A Round on the House Wouldn’t Hurt Anyone

“A round on the house wouldn’t hurt anyone,” muttered Jimmy Biggs as he stared deep into the watery remnants of an icy cocktail. He swirled the cubes in his glass, painting a shimmering circle of cold condensation at elbow height on lacquered oak. His place at the bar was secure, having tipped heavily throughout the evening and across several lively conversations. But his mood had darkened on this early November Saturday night as closing time approached and the prospect of a long walk home

alone with his thoughts and deadened senses loomed. A light snow was falling on the streets of Chicago.

“A white Russian would be good,” he commented more quietly, to himself really, as if to order the drink without speaking the words. The last of his cash was on the bar. And it was indeed the last of his cash. Job loss, divorce and medical issues at 57 left him financially and spiritually depleted and with little to look forward to. Biggs needed a miracle, but now he just wished for a free drink and another hour alone to sort through his shattered situation.

Two in the morning at Justin’s on Southport felt like a recurrent dream, bracketed by hope and hangover, waiting for a break, a beacon, a sign. The long walk home south past Fullerton to his lower level apartment would clear his head somewhat, reminiscent of similar walks on different days when carefree youth was to his advantage and time was on his side. Magical thoughts would carry him safely home, compelled along the way to press the crosswalk button three times, avoid stepping on cracks in the sidewalk and issue repeated verbal sounds and exhalations at personally significant or threatening moments.

He would stop across the street from his apartment at a small neighborhood Park District playground called Clover, wedged between two frame homes on the West side of Southport. Ignoring a sign that indicated a closing time of 8pm, he would hop a low black wrought iron fence and sit on a brick retaining wall that surrounded colorful plastic playground equipment. He stopped often at this safe place, designed for those too small to have amassed a menu of life’s disappointments and failures. A happy place, and something of a personal tradition for Jimmy on late and lonely nights.

Biggs adjusted his legs and stabilized them on the floor prior to standing, getting his bearings as he readied himself to leave the bar.

“What’ll it be Jimmy?” asked Frank in a low voice. “This one’s on me.”

Jimmy was puzzled that the bartender would offer him a drink this far past last call, so near to closing time.

“Two last calls tonight pal” said Frank as he turned to the back-bar, lifted a clock from a nail on the wall and chased the minute hand with his index finger, one revolution, an hour earlier. “Fall back,” he laughed. “Daylight savings time just ended.”

Homer James Biggs smiled and settled back on his barstool for one last round, nodding in appreciation to his friend behind the bar. His immediate needs satisfied, mood lightened for a bit longer, he set his sights a bit higher and muttered some magical words that pretty much guaranteed tomorrow would be his lucky day, another round on the house perhaps, or at least enough cash to gain him the warmth of his favorite neighborhood bar on one more cold November evening.