would watch Chicago’s moon as it rose higher into the ascending air. He would, simply, be in unison with the universe. He wouldn’t be alone. He wouldn’t be a stranger. He would be Andrew Madison, walking away from 10th street, away from the small bar, toward a destination of his own.
