INTREPID CHARM

From the R.M. Dolin novel, “AN UNSUSTAINABLE LIFE – The Book of Issac“

Chapter 1: Intrepid Charm

The kindest thing anyone can truthfully say about Issac Joseph Olinski, it’s that he comes as advertised but that won’t keep you from getting caught in the cogs of his charismatic charm, or surrendering to the sinusoidal sophistication of his wavering wit, or succumbing to the wily ease of his gentle eyes and seductive smile causing you to surrender any sensibility for discerning intrepid manipulations devoid of redemption. Issac Olinski wasn’t always cast as this character but for those destined to justify outcomes through the carefully curated filters of history there exists the compelling temptation to point to past tragedies and being raised by a single mom who shouldn’t have remarried but it’s exactly those kind of excuses that allow Issac to lavishly live with little regard for reflection or accountability.

One can never know with any measure of certainty how things might have been different if destiny played other cards or if Uncle Darwin made an effort to be around but he’s too nonlinear in his New Mexico wilderness for that kind of nonsense; at least that’s how Issac’s mom, Ilene, describes things when she gets rolling. “I don’t care how rich the self-absorbed bastard is,” she’ll bitterly say two gin martinis into her rant with sister Gwen doubling down in fixed affirmation, “he’s always been a shit and always will be!”

That’s how the frequent venting sessions start before devolving into the tragedy of what happened and how it’s all Darwin’s fault. Issac long ago stopped burning bandwidth on the ‘this’ and ‘that’s’ of what happened, it’s not that he doesn’t care or need to pick a team, it’s that he was only ten when his dad died flying back from New Mexico followed by Uncle Darwin not coming around and that was a lifetime ago, so Issac doesn’t know how to judge the cause and effect. He has a hard time reconciling his faded memory of how things unfolded in the aftermath with his mom’s still fresh version of events, and to be honest, it’s just a whole lot easier to not think about it than to attempt making sense of the entire gilt-riddled drama.

Issac’s mostly through his third year at Northwestern excelling as a software engineering student when complications from Ilene’s cancer take a tragic turn leaving him to deal with far too many consequences. With paused maturity, he does the best he can to navigate unrelenting academic pressures balanced beside his mom’s prolonged illness that takes her in withered increments of bitterness, pain, and denial. In the episodic aftermath of realizing how utterly alone he’s become, something inside Issac snaps; not in the outward way people easily point to when seeking justification, but inwardly in manners of manifest darkness that radiate as light the world absorbs in flamboyant beacons. To casual observers Issac’s demise appears to be caused by an excessive frivolity from his new-found wealth and social influences lacking ambition but that’s a cursory consideration of symptoms far too complicated to be related to cause. Society expects someone in Issac’s circumstances to stumble then dive into deep depression materializing as manic mayhem. For Issac though, it’s just the opposite as he effortlessly perfects the art of ne’er-do-well laissez-faire.

Issac doesn’t embrace the value of living in the past and he never complicates his life with complaints; of course, having inherited trust-fund wealth leaves little room for rumination until one factors in the epic boredom. In the aftermath of Ilene’s passing Issac briefly considers resuming his studies at Northwestern but it seems too taxing a distraction after everything he’s gone through, still though, the idle nothingness of his newfound social circle of privileged rich elites is equally untenable, which is why to his friend’s dismay, Issac picks up part time work at Murphy’s Northshore Bar; a neighborhood blue collar venue popular with die-hard Cubs fans on game day. He’s not all-together certain why he works there and even when someone asks him straight out he won’t give an answer, it just feels like being tied to Murphy’s during a crowded Cubs game gives him a sense of satisfied contentment and at this stage of getting by, contentment pretty much captures all he cares to obtain.

He doesn’t defend his choices any more than regret their outcomes, but if you catch him on a philosophical slant, he’ll talk about fate and the way it weaves through a person’s life with surgical precision, but even that requires far too much commitment to things he’s rather leave unexamined. It’s enough he has his bar tending gig during the day and can play with Gabriella at night and he welcomes any outside distraction devoid of obligation or responsibility. That sums up the life of Issac as concisely as one can without augering deeper than he’ll allow due to his skeptical uncertainty about what would be discovered lurking beneath the surface. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have fun. “Seriously dude,” Issac says with sarcastic certainty while wiping down the bar with a once white rag. “I don’t know why you continue betting me, have you even ever won, I don’t just mean against me, but against anyone?”

“I’ve had my touches,” Lenny offers as frustrated defense, “Sure the ledger’s a bit skewed but that’s mostly because of how bad your uncle tagged me for back in the day. The rat bastard cons me into wagering my Shovelhead on a silly Sammy Sosa bet. I’m still trying to break even from that disaster but statistically speaking, it’s just a matter of time.”

“Au contraire,” Issac confidently asserts, “your law of statistics doesn’t apply because I have Bayesian probabilities on my side.”

“Don’t you be gloating about our bet by pretending to be some kind of poet.”

“Not poetry my man, mathematics; Bayesian Probability Theory to be more precise.” Issac smiles profoundly. “Just a little something I utilize in my wagers. Ya see, Lenny, the problem with most gamblers is they think the world’s random when in fact its anything but, because a pattern always emerges; you just have to be perceptive enough to see it. Suppose I toss a coin in the air, what do you think the odds are of it being heads or tails?”

“Fifty-fifty,” Lenny confidently states. “Even lowly graduates of Saint Stanislas’s school for wayward boys knows that.”

“That’s because you’ve been taught to believe the universe is random but mathematicians know better; back in the day before computers could solve complex problems, they needed a simple mathematics so, they invented what we now call Frequentist Probability Theory, that simply states that given an event has two outcomes in a random world both are equally likely to occur. So yes, in a random world the outcome of a coin toss has an equal chance of being heads or tails, but that’s not the world we live in; our world’s woefully biased based on all kinds of conditions surrounding every aspect of an event. Take the simple coin toss, there’s so many factors biasing the outcome; there’s the condition of the coin and how its unevenly weighted, how it’s tossed, the surface it lands on, how it lands, and so on. A wise wagerer takes all that uncertainty into consideration applying biased morsels of information to their advantage. I can get into the philosophical ‘this’ and ‘that’s’ of the whole thing, but this isn’t really the venue for that kind of shit. Bottom line, you’re free to naively think if you believe in something strong enough for long enough it’ll come true, just don’t wager on that probable outcome because you’ll likely lose. Trouble with you Cubs’ fans is you bet with your heart instead of your head, which makes you easy pickings.”

Lenny stares at his pretentious bartender uncertain how to respond. “While I may not know what the hell you’re talking about, my bottom line is the same now as it’s always been; you can’t win every bet and sooner or later my Cubbies are gonna surprise you and I wanna have money ridding on that outcome.”

Issac grins at Lenny wanting to counter his logic but knowing better than to get him all worked up like last time, “If I had a dollar, Lenny, for every time I heard that in this joint, I could buy this dive right now.”

“Watch it there, laddie,” Murphy grouses while on his way down to their end of the bar. “I don’t pay you to trash talk my fine establishment.”

Issac flings the once white towel over his shoulder looking at his boss before flashing a broad smile. “Last I looked, you don’t pay me at all.”

“And that is why, you’re my favorite employee.” Murphy comes back with a grin.

“Wait a minute,” Lenny jumps in looking first at Murphy. “He works here for free?” Before Murphy can respond, Lenny shifts to Issac. “Listen kid, why don’t you come by my shop on Cicero, I’ll double what Murphy here’s paying ya and teach you a valuable trade. Not many guys left who can overhaul a Harley.”

Issac puts both hands firmly on the edge of the counter to present himself as serious. “While I do appreciate the offer, Lenny, I gotta be staying with Murphy here.” He flashes his boss a broad smirk, “on account of he did after all give me my big break and besides, the hours suite me.” Issac takes the lost wager sitting in front of Lenny like an idle reminder of just how bad the afternoon’s been and slides it over to Murphy.

“Not again lad,” Murphy says while pocketing the cash and tossing Lenny a terse smile. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

“You give him my wagers?” Lenny protests.

“Why do you think he lets me work here.” Issac fires back.

Murphy steps in to keep Lenny from spinning up. “Next Guinness is on the house.” He starts back to his end of the bar, “like taking candy from a baby,” he laughs as he pours Lenny’s free Guinness.

For a moment it seems things are quieting down but then in walk Gabriella dressed to the nines just as the remaining two patrons in Cubs attire walk out lamenting the potential game-winning smack in the bottom of the ninth that almost reaches the ivy before getting snagged by the left fielder to end the game. Gingerly, Gabriella looks around for a place to sit before deciding Issac’s end of the bar is best. He patiently waits for her to get herself situated before leaning over the bar for a kiss. “How’s Chicago’s most beautiful girl?” He asks undeterred that she only permits a light peck on the cheek.

“I’m bored,” Gabriella moans as she sets her fashion bag on the counter, “lets’ do something.”

“Whatta ya got in mind?” Issac inquires.

“I really don’t care,” Gabriella glibly states while adjusting her hair in the large mirror behind Issac. “Just rescue me from boredom.”

Issac leans against the bar-back and crosses his arms to better consider options. “We could wander around Millennium Park and make fun of the tourists?”

“Boring!”

There’s always Lincoln Park Zoo to watch the otters play. That’s always fun and the zoo makes the best roasted peanuts in town.”

“Even more boring,” Gabriella sighs.

“How about the field house, I never get tired of taking your picture beside Sue?”

“See one T-Rex, you’ve seen them all,” she dismissively whines.

“Could grab a pizza at Giordano’s?” Issac offers with increased optimism.

“I’m not eating today, too much of last night to work off. Let’s get a drink on the pier.”

“If it’s a drink you be wanting lassie, why not here at Murphy’s?” Issac knows the answer before asking but enjoys pretending to innocently ask in Irish, mostly to tease her.

“Does this look like the kind of place I’d have a drink? It’s all I can do to even come here to rescue you. Honestly Issac, why would you want to work here when you could be out doing whatever you want?”

“Because nothing interests me more than being here with my homies.” He glibly answers. “Lenny and me got history; ain’t that right Lenny?”

“Don’t be dragging me into your drama.” Lenny says while starting on his free beer.

“So, you’re not taking me someplace pleasant for cocktails?” Gabriella pressures.

“Not with that attitude.” Issac counters. “Ya know, this is ‘Be Kind To Your Bartender Week,’ so a little love would go a long way.”

“It’s not, be kind to your bartender week,” Gabriella dismissively grouses.”

“Murphy!” Issac shouts to the other end of the bar. “Is it or is it not, Be Kind to Your Bartender Week?”

Murphy smiles warmly, while gesturing to the sign on the back wall by the dart board that reads,

Remember Lads,
Here at Murphy’s
It’s Always
Be Kind To
Your Bartender Week

“See,” Issac grins, “I never lie to a woman I intend to sleep with. . . afterwards is an entirely different matter but we’ll get to that later.”

Gabriella’s had enough. “Are you taking me for cocktails or not! If not, I got better things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like anything not involving you.”

“Well,” Issac laughs, “another man might be offended, but I’m big enough to concede you do over-class the joint and are definitely not the vibe Murphy’s going for.” Issac looks down the long bar gesturing to Murphy in a way that makes clear he’d like to be excused for the day. Since the post-game crowd’s mostly dissipated and because Issac technically isn’t being paid, Murphy’s in no position to say no.

Issac wants to walk over to the Navy Pier for cocktails since he’s in no hurry and it’s only a few short blocks, Gabriella however, is having none of that and it isn’t just because she’s wearing heels, “women of elegant high fashion,” she lectures, “arrive by chauffeur, unless it’s last minute, then a taxi has to do; other pedestrian modes of transportation, including walking, are for poor people.”

As expected on a late weekday afternoon in early May on Lake Michigan’s Navy Pier, things are predictably quiet, so Issac and Gabriella have the cocktail bar they picked out on near shore side pretty much to themselves; at least until downtown professionals arrive for happy hour, which should start soon.

“We should go somewhere.” Gabriella flatly states as she nears the bottom of her gin martini. “Someplace exciting and interesting for a change. We’re in a rut Issac all we ever do is the same old stuff; you working at that God-awful bar whenever Murphy needs you and me waiting to be rescued.”

“As I’ve repeatedly explained,” Issac answers back. “I like working at the Northshore, do I tell you to stop doing whatever the hell it is that makes you happy? Do I ever say, “Gabriella, stop shopping and rescue me?” No, so let’s not have that conversation again. Besides, you already shot down all my ideas, and for the record, watching otter mischief while enjoying a bag of freshly roasted peanuts would have been fun.”

“I’m not talking about something trivial like the zoo, we should go somewhere meaningful.”

“Like what pray tell?”

“Paris.” Gabriella offers in a tone suggesting that’s where everyone goes when they’re bored.

“What the hell we gonna do in Paris we can’t do here!” Issac says with surprise.

“Live forever.” Gabriella says with a desperation pretending to pass as passion. She waits for Issac to stop motioning for another round. “Maybe not forever but at least for a month. We can stay at the George Cinq like last time and dine out every night along the Champs-Elysees. That was so wonderful, the shops, the museums, the strolls along the Seine, everything magically special.”

“That was my definition of boring,” Issac flatly states while finishing the last of his IPA just ahead of his replacement’s arrival.

“Where would you go to escape boredom?” Gabriella angrily challenges.

Issac doesn’t take long with his answer. “Tangiers.”

“Isn’t that like in Africa,” she says in disgust.

“Morocco, which is part of North Africa along the tip of Gibraltar.”

“Yeah, but still Africa. Why on heavens earth would you want to go there and don’t say for the weather, cause its Africa; and don’t say for the food, cause its Africa. So, why would you want to go there?”

“I don’t know, sounds cool. Back in the day, you know, during the cold war, that’s where all the international espionage went down. I don’t know why but that’s the place the world’s spies set up shop, it’s just a short train ride from Casablanca and who doesn’t what to day trip there.” Issac takes a sip of beer to consider his adventure further. “It’d be cool to sit in dingy bars along the coast at night imagining what it’d be like anxiously waiting to meet your handler to exchange vital secrets.” He pauses to sample more beer. “Of course I’d there against my will, I don’t want to betray my country, but the rat bastards are blackmailing me. So, I sit there in some dingy bar by the sea with two envelops, one containing the information they demanded I steal and the other envelop far more dangerous, it has the documents I forged that almost look real but have morsels of information mismanaged in such subtle ways it goes unnoticed but significant enough to cause real damage to the rat bastards if they use it, which is why in my high stakes game of cat and mouse I’m the mouse who’ll end up dead if my deception is discovered.”

“Seriously?” Gabriella huffs.

“Which envelope would you given them, or do you skip the dingy bar all together and catch a freighter to the Virgin Islands where you live out your days in a remote seclusion where native locals know not to ask questions or reveal to anyone as to your whereabouts?”

“I’m not going to Tangiers,” Gabriella definitively states, “and I most certainly am not going to live out my days on a deserted island.”

“Better than sipping Kir Royals on the Champs-Elysees if you ask me. And I didn’t say anything about being marooned on a deserted island, my remote bay will be crawling with beautiful tropical women who spend their days planning for our nights.”

“And that’s supposed to be appealing to me because?”

“Because you want me to be happy.”

“Not even close, Jack,” Gabriella emphatically states. “And just so we’re clear, if you go to Morocco or island hopping in the Mediterranean, you’re going without me.”

Issac takes a drink to consider how much he wants to push things. “The Virgin Islands are in the Caribbean, but I suppose the difference between Barbary pirates and Caribbean swashbucklers is just a bit of geography.” He pauses to fully soak in and enjoy his romantic adventure. “Probably better you don’t come, my handler warned not to bring a beautiful woman, says it’ll create unwanted complications to our clandestine rendezvous. I’m not sure what he means but he’s a Russian working for communist China so he knows a thing or two about espionage. He constantly warns me not to trust beautiful woman, says they always burn you in the end.”

“Ha ha, mister funny man. I’ll remind you my degree is in Russian literature, so I find it highly unlikely your Russian handler would be working for communist China; more likely he’s a double agent sent to kill you, that’s how the Russians roll. Just look at the joyful way they execute their murderous war in Ukraine, I would strongly advise against any planned trips to Tangiers to meet your handler, you’ll likely wind-up dead, which will server you right.” Gabriella sips her cocktail in the kind of seductive way that allows her supple red lips to amplify her indifference. “After you go and get yourself killed by the Russians, what am I supposed to do with my afternoons?”

Their round three drinks arrive before Issac can respond but that doesn’t mean he’s finished having fun or done thinking about how cool it would be to travel to Tangiers as an international spy engaged in counter espionage. “Her name would be Tatiana,” he says with a devilish grin while wiping beer foam from is lips.

“Who?” Gabriella asks in tone that easily conveys Issac’s next words should be carefully and cautiously considered.

“My new handler,” Issac answers without due deliberation. “She’ll want to sleep with me of course, on orders from the Kremlin, you know, to demonstrate my loyalty. Of course, she doesn’t need orders to follow her heart. Normally I wouldn’t, you know, cause I’m involved with someone who loves me back in the states but she’s so damn pretty and you know what they say about the difference between Russian women and American men?”

“No.” Gabriella asks with her fuse about to be lit.

Issac takes another swig of beer and wipes new foam from his face not at all concerned about the nuclear explosion set to detonate or the fallout sure to follow. “Russian women sleep with who they want to, but American men sleep with who they can. It’s got to be true because Mother Russia certainly didn’t become a nemesising superpower on the backs of their vodka-induced men.

“So, you’d sleep with this Tatiana woman even though you’re with me just because she’s pretty?”

“Well let’s not forget I have to if I want to live, you know, to demonstrate my loyalty.” Issac smiles proud of the way his impromptu story’s evolved, “Show me a man who says he wouldn’t do the same thing in my situation and I’ll show you a liar. The only reason all men don’t have someone like my Tatiana on the side is because they’re either too fat or too ugly to get asked and that’s a truth you can take your daddy’s country club.”

The fuse that Gabriella has been deciding on is now irrevocably lit and the countdown to explosion is just one failed comment away. “My daddy doesn’t belong to a country club!”

“That’s because he’s not fat or ugly, which means he’s got better places to be than playing golf with fat ugly old farts.”

In one fluid motion that most instant replay cameras would fail to fully capture, Gabrielle leaps from her chair while grabbing her cocktail and flinging it directly into Issac’s face. “You freaking piece of privileged shit!” She shouts. “You don’t know squat about my daddy and what he does or doesn’t do. You’re just defining your petty little world in the context of your petty little life and trying to justify it by bringing all men down to your level. Well, I got news for you mister, there are good decent men in this world, men of character, substance, and integrity. You know nothing of this world because your puny little existence thrives in the darkness of their shadows.”

With that, Gabriella storms out of the now busy bar, gifting early arriving professionals from downtown with their first happy hour humor. In all fairness to Gabriella, she presented an ample platter of warning signs from the start and if Issac were the type to give a rat’s ass about such things he would have seen what happened was going to happen long before the first drop of gin graced his foam-soaked lips.

“Let me guess,” a tall blonde in a tight skirt says as she invites herself to sit in Gabriella’s vacated spot, “you got a little banter going back and forth that seemed like fun at the start and you were so busy enjoying yourself you didn’t see the moods shift or the bubbling lava about to erupt.”

Issac smiles at his newfound friend without remorse or embarrassment. “Some people just lack a sense of humor.”

“If I had a dollar for every divorce that starts with, ‘things were going well until-‘” The woman in the tight skirt with long ample legs pauses to taste her cocktail. “I could buy Wriggly.”

Issac smiles coyly, having already forgotten about how he came to be in this bar or why he was just moments ago, briefly alone. “Have you ever heard of a British dude called Thomas Bayes or his probability of chance? If not, perhaps I can interest you in a wager whose outcome is far from random.”