was somebody’s dream
Billboard horizons as black as they seem
Four level highways across the land
We’re building a home for the family of man
And it’s so hard whatever we are coming to
Yes it’s so hard with so little time
And so much to do
Time running out for the family of man
-”Family of Man” THREE DOG NIGHT
Chapter One
“Man, ain’t you ascared some big ol’ maggot goan crawl down that hole in your throat, you come in here looking like that?” Reginald Givens gave Mike Surfer the badeye—a variation of the one he saved up for his parole officer—as he watched his friend wipe the piece of plastic free of spittle.
“First, I done been in here twenty damn minutes,” Surfer’s voice was smoother than that of the younger man across from him. “Here” was the Hard Times Lounge on Randolph and Canal, and he’d hoped his voice had carried enough so that Chet the bartender would see fit to bring him a lousy draft. “Second, it only takes a second. See it’s already back, and here comes Chet. Order up, Reggie, I picksed up my disability check today.”
“Man’s got it hard, with they only selling Old Style on tap.” Givens still had the mouth that got him into Joliet when he was barely old enough to set on a bar stool, let alone drink.
“Hush,” Surfer patted his hand on the table. “Seem’ as it’s free...” He raised two fingers, giving a Sideways nod at his short friend.
“I know, I know. Don’t you think you might want to go to the baffroom when you clean that thing in your throat?” Givens wasn’t letting up on that one thing. Both men were black and both were in wheelchairs, as well. Three years after his last stint at the Correctional Center, Reginald Givens had gotten himself faced and fallen onto the elevated tracks on Kinzie. The passing Ravenswood All-Stops had successfully amputated his right leg at the knee.
Michael Surles, who called himself Mike Surfer because of the ease with which he maneuvered the streets of the Loop and West Side, was a hydrocephalic. He had been a syphilis baby, as there are crack babies today, and he had worn a plastic shunt around his neck for all of the forty-seven years of his life. The shunt was the thing Givens had been talking about. Commonly known as water on the brain, the disease is an excessive accumulation of CSF—cerebro-spinal fluid—in the brain. Surfer’s shunt, a circular device which resembled nothing so more than a cheap medallion from a sixties science-fiction show, fit on a tan velcro strap into a tracheotomy hole just below his Adam’s apple. His disease was not of severity, but his neck muscles were weak, and a bulging forehead gave his eyes a downward cast.
The latter characteristic suited him just fine, as he looked at himself in the mirror thinking his eyes made him into a black, hipper, version of Steve Carella, from the 87th Precinct novels. Surfer was a resident at the Rainey Marclinn Home down Randolph, as was Givens, and Wilma Jerrickson, another tenant, often let him read cop novels by Ed McBain and Elmore Leonard.
“Just you drink,” Surfer told him with a beer foam moustache over his own grey one. “And be glad you only got that.” He nudged Givens’ stump under the table with his foot.
“Enough to groin you on the street you want to clown, man.”
“I’m sayin’ is, lighten up, is all.” The two men drank their beer in silence for a time. Hard -Times Lounge was a misnomer of sorts, because, although it catered to a few loose psychos from the Halsted Street skids two blocks to the west beyond the Kennedy overpass, the majority of the clientele worked in River Plaza, where the offices of Social Security and Disability were located. Which was how the men in the chairs and canes ended up here. Chet the bartender took care of them even when they hadn’t come from picking up a check, and he’d cash it for them on the days that they did.
“Goan be chillin’ this winter.” Givens
Billboard horizons as black as they seem
Four level highways across the land
We’re building a home for the family of man
And it’s so hard whatever we are coming to
Yes it’s so hard with so little time
And so much to do
Time running out for the family of man
-”Family of Man” THREE DOG NIGHT
Chapter One
“Man, ain’t you ascared some big ol’ maggot goan crawl down that hole in your throat, you come in here looking like that?” Reginald Givens gave Mike Surfer the badeye—a variation of the one he saved up for his parole officer—as he watched his friend wipe the piece of plastic free of spittle.
“First, I done been in here twenty damn minutes,” Surfer’s voice was smoother than that of the younger man across from him. “Here” was the Hard Times Lounge on Randolph and Canal, and he’d hoped his voice had carried enough so that Chet the bartender would see fit to bring him a lousy draft. “Second, it only takes a second. See it’s already back, and here comes Chet. Order up, Reggie, I picksed up my disability check today.”
“Man’s got it hard, with they only selling Old Style on tap.” Givens still had the mouth that got him into Joliet when he was barely old enough to set on a bar stool, let alone drink.
“Hush,” Surfer patted his hand on the table. “Seem’ as it’s free...” He raised two fingers, giving a Sideways nod at his short friend.
“I know, I know. Don’t you think you might want to go to the baffroom when you clean that thing in your throat?” Givens wasn’t letting up on that one thing. Both men were black and both were in wheelchairs, as well. Three years after his last stint at the Correctional Center, Reginald Givens had gotten himself faced and fallen onto the elevated tracks on Kinzie. The passing Ravenswood All-Stops had successfully amputated his right leg at the knee.
Michael Surles, who called himself Mike Surfer because of the ease with which he maneuvered the streets of the Loop and West Side, was a hydrocephalic. He had been a syphilis baby, as there are crack babies today, and he had worn a plastic shunt around his neck for all of the forty-seven years of his life. The shunt was the thing Givens had been talking about. Commonly known as water on the brain, the disease is an excessive accumulation of CSF—cerebro-spinal fluid—in the brain. Surfer’s shunt, a circular device which resembled nothing so more than a cheap medallion from a sixties science-fiction show, fit on a tan velcro strap into a tracheotomy hole just below his Adam’s apple. His disease was not of severity, but his neck muscles were weak, and a bulging forehead gave his eyes a downward cast.
The latter characteristic suited him just fine, as he looked at himself in the mirror thinking his eyes made him into a black, hipper, version of Steve Carella, from the 87th Precinct novels. Surfer was a resident at the Rainey Marclinn Home down Randolph, as was Givens, and Wilma Jerrickson, another tenant, often let him read cop novels by Ed McBain and Elmore Leonard.
“Just you drink,” Surfer told him with a beer foam moustache over his own grey one. “And be glad you only got that.” He nudged Givens’ stump under the table with his foot.
“Enough to groin you on the street you want to clown, man.”
“I’m sayin’ is, lighten up, is all.” The two men drank their beer in silence for a time. Hard -Times Lounge was a misnomer of sorts, because, although it catered to a few loose psychos from the Halsted Street skids two blocks to the west beyond the Kennedy overpass, the majority of the clientele worked in River Plaza, where the offices of Social Security and Disability were located. Which was how the men in the chairs and canes ended up here. Chet the bartender took care of them even when they hadn’t come from picking up a check, and he’d cash it for them on the days that they did.
“Goan be chillin’ this winter.” Givens
Similar Books
Bridge of Swords
Duncan Lay
Heat Wave
Sara Orwig
Faro's Daughter
Georgette Heyer
Hunting Evil
Carol Lynne
His Reign (The Opeth Pack Saga Book 1)
Sascha Illyvich
Volcano Street
David Rain
Shadowed Instincts
Wendi Wilson
Joy For Beginners
Erica Bauermeister
The Age of Wrath: A History of the Delhi Sultanate
Abraham Eraly
