MURPHY’S NORTHSHORE BAR

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

Chapter 2: Murphy’s Northshore Bar

The afternoon crowd at Murphy’s Northshore Bar is shaping up the way it always does when the Cubs are on the road. The place is packed with blue-collar faithful, ready to root their home team to victory. Wagers ranging from obvious things like who will win to whether Sosa cracks a bat before the seventh inning stretch are already underway. As the name implies, Murphy’s is an Irish pub where the only pints poured are Guinness and Murphy won’t tolerate any nonsense from his patrons. There’s a main pub area when you first walk in with a long oak bar along the right-side wall having tavern stools lining the length and sides. The bar-back wall is lined with large plate glass mirrors behind rows of colorfully labeled whiskey’s, gins, vodkas, rums, and assorted liquors and mixers. Murphy recently installed two large screen TVs strategically placed apart from each other in front of the mirrors so the faithful can stay at the bar while they watch the game. He installed two more large screen TVs on the main room’s side walls and two in the back room, one opposite the dart board and the other opposite the pool table.

High tables with stools line the walls in each room and low tables with chairs are scattered about the main room in an indiscernibly random pattern. The floor is made from once-even oak whose stain has blackened over the years from spilt beer and deep drama that’s usually the result of a poorly constructed bet. When arguments arise from wagers, Murphy has to intervene as the final arbitrator. There have been times when patrons lost their pint privileges over disagreements about Murphy’s verdicts but for the most part, being allowed in Murphy’s matter more to the blue collar faithful than being right. In the back of the bar behind the pool table is Murphy’s kitchen. While not a place for fine dining, Murphy does a reasonable job making Italian beef sandwiches, his version of Chicago style hot dogs, and the occasional Irish special. On game day Murphy usually has two bartenders and two waiters but if you want your pint refilled between innings you best be queuing up by bar when the last out is made. Both the bartenders and waiters wear a white shirt with thin black tie, black pants, black shoes, and long black aprons. Murphy insists on the aprons, says it gives the joint a classy ambiance.

Vincent and Darwin arrive in time to nab the last two vacant stools at the bar in front of a newly installed TV. Vincent, a Murphy’s regular, motions for a round of pints as they sit down. This is the kind of bar where you best be ordering Hamms, Schlitz, Blue Ribbon, or Old Milwaukee in cans, and can only get Guinness on tap. What you don’t want to do is be asking for 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 the faithful’s 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 their series with the New York Mets. Of course, with Sweet Swinging Sammy Sosa is in hot pursuit of Mark McGwire for the home run title, everyone’s expecting big things at the plate.

Murphy fills two pints of Guinness and sets them on counter in front of Vincent. “This the brother you keep bragging about?” Murphy asks.

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

Murphy extends his hand. “Heard a lot about ya lad. 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 your Cubby fans, I don’t mind taking a look.”

Murphy sternly glares at Darwin before busting out in laughter. “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, wants to fix my TV.” Murphy leans in looking all serious. “How about you just sit here all quiet and all and I’ll try real hard to remember you used to be from Chicago before ya 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 Mets. Last game of the series. Harry sounds like he’s hitting the sauce a little early, 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 before wiping fresh foam from his lips as he mulls over an appropriate 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 Sammy wins the home run title I’m gonna name him after the Polish writer, Joseph Conrad. I think mom would like that.”

“Well (a), Sammy’s not winning the home run title, and (b), I got a way better name lined up for a way better profession once I win. 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 his Italian beef sandwich that’s just been delivered. “So, Lenny decides. 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 leadoff 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, just to teach you a lesson. The thing you fail to understand about me and betting is -” Before Vincent can finish, the bar groans in horror as Rhino hits a first-pitched ball to short for an easy double play.

“You were saying?” Darwin 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 thin 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.”

Murphy slaps a previously white bar towel over his shoulder as he approaches. He leans in close to Darwin as stoically serious as a bartender can. “You boys best be behaving yourselves. Dirty water dogs. You lads know better than to be asking for that kinda crap and none of that New York style 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 laughter. “Next beer’s on me lads. It’s worth it just for the fun of doing that. Always wished a New Yorker would wander in here just so I could say that. But alas, words out, New Yorker’s best not be coming to Murphy’s.”

Vincent doesn’t drink his complementary beer on account of his upcoming shift, 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 shit 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?”

Darwin twirls the bottom edge of his pint watching the pattern of condensation rings it leaves on the bar before taking a drink. “Yeah, there is that.”

“And Becky, when do you suppose you’re gonna get around to that bit of drama?”

Darwin stares at the screen to avoid making eye contact with his brother. “I can’t decipher what’s up with her.” He pauses somewhere between not being able to continue and not wanting to speak his next 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. Even if I could, that’d only close the physical gap. I really struggle to understand what happened. I mean I know why she broke up with me, but I don’t know why the why was so unfixable.”

“Did one of you have an affair?”

“This would be a whole lot easier if one of us did. At least then we’d have a villain and a victim.” Darwin pauses before quietly adding, “I don’t think love ever ends on such binary terms. All I really know is I know 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 to first. “I don’t think I can. You don’t really know how much you love someone until you’re not allowed to. I get that I gotta get over her at some point, I just don’t think I can. At least not now.” There’s another delay as the entire bar draws down in hushed hope watching the running at first attempt to steal 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 down in 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 says. “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 for a man to make a woman miss him is to make her believe he’s stopped caring.”

“Is it just me, or do you think you sound misogynistic?” Darwin 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 me to wallow in self-pity a while. Bottom line is I was as clear about my need to leave 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 angst is 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 seems a bit psycho.”

“She does have her moments, no escaping that. She’s a good person, mostly. No Ilene for sure, but who is?”

“Amen to that brother.”

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 a high-tech distillery and sell my shit for thousands a bottle.”

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

“Hell, it can’t. You way-underestimate what technology’s capable of. If I can make the invalid walk with a little software magic, 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 gotta pay off the governor and all his political cronies to get your liquor license, then the mayor for your business permit. After that there’s the congressmen, councilmen, inspectors, the police, the revenuers, community activists, county commissioners, the unions, the four families, the list never ends. For every dollar I’d earn, I could maybe keep a couple pesos. No way in Hell, anyone with a brain does business in this city.”

“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. Where else you gonna find good quality perogies 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.

“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. Besides, my little nephew who shall remain nameless, 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 unaged ten-year-old whiskey. I read once that Capone accomplished that by soaking dead rats in whiskey barrels. Apparently, it not only gives whiskey a vibrant color but adds a smoky oak charm.”

“Okay first, that’s disgusting. Second, 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, we can give Becky a call for a quick 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. He waits for Murphy to move out of earshot range. “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 I made selling my company, and you know about Becky, what you don’t know, is what I did and why I can never go back.”

Darwin takes his time with the special first taste of a freshly pulled Guiness draught, always the most rewarding because of its thick head of foam. With paused deliberation he sets his glass down and wipes foam from his face. “I did something, Vincent. Something beyond bad, it was evil.” He’s about to continue his mea culpa moment when the bar erupts in prolonged hysterics because the runner at first just stole second. This puts the tying run 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, it broke me. 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 drainage ditch with water rising kind of broke.”

Before Darwin can continue, the bar again interrupts in hysterics as a base hit scores the runner at second to tie things up. Now, the winning run is at first, with two outs and Sweet Swinging Sammy Sosa 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 midnight moon. Sosa has struck out twice so far and flied out once. His contact out, went all the way to the warning track and would’ve been a homer at Wriggly. Everyone in the bar’s glued to a TV and on edge as the pitch count to Sammy goes full. This 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. He winds and delivers. The pitch is low and inside, but Sammy gives it a ride to deep right. The bar goes silent as the ball begins its long ascension 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 robbed of a certain home run.

The disillusioned faithful can’t be consoled. It was all right there, the perfect pitch. A batter who’s due. A chance to take the lead. But no, it all ends in crushing disappointment. But hey, the Cubbies got two to tie, and as they head to the bottom of the sixth with the top of the Cub’s order due up in the seventh and the Mets are making a substitute batter pitching change, so anything can still happen.

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

“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.” Vincent hops off his barstool before Darwin can react. “You can get bill,” he says. “With your sudden wealth, I doubt I’ll ever pay for a drink again.” He slaps Darwin on the back as he heads for the door waving goodbye to the faithful.

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 emotion. He feels like someone who’s been left hanging after intercourse with his side unfinished; frustrated, a bit embarrassed, and looking for explanations where none exist. When it seems he’s about to slip down the same damn rabbit hole he’s been hiding in since Berkeley, he’s rescued by the rambunctious faithful cheering at the Cubs striking out the side to end the sixth.

Eager to claim Vincent’s vacated bar stool, Lenny plops down beside Darwin. “How’s it hanging man? I hear you’re a hoity-toity PhD now That’s hell and gone from our days at Saint Stan’s, but let’s be honest, you never were as wayward as the rest of us. Let me ask you something though, your brother was here a while back and got to going 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 so wrapped in such nonsensical competition.”

Darwin smiles, of course Vincent would need to make sure everyone at Murphy’s knew that, but the larger question is does he set the record straight or allow little bro to have his fantasy. Normally Darwin gets off putting arrogant MDs in their place, but is now really the right time? Besides, after what went down at Berkeley, who the hell is he to judge. “There really isn’t a hierarchy,” Darwin explains. “PhDs are thinkers, MDs are car mechanics of the body. You roll in with some minor thing 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 in my club rides 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 in Silicon Valley. I don’t know what that means, but I imagine engineers would like to watch me autopsy Harleys.”

“Hell yeah, I’ll stop by, not like I’m doing much of anything 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 Mets let him lead purely for its entertainment value. The bar’s less than on-key rendition of ‘Take Me Out to The Ballgame’ has everyone in high spirits.

“Harry’s in rare form tonight” Lenny says. “I counted a dozen mashed up words.”

“Not slurs?” Darwin asks. “Actual mashed up words?”

“Hell ya! Ya can’t count slurs this late in the game, all his words are slurred.

“Well color me Pappy.” Darwin says to himself.

Chapter word count = 4,560
Number of scenes = 1