Love's Illusions: A Novel (4 page)

With an astonished expression on his face, Bernie interrupted, “You did what? You went through his wallet and address book?” as if my actions were the crime of the century.

My head popped up and I met his look head on. “Yeah, I did… Don’t look at me like that… You’d’ve done the same thing if you’d’ve been in my place, and don’t pretend you wouldn’t!” I snapped.

“Well maybe, but I’m not sure I’d ever admit to doing it,” he replied, backing down immediately.

“That’s not all I did… Weeks later after Stephen was gone, I confronted Joe, his boss at Marshall Fields. He… Well he said Stephen was gay, not straight. I asked about Leigh, and he told me he had gotten her to ‘pretend’ so I wouldn’t find out the truth. It was
not
a pleasant conversation. I called him a fuckin’ asshole and threw a glass vase that was on his desk across the room – it sounded great smashing against the wall. I should have done more damage before I left, but …” I said as my voice began to crack.
Please God, oh please… keep the tears back.

“I have to be the stupidest woman on the face of the earth – I honestly didn’t know, I still don’t know. I mean, I
know
, but well I… I just can’t accept it – not really. You haven’t told anyone, have you? I couldn’t bear it if everyone knew and… Stephen… I mean he wouldn’t want them all to know either…”

“No, no I haven’t said anything,” he replied easing my concern some. “But what are you going to do now?”

“Nothing, I’m not going to do anything. I guess I don’t know what to do. I keep thinking he’ll change his mind, come back… Shit I don’t know what to think, so… until I figure it all out I’m just doing nothing.” I hesitated. “Except right now, I’m going home and back to bed. I have to work tonight, and I’m tired.”

Without any further farewell, I started walking towards the nearest bus stop – I just couldn’t talk any longer.

Sometimes I felt like I was losing my mind – if just one more random thought floated to the surface my brain would explode, plastering little pieces of itself to the walls, the ceiling and the floor. I could picture it happening: curlicues of whitish pink brain matter – I could see them attached to fragments of my skull with bits of hair all covered in blood just hanging there on the wall. The image was actually quite fascinating to me; I pictured myself moving from brain bit to brain bit as I walked around the room examining, poking, each and every piece.
Now that is truly sick.

No matter how hard I tried, the world seemed determined to pull me apart. I felt like two people in one body – one façade by day and another by night – a regular Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as it were, and right now it felt like Dr. Jekyll was losing the battle. Last night I had puked on the sidewalk, and today Bernie told me he’s seen my husband naked with some old man.
What the fuck is happening? I can’t think anymore right now, I just have to sleep.

I was so very tired. I had to either sleep or get stoned, and right now all I wanted was the welcome blackness of sleep – hopefully, dreamless sleep – long enough to stop my brain from exploding. With any luck Michael had left some of those wonderful little yellow pills with the v-shaped hole in the middle around the apartment somewhere. Fucking a drug dealer had some benefits – besides great sex that is – and right now the only benefit I wanted was to sleep. No tossing, no turning, just closing my eyes and going to sleep as quickly as possible.
The Rolling Stones sure got this one right,
I thought –
“Mother’s Little Helper.”
Valium, for me, meant dreamless sleep.

I set the alarm so I would get up in time for work; made sure my blood red drapes were closed all the way, unplugged the phone and went to bed. I inhaled the faint scent of sex left from Michael and I a few hours earlier as I crawled down under the covers, and then – thank God for oblivion.

I found out Stephen had left the city one day when I went back to the apartment to get more clothes. The son-of-a-bitch left a note on the dining room table saying he was quitting school, and moving back home. I remember slumping down onto our black leather living room couch – a pang of terror coursing through my veins as I tried to absorb the full impact of his action. Oh my God… he was gone, really gone! Would he be back? What was happening here? Would he have left Chicago if I hadn’t gone to stay with Mary Beth? I questions swirled around in a virtual vortex until, not able to hold myself together any longer, I broke down and cried. Only six months, my marriage was gone after only six months – this wasn’t supposed to happen, it was supposed to be forever.

I tried staying at our apartment by myself, but I couldn’t. It was a nice place, lots of character – in an older brick building with high ceilings and ornately carved crown moldings, a fantastic marble fireplace with an elaborate mantel. I wanted to stay, maybe find a roommate, someone to share the space with so I wouldn’t be alone – after all there was plenty of room: three bedrooms, two full bathrooms, a huge living room and dining room and the kitchen had a great pantry. Mary Beth and I had talked about her giving up her studio apartment and moving in with me. We could be roommates – we’d been best friends in high school, and it was during one of her visits to us during our first year at SAIC that she decided to transfer to Northwestern – but no, I could
not
stay there. Words from all our arguments seemed to pour out of the walls whenever I was there sending me into a fit of despair.

So I took the first small one bedroom apartment I found and moved. It was in a newer building; the place had zero style, but I didn’t care. It was a light colored, four story brick building, with small square modern windows, and a flat roof – your basic box, built without character, and out of place with the older, architecturally interesting buildings in the area. A large wedge shaped protrusion jutted out over the front entrance proclaiming the address – and affirming the obvious – that this building may lack style, but it was modern. The only nice thing was no more walking up to the third floor – this place had an elevator and a laundry room in the basement so I wouldn’t have to cart my clothes down to the corner laundromat anymore either.

This part of the city was up and coming. Old buildings were being torn down or renovated and new ones being constructed all over the area, and it was full of night life. Touhy had been a quiet, residential section of Chicago with plenty of older, long term families in the neighborhood. North Pine Grove, just off Diversey, was full of stores and bars, most of which had been there for years. However, as the area changed, the stores were changing too – getting a little classier. New restaurants were popping up almost overnight, and all of them had bars decorated to the hilt with the latest fashions. Flashing neon signs in every color of the rainbow fought for the attention of anyone who walked by.

I ‘discovered’ The Canteen my first week in the neighborhood as I was walking from my new apartment to catch a bus south to school. I’m not sure what drew me to the place; there was nothing special about the sign or its lettering or design. It was just plain old yellow wood with THE CANTEEN painted in black block letters, and an arrow that followed the upper arch of the doorway then hooked around directing everyone to the large double door below. I remember smiling to myself as I passed by and thinking,
Cool arrow, I wonder what kind of place it is?

When I came back after classes in the late afternoon, one side of the metal door was propped open. I hesitated on the sidewalk for a few seconds, then found myself standing in the doorway staring down a flight of stairs into a dimly lit room. The stairway was wider than a regular set of stairs – about double or triple the width, covered with badly stained indoor/outdoor carpeting and a single brass handrail running along each side. Somehow the stairs didn’t seem as steep as normal stairs either, maybe because there was a large landing area at the top that housed a tall bar stool and a small podium type shelf that was covered with miscellaneous papers, and had a telephone on the wall. As I descended, I could hear a couple of male voices talking about a broken beer tap. At that moment the room filled with fluorescent lights as one of the men flipped a bank of switches that was concealed behind a panel in the bar area. As he turned around, he noticed me standing at the base of the stairs.

He was a rather tall, lanky-looking guy with light brown hair pulled back into a pony tail at the base of his neck, flat cheeks, and a full Dave Crosby mustache that hid much of his mouth. He was wearing a red, yellow, and orange colored shirt in a large, abstract floral pattern with the buttons undone to his mid chest, a worn brown leather vest with fringe, and a large silver peace symbol around his neck suspended at the end of a leather cord. His jeans (which I assumed would be wide bell-bottoms, had I been able to see through the bottom of the wooden bar), were baggy, and being held up by a belt with yet another, although much larger, peace symbol belt buckle.

“We’re closed,” he snapped as he stared at me standing there, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for other intruders.

“I’m sorry – the door is propped open so I thought…” I started to reply, but trailed off, watching as he place both hands on the bar and pole vaulted over. He reached my side almost immediately
(yep the jeans are wide bell bottoms)
, and looking up the stairs he started yelling at a couple of other guys, who popped up from under the beer taps, about how they were supposed to close the door after they got their equipment out of the truck, and ending with “Never mind, Goddamn it, I’ll close it myself. Come on honey… We open at eight, come back then, this place could use more pretty girls around.” He smiled as his narrow eyes scanned up and down my body sizing me up.

In that split second, I made up my mind. Smiling back I said, “But I’ve come to see if you might be hiring, I mean if you needed a cocktail waitress… I’m looking for a part-time job.”

He stopped, his leering smile turning into more of a grin, his lips pursing together until the big mustache swallowed his entire mouth; finding my statement either ridiculous or considering the possibilities – I couldn’t tell which. After a few intense seconds of examination, he said, “Sure, let’s talk, my office is back there. Stay here while I close the door, then follow me.”

I followed him through the large rectangular room, weaving my way around wooden tables, chairs and longer rectangular bar-like structures that had been built around metal floor to ceiling poles – structural supports, I assumed. These counter type bars had slate tops and a small raised ridge around the edge, presumably to keep drinks from sliding off. The men working on the beer tap stopped what they were doing and gawked, with questioning expressions on their faces as I passed by.

The main bar ran the length of the right side of the room, and appeared to have a slate top matching the smaller structures; behind it were rows and rows of alcohol set off by a mirrored wall. The rest of the walls were plain plaster, painted a medium gray with neon signs placed in a strategic manner all around, advertising various brands of beer and liquor. The wall on my left had three small ‘basement type’ windows level with the sidewalk outside so you could see people’s feet as they passed. Given that we were in the basement of a multi-story building, the ceilings were high with exposed beams, pipes and wires jutting in every direction; but it felt somewhat oppressive, since everything had been painted an even deeper shade of gray than the walls. I noticed a juke box out of the corner of my eye by the stairs and the bathrooms.

As I walked, I could feel the soles of my shoes sticking to the painted cement floor in places where drinks had spilled, and not completely been cleaned up, giving the cement the same stained appearance as the carpeting on the stairs. Each time my foot lifted off one of these spills, a sound like Velcro ripping apart pierced the silence of the room –
Guess those little ridges don’t work very well,
I thought.
Why hasn’t someone washed this floor? And the smell – God I didn’t realize alcohol smelled this much.

As we reached the far end of the room, a small, darkened stage area with a mirrored ball suspended above the middle came into view. The stage area itself was only elevated by one small step up, and was cluttered with ratty old over-stuffed furniture.
Why is that there
, I wondered. My escort opened a heavy looking wooden door with a brass ship’s porthole window at the side of the stage, and flicked a switch, turning on lights that were nothing more than a couple bare bulbs hanging at the end of wires, revealing a short hall and two small offices. The hall and one of the offices were lined with cases of liquor stacked five or six cartons high and shelves holding other necessities like, jars of cherries, mixed drink straws, and stacks of napkins; this was the store room as well as the administrative heart of this operation. The office doors were wooden, but the top half had been cut out and large panes of smoked glass had been added so whoever was in the office could see shadows in the hall. Smiling, Mr. Peace, as I had named him in my mind on the walk through the bar, nodded at two cracked maroon Naugahyde chairs in front of the desk and said, “Have a seat.” He then rounded the paper strewn structure and slid into his own creaking swivel chair.

I smiled back and sat down. By this time I was having major doubts about my decision a few minutes before…
What the hell am I thinking; this place is a dive, and it smells like stale booze and cigarettes … Am I out of my mind… Well, maybe I am, but I do need a job and this could be perfect… I can always quit when I find something better… and besides, I’m already here.

The stark lighting revealed that Mr. Peace was older than I thought –somewhere in his early to mid-forties, although he dressed like a classic young hippie. “I’m Charlie,” he said, his voice sounding friendlier than it had by the doorway, “Charlie White. My partners and I own this place, but I’m the one that runs it. What’s your name? I haven’t seen you in here before. What makes you think you want to work for me?”