The
man didn’t have a shaved head, or have on clothes that one would consider odd. In fact, he was dressed in a nice pair of
khaki pants and a polo—an authentic, very expensive polo. He had short hair that he parted in what
would I thought was almost conservative.
He was somewhere north of forty years old, but it was hard for me to pin
down. His hair had some gray spattering
in the dirty-red it had been, and his hands had the weathered look of someone
who worked outside and who maybe had worked with raw materials. I imagined him as a crafter of wood, bending
and shaping it into something useful or artistic.
I’d walked next to him down Addison away from Wrigley
Field and the bars that surrounded it, past Southport and a large Catholic
church that had buildings on both sides of the street. We crossed Lincoln Ave., went under another
branch of the El, and crossed Damen Ave. before we turned south. I spent whole walk listening him talk. He started out by telling me a story.
“I was once lost, like you are
now. I used to work in this world,” he
said as he almost shrugged at the buildings that crouched behind the small
green lawns. “I went to a job and worked
hard. I had a wife and child. I did all of the things that would make me a
good citizen. Paid my taxes, volunteered
my time, voted. In short, I was a good
person, but something was missing, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. You know,” he said pausing to look at me out
of the side of his eye. After seeing I
was following along with him, he started again.
“There’s a bar, not too far from here, just south a bit, that I used to
go to a lot. Not proud of it, but that’s
how I was. In the bar there are pictures
hanging on the wall of great writers.
Hemmingway, Faulkner, Twain. But the
one I always noticed the most was James Joyce.
I’ve always loved Joyce. Read
Ulysses, Dubliners, and Portrait of an Artist in college. Changed my life. I thought for the better, but…well. Reading those books made me think I could be
a great writer too. So every day, after
working my day job, I’d go to that bar with my notebook and stare at the
pictures and wait for that great idea. I
was gonna write my own Ulysses. And I
was going to be celebrated and loved. It
was silly, wasn’t it? But I don’t regret
that time. I guess that was the best I
could do at the time.
“But now I know better.” He looked at me and I noticed his eyes were
the color of charred wood. He waited for
me, and I, not knowing what else to do, nodded.
“I’m not going to be a great writer.
And I had to accept that I wouldn’t be great at anything, just like the
vast majority of the people in this world.”
He paused to let that sink in.
“And there is nothing wrong with that.
A lot of people keep trying to climb up and do better, and we don’t
judge them. They’re doing the best they
can, and there’s something noble about that.
“But what we do is, in my opinion, a
more noble pursuit. We have disengaged
from that world in order to become better people.” We reached Roscoe St. and
turned to the west walking by a number of hip bars and restaurants, as he
continued his speech. “We are a small
group of people, sort of a family, who seek enlightenment through reflection
and by working our simple trade. You
see, the world out here,” he said waving his hand at the buildings, many of
which were new condominium buildings with businesses on the first floor, “is
corrupt. It’s corrupt and it’s
ugly. So we’ve formed a retreat from its
influence.”
He stopped in front of what used to
be a two-story home. A banner hung from
the windows on the second floor that said, “Victory’s Griddle.” He stepped to the door and opened it,
revealing an entryway that seemed inviting and accessible. Hardwood floors lined the area and led to a
counter with a cash register sitting prominently on top. “Come on in.”
“This is a restaurant.” I said somewhat confused. He walked inside and I found myself
following.
“It is. As I was saying we work a simple trade. We run a restaurant that serves food,
primarily breakfast, but we will be expanding into lunch soon, to the people
who live and work in this neighborhood.”
He ran his hand over the counter.
“I’m not telling you this is a glamorous life. Not luxurious. It is work, but it’s work that leads toward
something great—acceptance of who you are, not who you could be. You won’t find pie in the sky on our menu.” He smiled and gave a knowing wink. “So, how does that sound to you?”
“What?” My voice cracked.
“Do you want to work here with us? Do you want to accept yourself as you are
right now?”
“I—“
“Aren’t you tired of being told you
can be better? Aren’t you tired of
trying so hard to work on everything?
Think about it. You have to work
on your marriage, your relationship, your job—everything. And if those are wrong, or if you have the
wrong car, haircut, or clothes, they judge you.
‘You’re different,’ they say. ‘Defective’. ‘Bad’.
Whatever. They label you and set
you aside from their race up the ladder that leads nowhere. Course they don’t know it leads nowhere, but
that’s fine. What I’m offering you is a
chance to detach from the hold they have on you. I’m offering you freedom from the concerns of
their world and acceptance in a more fulfilling one. I’m offering you the chance to choose a
family who will support you and work with you as you become a better you.”
And I agreed. Let it never be said that I was unwilling to
make a huge, life-altering mistake on a moment’s notice.
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