- A Visit to America’s Bar
Yeah, I could get into a place where the Woodstock spirit reigned.
“Those gym shoes,” he said, staring at my feet.
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Well, they weren’t gym shoes. They were New Balance running shoes–with a few miles on them, admittedly, but running shoes nonetheless. Shoes that, in the American tradition, cost me too much. The type of shoes more than a few Americans wear in pursuing fitness regimens; the kind of shoes, I daresay, that retired Chicago Bear Walter Payton–coowner of America’s Bar–might have put on once or twice in his life. The kind of shoes that, it seems to me, half of all spirited, unself-conscious Americans (including my 62-year-old father, who enjoys nothing more than spending a couple hours and many dollars in a restaurant owned by a has-been athlete) wear in their leisure hours. The other half of course wear gym shoes.
Apparently the man had met trouble on the streets of Ukrainian Village and had stumbled into the nightclub. Even though he lay stretched out on the floor, his eyes were open and he spoke coherently.
The club owner crouched on the floor next to the man, talking in low tones. I couldn’t hear what he said. As he spoke he unrolled a length of paper toweling, wadded it up, and pressed it against the side of the man’s head. The toweling immediately flushed crimson.
