In Another Time (Donkeylalnd, 1986)

It wasn’t any serious conversation they were having, nothing much at all, mostly about not seeing each other after a long time; she invited him to sit down by her in the Monetary Bar, off the corners of Sycamore Street and Acker, by the Jackson Street Bridge, the railroad underneath it, he sat on a stool, hadn’t seen Jennifer St. Clair, for fifteen-years she being thirty-one years old now, he about thirty-eight. It was a wet spring, and the cool early evening wind came through the barroom doors, it was warm in the bar, sitting down rubbing his hands together, there was kind of a odd feeling inside of him. He looked round noticed they—the old neighborhood gang, the Donkeyland gang as the police called them, were all there, the same ones he left in 1968, when he went to San Francisco, and then onto the Vietnam War, to college, and traveled around the world some, did some writing, and worked as a psychologist for the Federal Government.
They looked different, had different expressions across their faces; older, much older now, old before their time. He felt as if he had entered the gate to the lions den. There were unusual looks from the several old gang members over in the opposite corner, across from him in the bar, trying to figure whom he was he presupposed. Someone leaned over the bar, one of the gang members to see who he was; it was Jennifer’s husband, John,
“Haw Chick, is that you?” He said.
“Yes! It’s me…! ” Said Chick.
“Good,” he said. “Come on over here with us guys have a drink!”

There were others Chick Evens knew around the bar, but they were too drunk to notice him. Someone was hammering on the bar for another drink, an old friend he noticed; then he noticed another old friend, who hadn’t noticed him yet, was bragging how he was a Black Belt in karate, standing up leaning against the wall, talking looking over at Chick, and then at John who was a few feet from him, he waved at Chick, with a smug countenance. Then Chick Evens ordered a coke.
“You’re fortunate Chick, to have gotten out of this drunken neighborhood when you did,” said Jennifer, “I heard you quite drinking, I guess seeing is believing, I’m really happy for you.” She then winked at him, adding to her monologue a question, “all right, what’s up, what brought you back to this corner bar?”
“You mean, why I am here if I don’t drink anymore?” said Chick.
“Everyone around here still gets heavy drunk, not going anyplace in particular, except up here to these two corner bars, you’re one of the few who got out, and if you stick around here you’ll be like us again, drunks, busybodies, and gossipers—you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I suppose I do, things haven’t changed much have they?” he said.
“It not very interesting here, not at all interesting,” Jennifer said, waving her hand at her husband.
“They’ll want you to go over there in a few minutes and drink with them, you know how they get,” she said, then hesitated, adding, “please Chick get out of here while you can. People hate those others who used to walk with them, and now have passed them.”
Chick looked over at the guys, he waved at the several, saw they all seemed to have rebuilt faces, old before their time, he knew they all had heard he had traveled some, and so forth, whereas they all had done the same—still the same—their background being here, up at this corner bar, and the one across the street, he had been a reminder I suppose to them, life had been long and pale as it was. Chick still wanted to greet them, but it looked close to what Jennifer had said, ‘…people hate those who pass them…who at one time walked with them,’ so he hesitated to make a move.

He noticed her hands were still slim and brown and lovely, she was of the Chippewa race of Indians, like Johnny her husband.
“I will, I swear I will go after I finish my coke!” said Chick pleasantly.
She glanced at him, and put out her hand, and he held it lightly, then let go quickly (as she picked up her glass of beer and drank it half down),
“I always liked you Chick” she said, adding “you were always different. I’m sorry Chick, but nothing has changed here since you’ve been gone, although it’s nice you haven’t forgotten us.”
“I understand.” He said.
“Yaw, that’s the trouble, you do understand,” she said with a sigh, and finishing off the other part of the glass of beer, then yelled at the barman to bring her another glass of beer.

(It did bring back some old memories to Chick Evens, as he sat there drinking down the last sip of his coke; it was a hell of a thing all right—he told himself, to get drunk daily, chase the women drunk, or half drunk, nightly, then pass out, wake up, feel as if you were hit by a hurricane, and start the cycle all over again, each twenty-four hours.)

They hadn’t said a word for a few minutes now, chick had zoned out of the present, and she noticed that.
Johnny had yelled again for Chick to have a beer with the guys again, and so did Mr. Karate Man, and Big Ace, and a few of the others, of the one time Cayuga Street now past middle age.
Said Jennifer back to them,
“What do you want with him, we’re talking yet?”
“Have him come and have a drink with us,” said a voice from the group.
“No,” she said, “Were talking about old times, I just told you that.”
“All right,” said the unnamed voice.
“You better go now,” said Jennifer.
He looked at her, the shape of her face, there was still youth in her eyes, she had three children now, so she had said, her cheek bones curved outward, in another five years, she’d be unable to find her beauty, he knew that, funny she still had some he thought. She had a thick head of dark hair, and a nice forehead he thought.
“Oh, you’re too sweet,” he said.
“And when you come back, you can tell me of all about the travels you’ve done since then.”
Her voice sounded a little stranger than it had a moment ago, not completely, recognizable, yet settled in the fact it was as it had to be. Maybe as he would have liked it to have been for her.
“Yes,” he said ominously, “if the good Lord’s a-willing.” Adding, “you’re right, I’m a different man, and these are different times I’m even a stranger to myself here.”
He looked at the door, at her, he saw that she was a tinge uncomfortable with him now, the forth glass of beer in front of her, half gone, him, still sober as a sparrow, and he was to her likewise, a different looking man. The group down at the corner of the bar moved a little ways closer to them, as if working their way down to them. Then looking into her beer glass, it was like a mirror, he saw his past it was all quite true, he was out of place here.
Next, he started to leave the bar, she said, as he passed her,
“You look very well—healthily Chick; you must be living a very good life.”
He never looked back, he knew if he had, he’d see the group, and then have to have that drink, and one was never enough, and it just wasn’t worth it.


Written in Lima, Peru 1-2-2009; previous name “Days Without Women” • (ds)