Page 63 of Life Out of Order

“Did you come particularly to hear them?” He doesn’t seem critical, only puzzled.

“Nah, I came to get out of the house,” I say, bending toward him to shout into his ear. “My wife’s been away for a few days and I was starting to have conversations with myself. I take it you aren’t here for them, either?”

“No, they are hurting my ears.” He doesn’t say why he is here. “They’re out of tune.”

“I’m sure they don’t care. Are you a musician?”

“I play the piano.” He stares at the band incredulously. “People paid money to hear this?”

I swivel around. “There’s four guys in the band. They’re local. There’s about twenty people watching them. Most likely four of them are girlfriends, a few more are friends from other small bands, there’s at least one mom and dad, the rest I can’t account for. Garage bands gotta start somewhere.”

“I thought they were meant to be confined to garages until they were ready to perform in public?”

“That’s the theory. Anyway, they aren’t the headliners.” I peek at my phone. “They’ll be done soon.” Oliver seems anxious; maybe it’s the music. We chat for a few more minutes. I finish my beer. Oliver has already drained his. “Hey, let’s go outside, I need a smoke.” He obediently follows me through the bar, past the doorman and onto the sidewalk. I light up. He takes off his suit jacket and I catch a wave of beer and sweat. I notice that he’s wearing bright yellow Weejuns without socks.

It’s a warm night. People are cruising down Western Avenue in cars with Puerto Rican flags streaming from their windows, shouting happily at pedestrians in Spanish. Oliver darts his eyes at the cars. “Was there a football match?” he asks.

“No, the Puerto Rican Day parade is this weekend. You don’t live in Chicago?”

“I live in London. I’m here quite a lot, though.”

“Are you on tour?”

Oliver looks surprised. “No, I’ve never played in public in Chicago. My wife lives here. I come to visit her.”

“Wow, that’s a very long-distance relationship.”

Oliver smiles. “We don’t have much choice.” He’s watching me smoke kind of avidly. I offer him the pack. He looks relieved and takes one. “Thanks.” He puts it between his lips, but doesn’t light it. I have an old Ronson lighter that used to belong to my grandfather. When I hand it to him he looks surprised to see it, but he knows how to use it. I hardly know anyone who smokes anymore, except Gomez.

“There’s a cigarette machine in there,” I tell him. “If you need to stock up.”

He nods. “If I buy a pack I’ll chain-smoke the lot, so I’d better not. This is perfect, thank you.”

“No problem.” We smoke and watch the Puerto Ricans enjoying their holiday. I wonder how the rebuilding is going, after all the hurricanes? A lot of news has slipped my mind, even though I keep the radio on nonstop. “Did you and your wife manage to see each other much during the travel embargo? It must have been difficult.”

“We saw each other less often than we would have liked, but we did manage a few visits.”

This piques my curiosity. He could be a spy, or a diplomat—if he was traveling internationally during the embargo, he is somebody. He seems a bit tense. I wonder what he’s doing here in this bar in Ukrainian Village. He doesn’t seem to be with anyone.

He says, “What about you? You stayed in Chicago?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “We thought about going to Canada, but then, you know.”

Oliver looks politely regretful, as though he’s the one who closed the Canadian border. “I think it was safer here. Do you have children?”

“No,” I say, and I mean to leave it at that, but then I add, “I’d like to, but we can’t.”

“Ah,” he says. “I understand.” We stand there, smoking in silence. I offer him another cigarette. You can’t possibly understand, I think.

Oliver says, “My wife and I both have medical issues. It would be a bad idea for us to try, but I still think about it. I was always told I shouldn’t have kids, even before I met my wife.”

“Who told you that?” I ask. Oliver looks healthy enough to me.

“My parents.”

“That sounds—difficult.” I’m dying to ask him what his medical condition is. Inside the Empty Bottle, the music has stopped. I ask Oliver if he wants to go back inside, have another beer, but he says he’s got to go.

“It was good to meet you. Sorry about the spilled beer.” I try to give him some money for the dry cleaning, but he waves it off.