INTREPID CHARM

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

Chapter 1: Intrepid Charm

The kindest thing that can truthfully be said about Isaac Joseph Olinski, is that he comes as advertised. That won’t keep you from getting caught in the cogs of his charismatic charm, surrendering to the sophistication of his wavering wit, or succumbing to the wily ease of his gentle eyes and seductive smile. With discarded effort you’ll surrender any sensibility for discerning his intrepid manipulations devoid of redemption. Isaac Olinski wasn’t always so dubiously cast and for those destined to justify outcomes through carefully curated filters there’s a compelling temptation to point to past tragedies and being raised by a single mom who probably should have remarried. It’s exactly those kinds of excuses that allow Isaac to lavishly live with little regard for reflection or accountability.

One can never know life’s ‘what if’s’ with any measure of certainty. What if destiny plays different cards? What if Uncle Darwin is around more and is less nonlinear in his New Mexico wilderness? That’s what Isaac’s mom, Ilene, wants to know each time she gets rolling. “I don’t care how rich the self-absorbed bastard is,” she bitterly says two gin martinis into her routine rant with sister Gwen doubling down in fixed affirmation, “he’s always been a shit and always will be!”

Ilene’s frequent venting always starts with that mantra before devolving into the tragedy of what happened and how it’s all Uncle Darwin’s fault. Isaac long ago stopped burning bandwidth on the ‘this’ and ‘that’s’ of it all, it’s not that he doesn’t care or shouldn’t pick a team, it’s that he’s only ten when his dad’s plane crashes in the New Mexico mountains followed by Uncle Darwin not coming around anymore. That was a lifetime ago and Isaac doesn’t know how to judge the cause or the effect. At this point, probably through the grace of time and distance, he has a hard time reconciling faded memories of how things unfolded with his mom’s still fresh version of events, and to be honest, he’d rather not constantly be reminded. That’s a helluva lot easier than attempting to make sense of all her gilt-riddled drama.

Isaac’s mostly through his third year at Northwestern excelling in software engineering when complications from Ilene’s cancer take its tragic turn leaving him consumed by consequence. With paused maturity, Isaac does the best he can to navigate unrelenting academic pressures beside his mom’s prolonged illness taking her in withered increments of bitterness, pain, and denial. In the episodic aftermath of realizing how utterly alone he’s become, something inside Isaac snaps. His fall is not in the outward way people easily point to when seeking rationalizations, it’s inward in manners of manifest darkness radiating as light the world sees in flamboyant flashes. To casual observers Isaac’s descent is caused by the excessive frivolities of new-found wealth and social influences lacking ambition but that’s a cursory consideration of symptoms far too complicated to be so casually caused. Society expects someone in Isaac’s situation to stumble then dive into deep depression manifesting as manic mayhem. It’s just the opposite for Isaac, as he effortlessly perfects the art of ne’er-do-well laissez-faire.

Isaac categorically rejects the value of living in the past and seldom complicates his life with complaints. Of course, having inherited trust-fund wealth leaves little room for rumination, that is until one factors in the epic boredom. In the tragic aftermath of Ilene’s passing Isaac briefly considers resuming his studies at Northwestern but that’s too taxing a distraction after everything he’s been through. The idle nothingness of his newfound social circle of privileged elites though, is equally untenable. This is why, to Gabriella’s dismay, Isaac picks up part time work at Murphy’s Northshore Bar; a neighborhood blue-collar venue popular with die-hard Chicago Cub fans. Isaac isn’t all-together sure why he works there and should someone asks him straight up, he won’t give a truthful answer. All he knows is that he likes being at Murphy’s during crowded Cubs games. It gives him a sense of satisfied contentment and at this stage of getting by, contentment pretty much captures all he cares to obtain.

Isaac doesn’t defend his choices any more than regret their outcomes. If you catch him on a philosophical slant, he’ll yack about fate and the way it carves through a person’s life with the helter skelter irony of a motorcross rider racing recklessly around a muddy track. Even that though, requires far too much commitment to things better left unexamined. It’s enough he has his bar tending gig during game day, can play with Gabriella at night, and is allowed to welcome outside distractions devoid of obligation or responsibility. That sums up the book on Isaac as concisely as one can without augering deeper than he’ll allow due to his skeptical uncertainty about what might be lurking beneath the surface. Besides, what matters to Isaac has less to do with whatever you may think of him and is more about making sure nothing interferes with living in the moment or having fun.

#

“Seriously dude,” Isaac says with sarcastic certainty while wiping condensation rings from the beer-stained old oak bar with his once white rag. His thin black tie hangs freely against a pressed white shirt providing falsetto elegance for Murphy’s blue collar faithful. “I don’t know why you bet me,” he continues, “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, “The ledger may be skewed the other way but that’s mostly because of how bad your uncle tagged me for back in the day. The rat bastard conned me into wagering my Shovelhead on a silly Sammy Sosa bet. The way Sweet Swinging Sammy Sosa’s swatting his bat that season I thought for sure I’d win. Five freaking grand, that’s how much Darwin puts up against my classic Harley worth five times more. That’s how confident I am.”

Lenny clasps his pint in calloused hands covered in cuts and scares tattooing an all too familiar pattern of a life that’s lived among the Northshore faithful in unfiltered terms. “Your uncle has a way of getting inside a person’s head, has since we were kids back at Saint Stan’s. Here I am, sitting in this very chair watching the Cubs crush the Cards and there he is, just back from making a fortune in Silicon Valley and going on about how your dad wants to name you Joesph after some lame-ass Polish writer.” Lenny downs the last of his Guinness. “Darwin wants to name you Isaac after some crazy-ass scientist, says you’ll have a better life as a technologist. Next thing I know, I’m wagering my ride against what amounts to walking around money for your uncle on whether Sammy wins the home run batting title. I still can’t believe Sosa screwed me over.”

Isaac laughs. “That wager’s legendary dude, people still talk about it. Biggest bet in this bar’s history. He let you keep the Harley though, right?”

“Said I didn’t have to pay up; I’ll give him that. Said he was only betting for fun but a bet’s a bet and don’t let it be said Leonard Kazlowski ever welched on a bet. So, we settled on a different Harley I just rebuilt. Win-win in way, although I’m still trying to break even. Statistically speaking though, it’s just a matter of time.”

“Au contraire,” Isaac shouts over his shoulder while pouring a pint for a patron, “your brand of statistics doesn’t apply, not when people like me have Bayesian probabilities on their side.”

Lenny stares at his lost wager sitting on the bar waiting to be collected. “Don’t be gloating about our bet pretending to be some kind of poet.”

“Not poetry man, mathematics.” Isaac takes the patron’s payment and tip, putting both in the till before returning to his spot in front of Lenny. “Bayesian Probability Theory to be precise.” Isaac smiles with patentable charm. “A little something I utilize in my wagers. Most gamblers think the world’s random when it’s anything but. Information is always out there that can give you an edge if you’re perceptive enough to use it. Isaac pulls a Mexican peso from his pocket and plops it on the bar. Suppose I toss this peso in the air and let it fall onto the bar, 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 know that.”

Isaac shakes his head. “Hate to burst your bubble dude but you’ve been misled. Before computers could solve complex problems, people needed simple ways to define the world, so Frequentist Probability Theory is invented. It’s based on the world being random and states given an event has two unbiased outcomes, they’re both equally likely to occur. In that world the outcome of a coin toss is fifty-fifty, but that’s not the world we live in. Our world’s woefully biased in ways impacting every aspect of any event. To start with, there’s no such thing as an unbiased coin, it’s like asking a machinist to make a perfect sphere; not possible. Unbiased anything is the stuff of fantasy and computer simulations.”

Isaac tosses the peso in his hand. “This here peso looks perfect but it’s not, the imprints are likely out of alignment, probably not uniformly dense, and most certainly worn in uneven ways. Because of that, it matters how it’s tossed, the surface it lands on, how it lands, and so on. A wise wagerer takes all available information into consideration and applies it 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 is 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 the outcome because you’ll likely lose.”

“There you go again,” Lenny grouses as he finishes his pint, “getting all poetic and pretentious.”

“Trouble with you Cub fans,” Isaac fires back while pouring another patron a pint, “is you bet with your heart instead of your head, which makes you easy pickings.”

Lenny glares at his skinny rich college-educated bartender. “I may not know what the hell you’re talking about, but my bottom line’s 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 damn sure wanna have money riding on that outcome.”

Isaac returns to his spot across from Lenny grinning. He wants to counter Lenny’s logic but knows better than to get him all worked up like last time. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I could buy this dive.”

“Whoa there, laddie,” Murphy grouses as he approaches from his end of the bar. “I don’t pay you to trash talk my fine establishment.”

Isaac flings his formally white bar rag over his shoulder staring at his portly, gray-haired boss before flashing a broad smile. “Last I looked, you don’t pay me at all.”

“And that is why, you’re the best damn bartender in all of County Cook.” Murphy grins back.

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

Isaac 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 sarcastic smirk, “on account of he did after all give me my big bartending break. Besides, the hours suite me.” Isaac takes the lost wager in front of Lenny and slides it over to Murphy.

“Not again lad,” Murphy says while stuffing the cash in his shirt pocket and tossing Lenny a smile. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

“You give him my wagers!” Lenny protests.

Isaac laughs. “Why do you think he lets me work here.”

Murphy steps in to keep Lenny from spinning up. “Next Guinness is on the house.” He starts back to his end of the bar unable to contain his laughter. “Like taking candy from a baby,” he reiterates while pouring Lenny’s pint.

For the moment it seems things are winding down as most of the game day crowd have gone back to wherever the faithful go when a Cubs game ends. As two Cub faithful 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, in walks Gabriella with the stunning presence of a super model on a fashion week runway. She surveys the bar’s beer-stained hardwood floor and the way it contrasts with her bone white Italian leather shoes before sashaying to Isaac’s end of the bar. Isaac patiently waits for her to get situated before leaning over for a kiss. “How’s Chicago’s most beautiful girl?” He asks, undeterred she only permits a light peck on the cheek.

“I’m bored,” Gabriella moans using a napkin to wipe down the old oak bar before setting her Chanel Classique Python bag on it, “lets’ do something.”

“Whatta ya got in mind?” Isaac inquires.

“I really don’t care,” Gabriella glibly states while adjusting her bottle blonde hair in the large mirror behind Isaac, appreciating the way his coal black hair provides necessary contrast. “Just rescue me from my boredom.”

Isaac leans against the bar-back crossing his arms to better consider options. “Wanna wander around Millennium Park making fun of the tourists?”

“Boring!”

There’s always Lincoln Park Zoo to watch otters make mischief. 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?”

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

“Could grab a pizza at Giordano’s?”

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

Isaac enjoys teasing his girlfriend. “If it’s a drink you be wanting lassie,” he says using an over-dramatized Irish accent, “the pints here at Murphy’s are world class. Best Guinness this side of the pond.”

“Does this look like the kind of place I’d have a drink?” Gabrielle denounces. “It’s all I can do to even come here to rescue you. Honestly Isaac, 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 drag me into your damn drama.” Lenny says while wiping free beer foam from his face.

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

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

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

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

Murphy warmly grins, while gesturing to the sign on the back wall by the dart board that looks like it’s been a target on more than on drunken night. The sign reads,

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

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

Gabriella has 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,” Isaac laughs, “another man might be offended, but I’m big enough to concede you do over-class the joint. And for the record,” he adds in a not so carefully concealed dig, “you’re definitely not the demographic Murphy’s going for.” Isaac gestures to Murphy in a way that makes clear he’d like to be excused. Since the post-game crowd has died down and technically, Isaac isn’t being paid, Murphy’s in no position to deny a request from the best damn bartender in all of County Cook.

Isaac wants to walk to the Navy Pier since he’s in no hurry and it’s only a few short blocks but Gabriella’s having none of that. It’s not because of her high Italian heels but because, “women of elegant fashion, arrive by chauffeur,” she lectures. “Unless it’s last minute, then an Uber has to do; other pedestrian modes of transportation, including walking, are for poor people.”

As expected on a weekday afternoon in early May on Lake Michigan’s Navy Pier, things are predictably quiet. Gabriella picks a cocktail bar on near shore side that they have pretty much to themselves; at least until downtown professionals start arriving for happy hour, which is not that far off.

“We should go somewhere.” Gabriella states as she nears the end of her first gin martini. “Someplace exciting. We’re in a rut Isaac, all we do is the same old stuff; you working at that God-awful bar and me waiting to be rescued.”

“As I’ve repeatedly explained,” Isaac impatiently 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 with a bag of freshly roasted peanuts would have been fun.”

“I’m not talking about stupid stuff like the zoo; we should go somewhere.”

“Like where 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 right here in the Windy City!”

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

Isaac finishes his IPA just ahead of his replacement’s arrival. “The very definition of boring.”

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

Isaac doesn’t take long to answer. “Tangiers.”

“Isn’t that like in Africa?” Gabriella asks in disgust.

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

“Yeah, but still Africa.” Gabriella sighs. “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 international espionage went down. Don’t know why it’s in Tangiers, maybe it’s just out of reach of everyone’s watchful eye. Maybe all the world’s spies got together and decided they needed a neutral turf, who knows?” He considers his answer further. “It’s just a short train ride from Casablanca and who doesn’t wanna day trip there?”

Isaac takes a sip of beer smiling at his muse. “We’ll sit in dingy bars along the coast at night imagining what it’d be like to anxiously wait to meet my handler.” He pauses to sample more beer. “Of course I’d be there against my will, I don’t want to betray my country, but the bloody bastards are blackmailing me. So, there I am, in a dingy bar by the sea with two envelopes. One contains the information they made me steal and in the other is something far more sinister. It has documents forged with morsels of misinformation scattered in strategic ways that go unnoticed but significant enough to cause real damage if the rat bastards use it. This is why in my high stakes game of cat and mouse I’m the mouse who’ll end up dead if my deception’s discovered.”

“Seriously?” Gabriella huffs.

Isaac leans across the table toward Gabriella to whisper a secret. “Which envelope do you given them?” He flops back in his chair. “Or do you skip the dingy bar all together and hop a freighter to the Virgin Islands? Live out your days in seclusion along a remote bay where locals know not to ask questions or reveal your whereabouts?”

“I’m not going to Tangiers,” Gabriella definitively states, “and I most certainly am not going to live out my days on some 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 is crawling with beautiful tropical women who spend their days planning for our nights.”

“That’s supposed to appeal to me because?”

Isaac casts a sly smile betraying the fact he’s not good with boundaries or limits. “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.”

Isaac sips his beer assessing the extent he wants to push things. “The Virgin Islands are in the Caribbean, but I suppose the difference between Barbary Coast pirates and Caribbean swashbucklers is just a water-downed bit of geography.” He pauses to allow the amusement of his romantic adventure to widen. “Probably best you don’t come. My handler warned me not to bring a beautiful woman, says it creates unwanted complications. 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 women, says they always burn you in the end.”

“Ha ha, mister funny man. I’ll remind you my degree’s in Russian literature and I find it highly unlikely your Russian handler would be working for communist China. It’s far more likely he’s an assassin the Kremlin sent to kill you, that’s how the Russians roll. Look at the joyful way they execute their murderous war in Ukraine. I would strongly advise against any planned trips to Tangiers; you’ll likely wind-up dead, which will server you right.” Gabriella samples her cocktail in a seductive way allowing her ruby red lips to amplify her indifference. “After you go and get yourself killed by the Russians, what am I supposed to do?”

Their round three drinks arrive at the table before Isaac 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. “Tatiana,” he says with a devilish grin while watching the tall waitress in the short skirt walk away. “Her name would be Tatiana.”

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

“My new handler,” Isaac answers without deliberation. “After I foil the first assassin’s attempt they send a new handler. She’ll want me to sleep with her of course, on orders from the Kremlin, you know, to prove my loyalty.”

“How does sleeping with this Tatiana woman prove your loyalty?”

“They know I normally wouldn’t do such things on account of I’m involved with someone who loves me back in the states. She’s so damn pretty though, 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.

Isaac takes a 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, 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 ambitions of their vodka-soaked 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.” Isaac smiles proud of the way his impromptu story’s evolved, “Show me a man who says he won’t and I’ll show you a liar. The only reason all men don’t have a Tatiana on the side is because they’re either too fat, too ugly, or too poor to get asked and that’s a truth you can take your daddy’s country club.”

The fuse Isaac insists on incrementally inching toward ignition is now irrevocably lit and the countdown to detonation is just one failed comment away. “My daddy doesn’t belong to a country club!” Gabrielle definitively states.

“That’s because he’s not poor, fat, or ugly,” Isaac counters as a matter of generally accepted fact, “he’s got better places to be in the afternoon than playing golf with fat ugly old farts.”

In one fluid motion most instant replay cameras would fail to fully capture, Gabrielle leaps from her chair while grabbing her cocktail and flinging it directly into Isaac’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 with his afternoons. You define your petty little world in the context of your petty little existence, trying to justify it by bringing all men down to your level. Well, I got news for you Jack, there are decent men in this world. You know nothing of this because your puny little existence thrives in the darkness of their shadows.”

Gabriella storms out of the now busy bar, gifting early arriving professionals with their first happy hour humor. In all fairness, she did present an ample platter of warnings and if Isaac were the type to give two shakes about such things he would have seen that 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 form-fitting skirt says as she invites herself to sit in Gabriella’s vacated chair, “the two of you are having a nice quiet drink and you get a little banter going back and forth that seems harmless and fun. You’re so busy enjoying yourself you don’t see the mood shifts or the mass of lava bubbling toward eruption.”

Isaac smiles at his newfound friend with neither remorse nor embarrassment. “Some people just lack a sense of humor.”

The woman confidently laughs. “If I had a dollar for every client who walks into my office saying, ‘things were going well until-‘” The woman in the tight skirt with long shapely legs pauses to taste her cocktail. “I could buy Wriggly.”

Isaac smiles coyly, confident his turquoise eyes and stubble beard cast him as Hollywood-aloof. Having already forgotten how he came to be in this bar or why he was just moments ago, briefly alone, his lips curl into a playful smirk. “Have you ever heard of a British dude called Thomas Bayes?” he asks. “Or his probability of chance? If not, perhaps I can interest you in a wager whose outcome is far from random.”