In Chicago, in the middle of the Gold Coast neighborhood, is a little park so calm and forceful in its sheer greenness that its very existence in the heart of a forest of iron, glass, and stone skyscrapers gives one the very impression that this park could very well be the heart of the neighborhood (if one were to subscribe to such sentimental ideas). In its heyday, this park, Washington Square (one of four such parks in Chicago to be named after a Washington), was the epicenter of an early 20th-century midwest fascination with public debate. On any given day that was warm enough, this park became the space of a great social equalizing. Anyone who had something to say; the artist, the author, the activist, the radical–even the homeless–was given the space to speak, to create, to try to incite, to rant, to rave, to preach. In 1906, the park was given life when Alderman McCormick, whose name would come to grace a number of other structures in the city, donated his salary and a $600 fountain (this would be closer to $18,000 now, adjusted for inflation) to its renovation. During the sexual revolution half a century later, a rather salacious article in Life magazine accused homosexuals of using the park as a place to cruise. The park would later become the site of Chicago’s first Gay Pride March, in 1970.
As is often the case in cities, the demographics of a place change over time, and the great public spaces find themselves closed in by the oppressive structures of a citizenry that constantly overgrows its boundaries, and somewhere in the rush of progress, the history of the space was reduced to a bit of history on a plaque, and an unflattering nickname; Bughouse Square, where the intellectual and mad were indistinguishable. Now, on any given day when the weather is fine, the park is more likely to host tourists who have strayed off the nearby path of small but expensive boutiques, parents with strollers (and rambunctious dogs sometimes on leashes), octogenarians engaged in amicable games of chess or reading newspapers, and homeless people camped out, napping in the shade of the many old, crooked oak trees.
* * *
Early on a Tuesday morning, Lauren Kelley arrived for work at the little cafe just across the street from Washington Square Park. Given the extraordinary cost of real estate in the Gold Coast neighborhood, the fact that this shop had held onto its prime corner location even occasionally amazed her, even though she rarely paid much thought to the real estate market. To her, idly wondering at the unimaginable cost of residences in the city was just some unspoken part of living in Chicago that lingered in her mind as she fumbled with her keys at the employee door just after four in the morning. Lauren let herself in after finding the key, so large and heavy comparatively, that she could find it by touch alone in the dark. In the break room, she put on her apron and grabbed one of her name tags, Kelley today. She kept one tag each with her first or last name, and she alternated between the two according to her mood–she liked to keep the patrons guessing who she was.
Inside, the place was already half-lit by the kitchen lights. The cafe’s owner, Meredith, was already hard at work baking. She removed a tray of croissants from the oven and replaced it with a tray of cinnamon rolls. A heavy ceramic mug of black coffee sat next to her as she worked. Already going grey at the temples, Meredith’s greatest complaint in life was that she had been born at least ten years too late to really get involved in the hippie scene in San Francisco. Brought to the Midwest by her parents when she was nine, she found her own ways to rebel with a carefully-cultivated persona that gave way to a genuine personality somewhere in her late thirties.
The cafe had just sort of happened. Meredith started working there while studying business at Loyola, and never left. She had been so well liked by the previous owner that he put her in charge when he retired. Though she had had bigger things in mind when pursuing her degree, she decided that taking control of The Bughouse Bean would be a good way to flex her managerial muscle, and provide leverage in future endeavors. Somewhere along the way, and without realizing it had happened, she had put roots down. The little cafe’s continued existence amid rising property value had become the act of rebellion she had longed for in her childhood. She knew all the regulars by name, and had their usuals ready by the time they were in the door. There were, of course, the indecisive ones, and she saw each of them as a challenge, a puzzle to solve, and inevitably found the order that became their go-to.
When a new regular began showing up, his orders seemed designed to push Meredith’s abilities to the test. This man, whose name she learned was Simon, ordered something different each day:
Simon’s orders (a sampling)
Monday—Coffee (black, four (free) refills), cruller: $3.75
Tuesday—Espresso (single shot), coffee roll: $4.23
Wednesday (hump day)—Mocha valencia (with orange zest), no food: $3.94
Thursday—Tea (lapsang sochoy with honey, uncommon), lavender bread: $6.83
Friday—Coffee (with cream, three (free) refills), bagel with garden veggie schmear: $4.86
Saturday—Cafe au lait (with cinnamon), one newspaper (read for two hours): $4.06
Sunday—Cafe latte (with nutmeg), apple fritter: $5.26
(All prices exclude tax; no tips)
Just when Meredith felt that she was starting to sense a pattern in his orders, the pattern changed again in the following week. He was unpredictable, and it frustrated her. She also had the sense that he enjoyed toying with her like this. For her part, Meredith began to await Simon’s daily arrival with something akin to excitement (though certainly tinged with exasperation). She became accustomed to his straight-backed occupation of the corner booth that always seemed to open up just before his arrival, where the grey-haired, gruff (but not unattractive) man took up his daily, temporary, residence.
The one constant of Simon was that he always sat alone. But true to the strange relationship they had, once Meredith became used to that constant, Simon began bringing a friend to his table every day, a soft-spoken blind man named Martin, whose brown eyes stared with a ghost of something like sadness at the wall over Simon’s left shoulder as they talked.
* * *
Martin had settled into his daily morning meetings with Simon. Every day, the older man was there waiting for him, always in the same booth, where they would sit together, usually for an hour or two, talking like two old companions about everything and nothing at all. Somewhere in these discussions, five years had slipped by.
Once, early in their forming friendship, Martin had thought it strange that Simon was always there when he arrived, no matter the time of day (another lack of constant that had irked Meredith, until a spot in her heart had softened for the old man and his blind friend). “If I didn’t know better,” he started over coffee one day, “I’d say you were keeping tabs on me, old man.” The moniker of old man was an affectionate nickname Martin had given Simon, who was at most two years his senior, though he never remembered to ask for an actual number.
“Ah, you’re on to me, Marty. I’ve been keeping watch over you all along.” Martin heard the creaking of leather and the sound of a cup being slid over the tabletop. When Simon spoke again, he was much closer, speaking in a stage whisper. “It’s because I’m in love with you, and couldn’t get up the courage to say it.” Martin’s face must have been one of shock, because the other man roared with laughter. “No you old coot, I’m a restless old man! I just come here when the Whim takes me.” More creaking of leather as he sat up straight. “Maybe you’re tailing me, Marty.”
Martin laughed, and reached out for his own mug (coffee, black, not too hot). “Ah, damn. You caught me.” He held up his free hand in mock surrender as he took a long swig from his cup.
Cullen Dow Long 