“Now we say goodbye to Johnny Quinn, a man of independent judgment who never crossed a picket line. Barely ten hours ago, we stood at Marty’s and one of us slipped him the drops that caused him to breathe his last. And like those before him, he drifted off with grace.”
Francis Carmody opened a cabinet and a record player slid out on a tray. He pulled a 45 out of a sleeve. That, Carlos decided later, is when things really got weird.
The room had grown excessively warm. It smelt sour and gassy. Francis put a record on the player and hustled to the front of the room, where the other members of Marty’s Drink or Die Club were standing. They’d linked arms, and they gestured for Carlos to join them. The song started, so they didn’t notice too much when he didn’t. They sang along with the record:
The song made no sense to Carlos, but as the men sang, it was obvious that it moved them deeply. When they reached each chorus, he could barely make out the words over their blubbering. This made Carlos very uncomfortable. Men in his family didn’t show emotion like this, not even in private after midnight. The song, mercifully, came to its final verse.
They unlocked arms and Francis just kept talking.
“Boys,” he said, “Johnny Quinn is forgiven all his sins, if he ever committed any. I only hope that you will have the same mercy on me. For I can’t imagine my tenure on this soil will last much longer. I can feel myself fading even now.”
“Blow it out your hole, Ahab,” said the ponytailed guy.
“I grow old, I grow old,” said Francis. “I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. With your indulgence, I’m going to play one more record. As you all know, I was once a featured performer at the Hanging Moon on North Avenue, back in the time when songs had lyrics you could understand. The great Moses Asch himself, of Folkways Records, recognized my talents, and I made this recording. When you hear it, I want you to remember the words, and remember me by them.”
“Do we have to?” said the monkey man.
“You do,” said Francis. “I’d like to think it was Marty’s inspiration for our club.”
He put the record on. Carlos heard tinny banjo music and a voice that sounded nearly forty years younger. But it was definitely Francis. The song went:
Even over the music, Francis talked. “It’s a particularly melancholy moment for me,” he said. “So many friends lost. So many millions of words. So much profundity. And now I alone remain of that first generation as the final distillation of a way of life. When will it end? One doesn’t know. But one does know that young Carlos here has borne witness to our ritual.”
“Indeed!” said the monkey man.
“As such, in our tradition, we should nominate him to take Johnny’s place.”
No way, Carlos thought. This wasn’t even something he wanted to understand.
“But,” said Francis Carmody, “Carlos has shown us nothing to indicate that he possesses the intellectual integrity to fulfill the bylaws of Marty’s Drink or Die Club. Agreed?”
“Agreed!” said the other members.
“Therefore,” Francis said, “as is our tradition, we offer young Carlos a choice: Maintain silence about what he knows, or die.”
Carlos slowly backed away from them, toward the door.
Francis held up his glass. He indicated to the others that they should stand. “Do you accept our terms, young man?”
“I gotta go,” Carlos said.
He ran for the door and flung it open, and as he escaped, he heard Francis Carmody say, “Do not betray us, Carlos! We’ll find you!”
It was early November. The night felt crisp and cutting. Carlos’s head should have been a fog, but as he ran out of Francis Carmody’s backyard and down the side streets toward Clark, he felt nothing but clarity. Maybe he’d go back to Truman College after all, get that two-year degree and then see what was possible. But he’d never go back to Marty’s again.
The digital bank clock said 1:15. Just then, the Number 22 came, as if sent by the bus fairy. Carlos got on and slid his card through the reader. His Uncle German’s place was just fifteen blocks up in Rogers Park; he’d get there by closing time no matter how slow the bus ran. German always had a pot of menudo going this time of night. Carlos could already feel it, warm and fresh and greasy, in his stomach.
He couldn’t wait to get sober.
Bobby Kagan knows everything
by Adam Langer
Albion & Whipple
One morning in the summer of 1978, Mom’s Jim said he couldn’t take it anymore and moved out on her for the third and last time, with the intention of finding his first wife. Shelah went away for the summer to Camp Chi, where I had contracted something like dysentery two years earlier and my mother wouldn’t let me go back. So I was stuck with Grandpa and his nurse Hallie at the house on Whipple Street, where Mom said we would stay until she’d saved enough money from her job at Crawford’s Department Store so that we could have our own place again.
My mother had grown up on Whipple with her sister and her folks. Now, Grandpa still slept in his bedroom, I slept in my Aunt Evelyn’s old room, Hallie slept in Mom’s old room, and Mom slept downstairs on the couch. The place hadn’t been fixed up in years; the paint on the canopy was peeling, the basement moldy, the linoleum floor warped and cracked. There was an overgrown garden full of weeds and a garage packed with boxes, tires, rusted hoes, broken rakes, and Grandpa’s white Lincoln Continental. No one had driven the car in a decade. The garage was locked, and Grandpa had long since lost the key.
The first I heard of the robberies came from Mr. Klein, a retired contractor who lived with his wife Fran directly across the street from Grandpa’s in a little red-brick house with chartreuse shutters and a lawn jockey out front. It had started at the Bells’s house on Richmond. The thieves hadn’t gotten much, Mr. Klein said, just a Mixmaster and a color television. They’d fared better at Mrs. Kutler’s on Richmond, scoring not only the TV and radio, but also all her heirloom jewelry. What impressed Mr. Klein most was how professional the burglars were; there was never any sign of a break-in and they always seemed to know exactly what they were looking for. Even though they hadn’t gotten anything from the Singers’s house on Francisco, somehow they had known that Mr. Singer kept his cash under the bedroom carpet. But nothing like that would happen on Whipple Street, Mr. Klein assured me. All summer long, he would be sitting on his porch, watching.