“Gonna be another warm fall and one of those cold springs,” said Tony, one of Richard’s two bartenders. “El Nin-yah,” he concluded, and poured another highball for a couple who remarked, “Can you believe you can smoke cigarettes in bars in 2024?” Believe it—Richard’s has shirked Chicago’s indoor smoking ban since 2008 and counting, tied as they are to certain local business operations, if you couldn’t guess from the Goodfellas banner, or the Sinatra music playing non-stop on the jukebox, or the man, Bobby, smoking silently in the corner, sending out rounds of drinks with a cool wave of his hand.
The TV in the corner had switched from election news to college football updates when a fellow from Morocco asked Tony for a beer. “Get outta here! You been drinkin’ all day long!” Tony spat in his direction. “We have the right to turn away just whoever we please!” The Moroccan fellow doubled down, typing into his translator. “Buddy, you’re not welcome here! Try and come back tomorrah.” The bartender winked in my direction. “I got off tomorrah, I don’t give a shit.”
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Meaghan Garvey
“What do you think is gonna happen?” I asked the men beside me, in town for a business conference regarding packaging supplies. “Fuck if I know,” one of them scoffed, turning to the topic of the market. “I can tell ya what to buy to make $4,000 in a month,” said a man in a trucker hat which read “BURGERS & BEERS 2024.” “Like I need your advice,” said an old man down the bar. “I’ll sell ya somethin’ that don’t even exist yet!”
“Attention passengers,” said a voice over the Red Line as my train shuttled grimly home. “We are waiting momentarily for system interference.”
“FUCK KAMALA AND TRUMP!” shouted a man hawking his wares, busting in from the next car—cigarettes of all sorts, fanciful strains of weed. “I’M THE PRESIDENT OF THE TRAIN!”
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