Murphy’s Northshore Bar

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

Chapter 5: Murphy’s Northshore Bar

The afternoon crowd at Murphy’s Northshore Bar is shaping up like it always does when the Cubs are on the road; the place packed with patrons ready to root their home team to victory. Vincent and Darwin arrive in time to nab the last two stools at the main bar facing the newly installed big screen TV. Vincent, a Murphy’s regular, motions the bartender for a round of beers as they sit down. This is the kind of bar where you best be ordering Hamms, Schlitz, Blue Ribbon, or Old Milwaukee in cans, or either a Guinness or Murphy’s Red Cream Ale on tap. What you don’t want to do is order any of that sissy shit like Colorado Coors and especially not Saint Louis Budweiser, that’ll get you bounced out quicker than the Cubbies can end an inning with men in scoring position.

It’s not particularly noisy at the moment but that has less to do with patron enthusiasm than with Harry Caray running down the starting lineup from his broadcast booth, which he not only does with flare but with a brand of cutting edge truth that angers the faithful as much as it does confirm what they already know in places deep in their souls no one likes to venture. Steve Trachsel’s on the mound so optimism’s high among the faithful that the Cubbies won’t get swept in the final game of the series with the New York Mets. And of course, with Sweet Swinging Sammy Sosa in hot pursuit of Mark McGwire for the home run title, everyone’s expecting big things at the plate.

Without specifying his beer choice, the bartender fills two pints of Guinness for Vincent and sets them on counter. “This the brother you keep bragging about?” the bartender asks.

Vincent nods. “Darwin, meet Murphy, he more or less runs this joint, that is unless Maggie’s around to keep us all in line.”

Murphy extends his hand. “Heard a lot about ya. Vinny here says you’re one of those Silicon Valley dot com guys,” he leans in super serious. “So, listen, my TV’s been acting up, maybe you could give it a look. I think it’s a loose cable or something, shouldn’t be much for a dot com’er to fix.”

“Well, first off,” Darwin answers, “glad to meet you. Second, I’m more on the software side of things. Hardware and AV’s not really my deal but if you’re desperate and willing to risk pissing off all your Cubby fans, I don’t mind taking a look.”

Murphy sternly glares at Darwin several seconds before he bursts out laughing. “That’s exactly what your bloke of a brother said you say! He says you couldn’t figure out how to plug in a toaster if that was all you were required to do to get laid. Hey Johnny!” he shouts to a guy standing by the pool table in the back of the bar, “this is the bloke we was talking about the other day, wants to fix my TV.” The bartender leans in looking all serious, “how about you just sit there all quiet and all and I’ll try real hard to remember you used to be from Chicago before yous was Califronicated.”

Before Darwin can respond, Murphy moves on torment other barstool patrons with equal zest. “Geez,” Darwin whispers to Vincent, “he that way with everyone?”

“Don’t pay him no mind, that’s just his way of saying welcome back to the North Shore. Anyway, Cubs versus the Mets, last game of the series, Harry sounds like he’s hitting the sauce a little early though, which has gotta mean he’s thinking celebration.” Vincent slides one of his beers to Darwin, “Remind me again of our bet.”

“If Harry mashes up a dozen or more words from ‘Take Me Out to The Ballgame’, you gotta to buy me a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle.”

“And when I win?”

“Name it, Van Winkle’s a grand a bottle so go big.”

Vincent sips his beer and wipes the foam from his lips as he mulls over what to wager. “I want a signed Sammy Sosa home run ball from this season.”

“What the hell for?”

“For Joseph, never too early to start Chicago’s newest Cubby fan’s memorabilia collection.”

“Who the hell’s Joseph?”

“My son; when Sosa wins the home run title I’m gonna name him Joseph, after the Polish writer, Joseph Conrad. I think mom would approve.”

“Well (a), Sammy’s not gonna win the title, and (b), I got a way better name lined up for a way better profession once I win, but I ain’t saying what it is on account of it’ll jinx things and this is way too important for any of those kinds of shenanigans.”

“No way you win and to prove my point, whatta think a Sosa home run ball goes for?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Darwin answers, “but I’d estimate you got the better pot odds on this wager.”

“How we gonna decide if Harry mashes his words, I mean certainly he’ll slur, he’s always pretty lit up by the seventh. We should have bet on how many words he’ll spell backwards during the game, that’s a little more clear-cut.”

Darwin looks toward the back of the bar where the pool tables are, “I say we let Lenny decide. I think I saw him a few minutes ago, you remember Lenny, he played ball with me in back in the day, his sister was your grade I think, but she couldn’t go to Saint Stanislaw’s School for Wayward Boys.”

“Saint Stan’s is coed now,” Vincent offers. “Don’t know if that helps anything, not sure anything can help that place. Ilene says we won’t be sending our kids there, not after all the horror stories I tell her about my time in the brickyard.” Vincent takes a drink to chase down a bite of the Italian beef sandwich he picked on the way to bar. “So, Lenny decides, but do slurs count, cause there’s no way I can win if they do.”

“Slurs don’t count,” Darwin declares. “He has to forget a word, replace a word, or mispronounce a word, slurring is just Harry being Harry.” Darwin considers further caveats, “it’s a draw if at any point in the song, he says a word backwards.”

“Agreed, but here’s my caveat; my shift starts in three hours, which means I have to leave in two. With Trachsel on the mound it’ll be a slow-moving game. If I have to leave before the seventh inning stretch, the bets off. I gotta be here for Lenny’s officiating otherwise, you’ll just buy the bastard off.”

“I’m shocked Bro! To think you think I’d stoop to that level, but okay, if you have to leave before the stretch, the bet’s off but you have to buy me and Lenny a beer as compensation.”

Vincent’s about to counter but the crowd erupts in cheers as the cubbies get a lead off single to right with Ryan Sandburg coming to the plate. “Rhino’s always good for extra bases with runners on,” Vincent shouts to the guy beside him who nods in solid affirmation.

“Care to wager?” Darwin teases.

“I oughta,” Vincent fires back, “just to teach you a lesson. The thing you fail to understand about me and betting is -” Before Vincent can finish his thought, the bar groans in horror as Rhino hits a first-pitched ball to short for an easy double play.

“You were saying?” Darwin confidently grins.

“Shut the hell up and drink your beer, you traitor. Barkeep!” Vincent shouts, “Get this man a dirty water dog with ketchup and while you’re at it, grab him a slice of New York style pizza cause he’s got a lot of crow to eat when we start getting runners across the plate; no way the Mets get the sweep.”

The bartender sternly slaps a previously white bar towel over his shoulder as he approaches, leaning in close he looks at Darwin as stoically serious as bouncer can get, “now you boys best be behaving yourselves, dirty water dogs, you know we don’t serve that kinda crap here and none of that New York pizza shit either, this here’s a real bar for real men and don’t you be forgetting that.” He pushes back from the bar staring coldly at the two foolish hooligans before breaking out in a smile. “Next beer’s on me lads,” he says past his laughter. “It’s worth it just for the fun of doing that. Always wanted a New Yorker to wander in here just so I could say that, but alas lads, words out New Yorker’s better not be coming to Murphy’s.”

Vincent doesn’t drink his complementary beer on account of having a shift coming up, which means one more for Darwin or the guy on the other side of Vincent, depending on who gets to it first. It’s now the bottom of the third and the Mets have just taken a three-one lead.

“Let me see if I’ve got this,” Vincent probes, “you’re richer than snot but not happy?”

“I’m not, not happy,” Darwin confesses, “I’m in flux. There’s a difference ya know.”

“And your life is falling apart,” Vincent adds.

Darwin twirls his beer on the bar watching the pattern of condensation rings before taking a drink, “well yeah, there is that.”

“And Becky, when do you suppose you’re gonna get around to talking about that?”

Darwin looks up at the screen to delay his response. “I can’t decipher what’s up with her.” He pauses somewhere between not being up to continue and not wanting to speak his words out loud for fear it makes them final. “All I know is I’m here and she’s in California and it don’t seem like we got a plan to close that gap.”

“You could always go back.”

“Not an option. And even if I could, that’d only close the physical gap. I really struggle to understand what happened, but clearly, something went wrong. This it’d be a whole lot easier if one of us had an affair, at least then we’d have a villain and a victim.” He pauses before quietly adding, “I don’t think love ever ends on such binary terms. All I really know is I know is I didn’t cheat and am pretty sure she hasn’t moved on.”

“And what about you?” Vincent asks.

“What about me?”

“Have you moved on?”

Darwin considers the question for longer than it takes two tosses over to first. “I don’t think I can,” he finally offers. “Sometimes you don’t know how much you love someone until things are over. I get that I must get over her at some point, I just don’t think I can, at least not now and I certainly won’t know how any better later, so there’s that.” There’s another delay as the entire bar draws down in hushed energy watching the running at first go for second. “The thing is,” Darwin continues once the runner’s out, “I thought we were going to last forever.”

“Should have put a ring on it bro.”

“I wanted to! I proposed one night when we were downiunt Cabo, she laughed at me, thought I was joking and being silly because I wanted newlywed sex. She says marriage is an antiquated tradition, something insecure fools do to tie someone up. She always talked in forever terms though, hell, we even bought a house together. Guess I still own half of it, well the half that’s paid for anyway. I don’t care, she can have it, what the hell do I need with half a house in California. It’d be petty of me to bring it up and as long as she doesn’t, there’s hope.”

“Don’t go there dude,” Vincent advises. “Nothing worse than some poor schmuck who can’t read the tea leaves. Ya gotta move on, if you want her back that’s step number one. Best way to make a woman miss a man is to make her believe he stopped caring.”

“Is it just me,” Darwin sarcastically counters, “or do even you think you sound misogynistic?” He takes a swig of beer and looks up at the TV just as Sosa strikes out to end the top half of the fifth “I know I’m being pathetic but I’m dealing with a lot of shit right now and so allow myself to wallow in self-pity for a while. I was as clear about leaving California as she is about staying. I’m damn certain I can’t go back and I’m fairly certain she won’t leave. So, it is what it is, which doesn’t do much to make me feel better and all the money in the world ain’t gonna fix that.”

“What you need is a Gwen distraction. One phone call bro, one call and all your troubles are behind you.”

“I’d just be trading one set of shit for another. I really can’t believe her and Ilene are sisters. I mean Ilene’s so nice and Gwen-” Darwin looks up as the Mets load the bases with one out. “Let’s just say she comes across as being a bit psycho.”

“She certainly has her moments,” Vincent grins. “There’s no escaping that, but she a good person mostly. No Ilene for sure, but who is?”

“Amen to that brother. . .amen.”

The bar erupts in excitement as Sandburg makes a leaping lung to pull in a line drive shot up the right side of the mound. He catches the runner at third off base for the third out keeping the Mets from scoring even though at one point in the inning, they had the bases loaded and nobody out.

“Top of the sixth and only down two,” Vincent shouts, “it’s comeback time!”

“All fine and good,” Darwin counters, “but the real question is how’s Harry holding up?”

“Hard to say with volume muted, we might never know.” Vincent checks his watch. “It’s quarter to three and if the Cubs get something going, I’ll have to leave mid-inning, which sucks, because I’m so looking forward to that autographed Sosa home run ball.”

“We’re just nine well placed pitches away from the stretch, plenty of time to build up an appetite for some Pappy Winkle. Maybe what I ought to do, is move to Kentucky, open up a high-tech distillery and sell my shit for thousands a bottle.”

“Technology can’t get you ten years of quality oak aging,” Vincent points out.

“Hell, it can’t, you way underestimate what technology’s capable of. If I can make the invalid walk, I sure as hell can figure out how to age bourbon ten years without aging.”

“Then you should just stay here and make whiskey, if Chicago’s good enough for Capone, it oughta be good enough for you.”

“Capone owned the system, I’d have to buy it, Ya got the governor to pay off, the mayor who needs his cut, then there’s the congressmen, councilmen, inspectors, the police, the revenuers, community activists, county commissioners, the unions, the five families, the list never ends. For every dollar I’d earn, I maybe could keep two nickels to rub together. No way in Hell, anyone with a brain does business in Chicago.”

“All true for sure, but as Daley used to point out, the trash gets picked up on time. Either way, I think you should stay in town, why the hell would you want to go anywhere else? Here you got family, familiarity, the weather sucks but the Italian beef sandwiches are top shelf. And let’s not overlook that you got me and soon, little Joey who needs his uncle Darwin’s guidance if he’s to become the family’s first writer.”

“Writer!” Darwin scoffs. “No way in hell your future engineer winds up a writer.”

Before Vincent can counter, the entire bar groans like the last burst of air fleeing a flat tire. They’re on edge for what’s shaping up to be a Cubs rally with runners at first and third and only one out, all Dawson has to do is smack a deep fly ball to score a run, which cuts the deficit to one. Three pitches into the count, Dawson delivers a high fly ball to deep right center that scores the runner at third but holds the runner at first leaving the crowd conflicted between elation and frustration.

“Staying is an option” Darwin admits, “when I make my ledger of pros and cons, Chi-town always comes out favorable. I mean it’s great being back and spending time with you, and Ilene’s cooking, I could stay just for that, and my little nephew whose name shall remain shrouded in mystery, is gonna need me, you two yuppies don’t have a clue how a raise a boy into a man as demonstrated by deciding not to send him to Saint Stan’s where its either learn to survive or die. The thing is, and I’m being honest here, I think my life is mapping along a different trajectory. I don’t know where I’ll land but am pretty damn sure it won’t be here.” Darwin pauses to consider his newest option. “I gotta say, there’s something sexy about the challenge of making ten-year-old whiskey that’s not aged.”

“What about Joey and his Sammy Sosa ball, don’t you want to be a part of that? And Gwen, sure she’s psycho, but let’s be honest, you’re no door prize, if you doubt me, always we can always call Becky for a qiuck consult. All I’m saying is the pros to staying outweigh the cons.”

Darwin finishes his beer immediately motioning for another. “I was gonna wait until after the baby’s born, but since you’re pushing, there is something we need to talk about.” Darwin’s about to start when his beer arrives, so, he waits for the bartender to move out of earshot. “I wasn’t completely forthcoming about what went down in California. I didn’t lie but what was it they used to say at Saint Stan’s, ‘a sin of omission is a sin against truth’. So, I need to come clean; you know about the shitload of money, and you know about Becky, what you don’t know, is what I did and why I can never go back.”

Darwin takes that extra special first drink from his freshly pulled draught, always the most rewarding because it comes with the head of foam. He’s about to restart his mea culpa when the bar erupts in prolonged hysterics because the runner at first just stole second, which means the tying run is now in scoring position with the winning run at the plate. Once things quiet back down, Darwin readies himself for his big reveal. “The thing is brother, I’m broke, not in the I don’t have money for rent kind of broke, but in the cars not working and we’re stuck in a storm kind of broke.”

Before Darwin can continue, the bar interrupts in hysterics as a base hit scores the runner at second to tie things up. Now, the winning run’s at first with two outs and Sweet Swinging Sammy Sosa is coming to the plate. The bar becomes an echo chamber of “he’s due” sentiments bouncing back and forth like a coyote call to the noonday sun. Sosa has struck out twice and flied out; his contact out was all the way to the warning track and would’ve been a homer at Wriggly. Everyone in the bar’s glued to the TV and on edge as the pitch count to Sammy goes full, which means the guy at first will be running on the next pitch and can score on anything hit out of the infield. The pitcher stares the base runner down, then winds and delivers, the pitch is way inside, but Sammy gives it a ride to deep right. The bar goes silent as the ball begins its long climb to the top of its arch. In the muted room you can hear Harry shouting in full late-inning slurs, “that ball’s got legs!” The Met’s outfielder races toward wall, he’s at the warning track, the ball’s still got legs, the outfielder leaps against the wall just as the ball’s coming down outside the park and. . . Sammy’s out, once more rob of a certain home run.

The disillusioned faithful can’t be consoled, it was all there, the perfect pitch, a batter that’s due, a chance to take the lead, but no, it all ends in crushing disappointment. But hey, the Cubbies got two to tie as we head to the bottom of the sixth with the top of the Cub’s order due up in the seventh after a pitching change so anything can still happen.

“As I was starting say,” Darwin continues, relieved to finally be having this much needed conversation with his brother.

“Hate to interrupt bro,” Vincent interjects. “It’s not only way past three, you picked a shitty time to start in on this, even though I’ve been waiting for you to come clean. Here’s the deal, we’ll pick this up either tonight or tomorrow, but the hospital hates it when I’m late. Of course, I’m a freaking doctor, I can come and go as I please and the patients will wait, but now’s not the time to crawl down your rabbit hole.” He hops off his barstool before Darwin can react. “You can get bill,” he tells Darwin with a coy grin, “with your sudden wealth, I doubt I’ll ever pay for a drink again.” He slaps Darwin on the back on his way to the door, waves to the faithful, then exits.

Darwin watches Vincent leave, unsure how he feels. It took a lot of emotional energy to build up to his reveal, six innings, two beers, and a lot of energy. He sort of feels like someone who’s been left hanging after intercourse with his side unfinished; a bit frustrated, a bit embarrassed, and looking for explanations. When it seems he’s about to slip down the same damn rabbit hole he’s already traversed multiple times since Berkeley, he’s rescued by rambunctious patrons cheering at the Cubs striking out the side to end the sixth.

Eager to claim the vacant bar stool, Lenny plops down beside Darwin. “How’s it hanging man, I hear you’re a hoity-toity PhD now, sure as shit is a long way from Saint Stan’s, but let’s be honest, you never were as wayward as the rest of us. Let me ask you something, your brother was here a while back and got to talking about how he outranks you on the doctor’s scale cause he’s an MD, is that true? Not that it matters to us common folk and not that I care but it’s an interesting something, I mean I didn’t know you doctor types were wrapped in such nonsensical competition.”

Darwin smiles, of course his insecure narcissist brother would need to make sure everyone at Murphy’s knew that, but the larger question is does he need to set the record straight or allow little bro to have his fantasy. Normally he gets off putting arrogant MDs in their place, but is now really the right time, and besides, after what went down at Berkeley, who the hell is he to judge. “There really isn’t a hierarchy,” he explains. “PhDs are thinkers, MDs are the car mechanics of the body; you roll in with something broken, and they fix it for large sums of money. Sometimes, they fix shit that ain’t even broke just to run up the bill, just like car mechanics. By the way, aren’t you a mechanic?”

Lenny motions Murphy for another round. “Not officially, I fix bikes, that’s how I got myself in a club. Pays not that good but the works steady on account of everyone riding Harley’s. I got a shop off Cicero; you should stop by some time. Vinny comes over every once in a while, always bragging about how you’re an engineer, you’d like watching me autopsy Harleys.”

“I actually would,” Darwin agrees. “Hell yeah, I’ll stop by, not like I’m doing much of anything else these days anyway. Tell me though, is it true you can’t balance a Harley engine?”

Before Lenny can answer, the room’s subsumed by patrons joining Harry Caray for the seventh inning stretch that the home team is letting him lead for it’s entertainment value. The bar’s less than on-key rendition of ‘Take Me Out To The Ballgame,’ has everyone in high spirits and merriment.

“Harry’s in rare form tonight, huh?” Lenny observes. “I counted a dozen mashed up words.”

“Not slurs?” Darwin asks just to be precise. “Actual mashed up words?”

“Hell ya, besides, this late in the game all his words are slurred.

“Well color me Pappy,” Darwin says with satisfaction.