October 6th, we drove around and ended up with fried chicken. This time it wasn’t so nice.
Around O’hare airport were lots of clubs, all kinds, some beautiful hotels and restaurants, and many seedy strip clubs. There was a section of north Irving Park road, where the flight crews rented and sublet their pads. Couldn’t really call them homes, they just flew in showered, slept, communally or alone. I wanted to be one of them so I could travel the world. I even applied to Delta and American. They didn’t want me.
In this neighborhood was a club called the Nickelbag. It wasn’t a diner or a club, it was sort of a watering hole for the transients, the globe hoppers to come get a drink when their little pilfered bottles ran out. It wasn’t great food, didn’t need to be, because they would spend their calories on booze not burgers. The weight requirements were harsh. Tip the scales and you don’t fly.
Not sure why we ended up in this pit, but we ordered a drink and some fries. It was between service shifts, so not many people in the place. This hole came alive about midnight. So we are sitting there talking about who knows what, and I hear:
“This is your husband”
I look around and see no one. I get up and look behind the stage nearby thinking it’s a prank. It was a loud voice. Not booming but loud. Not James Earl Jones sounding, but more Perry Como in the lower registers. And what the hell; “this is?” Not, “will be?”
I ask Ken “Did you hear that?” He hadn’t. So I thought, “no way in hell” He’s a nice enough guy, but no love of my life. He’s just sort of there, like a cross between a brother/friend and a dog. Kinda always there, which he kinda has been since the funeral.
So I set about fixing this. I told him every horrible thing I ever did. Every horrible thing I ever said, even every horrible thought I could remember thinking. I even I told him I was in love with someone else. I told him anything I could think of to scare him off. In my mind I had succeeded. And if he tried to come around I would ignore him. And I did.