It was an empty bottle of Wild Irish Rose that started us talking. I’d been sitting on a bench at a Rogers Park beach when a short, wiry guy in shabby clothes came wandering out of the north. There was a jumpy, rambunctious air about him even though he had a limp that made him skip a little bit as he walked, as if dogs were snapping at his heels. I wasn’t surprised when he nodded as he passed, but the empty bottle next to me on the bench hooked his eye and he slowed to a stop. With no small sense of drama he glanced back and forth between the bottle and me with great concentration, a mocking, quizzical gleam in his eye.
“Yeah.”
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Easing himself down next to the bottle, he began explaining, “‘Cause if you were drinkin’ this, I wouldn’t want to be sitting anywhere near you, no way.”
“When I was 15, 16, I’d go off in the shadows, you know, off in a corner like this.” He stood up, gazing all about him in a theatrical “Is the coast clear?” pantomime. Then, cocking his head back and putting his fist to his mouth, he swigged down a few imaginary liters in double time. Suddenly, he jerked his hand away and turned on me, hollering in a frighteningly loud voice “DO YOU WANNA FIGHT?”
“How long you been off drinking?”
“I told you before it’s not mine.”
“What.”
