Windy City

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

Chapter 4: Windy City

Darwin awkwardly hops out the sidewalk side of his taxi mindful to miss the torrent of water cresting the curb like a typhoon surf. He again chastises himself for foolishly believing time and distance, combined with fond nostalgia, can overcome the cold indifference of wind blowing off Lake Michigan. He navigates the wet concrete dodging puddles connected by tributary fingers of upstream water on his rush to the canopied door held open by the bellman too distracted for pleasantries. “Time and distance,” Darwin berates while brushing rain from his coat and pensively waiting for the elevator to lift him above the gravity of his moment. “Gone too long, changed too much, the damn doorman doesn’t even recognize me. Sure as hell hope Vincent does.”

Darwin glares across the lobby like a shipwrecked pirate trying to make out the flag of an approaching cutter, uncertain how wind and rain could color his city in an abject unfamiliarity that can’t be described but also can’t be disregarded. It’s not that he never visits, it’s that life gets seen through filters and his are in flux. It’s why he’s here, his next logical step, fraught with uncertainty for sure, the implications of which definitely define the rest of his life.

The only thing certain is California’s callous and exhausting, and he’s gotten as much from Silicon Valley as he deserves. After all, a guy can only own so much money before money owns him. He stayed longer than he should because of Becky but she’s not the reason for leaving. He’ll admit he loves her but only in those rare moments that press hard at allowing himself to be crucially honest. Even then it’s a love based on who he was, who he’s trying to escape, which increasingly seems unconnected to where he’s going or who he wants to become; even if he doesn’t yet know who the new him is supposed to be. “Why the hell ya think I’m here,” he mumbles as the elevator door draws closed, “Vincent’s the one for sorting this sort of shit out.”

Life is lived off the decisions of the willing and Becky was willing to let him leave without her, at least that’s what she said. Maybe she saw him changing, becoming someone whose world she didn’t want in her orbit. All Darwin knows is he couldn’t stay, not if he wants to salvage some small part of the person he long ago was, wants to be again. She called him a foolish idealist, which is absurd, engineers are to a fault, pragmatists obsessed with optimizing everything, including life. Idealism exists so idle millionaires can profit from their distorted belief they’re helping humanity, but are they? Does anyone? Certainly, no one in California’s coming to his defense after hearing what he has to say about that. Technology’s changing too rapidly and billions flowing too freely for anyone to heed his warnings. The more woke you are for the need to slow down and consider technology’s consequences, the more you realize you’re an outcast stranded on an isolated island, a mirage of cumbersome complexity.

It’s not fair to blame Becky for things being over, not really, and neither her nor California should blame him back. In Silicon Valley, you’re either all in manically trying to keep up or you’re benched in bewilderment, and the better you are at doing what you do, the faster you’re consumed and tossed aside like discarded cans in a ditch, waking up one day to the realization that while you seem plenty busy, your life is empty and devoid of purpose. There’s absolutely no doubt Darwin’s done, which leaves the mystery of why he’d stay there artfully mismanaged. He leaves California convinced when you board a plane you ought to at least know where the hell you’re going and why you’re landing. That’s why he’s home, if anyone can sift through the shit show of his life it’s Vincent. The easy part’s saying, “I need out,” but it’s a horse of a completely different color to execute that escape, know where you’re going, how you intend to plug into your next new start over, and what your purpose is supposed to be. For a PhD engineer like Darwin, ambiguous uncertainties like these are about as uncomfortable as it gets.

Darwin stoically stands in front of the eighth-floor apartment defeated yet still defiant, definitely not the man he was when he first left home, but who ever is? Becky expected things to never change but life is constant motion, and you either map out the journey or get lost in the wilderness of chaos. When Darwin left home for grad school, he topped the scale at an impressive one-ninety, but three years later when he defends his dissertation, he’s a down thirty pounds, mostly due to sustaining himself on granola bars, coffee, and four hours of sleep. Now, he struggles to get north of one-sixty even though he’s in better shape than men half his age.

That’s how he met Becky, attending a workshop on nutrition so he could heal his post-doc body while embracing culinary aspects of his new California life. They were partnered during the cooking portion of the day, Becky wasn’t new to California, but she’d just been promoted to head of HR at her company and workshops like this were part of her perks. She didn’t seem outgoing enough to be in HR and once they got to cooking it was clear she’s a take-charge kind of woman who doesn’t tolerate nonsense. Darwin tends to be nonsensical when not at work, it’s how he copes with his overly intense technology deployment day. By all appearances they’re a mismatch but who can say when it comes to love. In three months, they’re living together, later that year they buy a house to validate their commitment to each other. Initially, Becky brought Darwin to all her company events but over time stopped; Darwin assumed it was because she understood he was busy but now, given everything that’s happened the way it happened, he’s doubting his assumptions.

Darwin knocks abruptly while staring at the plaque beside the door that reads, Dr. Vincent Olinski, MD, “you’re such a freaking narcissist,” he scoffs.

The door flies open so fast that before Darwin can react, Ilene leaps into the hallway with an exuberant hug forcing him backwards. “I can’t believe you’re here!” she jubilantly shouts. “Look at me will ya, I could burst at the sight of ya, but ya best be hoping I don’t!”

“Good God please don’t!” Darwin shouts before realizing this is another one of his many unfortunate moments when he should have filtered the first thought that comes to mind. “At least not until Dr V’s here to manage things.” He pauses to craft a recovery strategy. “Some kind of weather, huh?”.

“There’s a reason they call it the windy city.” Ilene laughs while grabbing Darwin’s hand and leading him into the apartment. “Vincent should be here soon, provided there weren’t extra innings that is. Where’s your luggage?”

“I dropped it at the Peabody on drive in from O’Hare.”

“Well, that won’t do,” Ilene curtly states. “I got the guest room set up for ya. I’ll have the Peabody send your stuff over.”

“You sure? I plan on being here until after your drama’s done.”

“Drama, what drama? I’m having a baby silly; it’s not like I’m getting a face lift.”

Before Darwin can respond, the door flies open. “I’ll be damned!” Vincent shouts. He tosses his backpack against the corner wall with little regard for what’s inside, “the prodigal brother has returned!”

Darwin turns too late to avoid Vincent’s big bear hug that he holds so long Ilene returns from the guest room. “Oh, your back,” she flatly states.

Vincent walks over to kiss his wife, but she turns her head while forcing a flat-line smile. He graciously accepts a peck on the cheek is all he can hope for. Ilene coldly turns toward the kitchen, “I’ll check on diner,” she says barely able to hide her anger.

The two boys watch Ilene leave, before Vincent goes to the living room’s glass top table to fix a drink. “Can I get you anything,” he shouts in a voice that betrays distraction.

“What you can do,” Darwin snaps, “is get your shit together.” He accepts the bourbon poured on rocks without acknowledgment.

“Come again?” Vincent automatically responds to busy mixing his cocktail to be concerned with whatever his brother’s yappin about.

“I see what’s going on,” Darwin sternly says, “you’re up to your same old shit. You leave on a Sunday saying you’ve got work, you come home late, and your pregnant wife who’s clearly pissed about something even though she’s too polite to be unpleasant won’t even kiss you. You’re in serious need of needing to reassess your priorities.”

“Oh that,” Vincent scoffs finishing his cocktail with devotion to detail, “it’s not what you think.” He samples his concoction. “Okay, yeah,” he restarts, “she’s plenty pissed, but not about what you think it’s about. This morning out of nowhere she starts in about how we should go to some silly antique thing on the pier and I don’t want to. One thing leads to another and before ya know it, I’m at Murphy’s with the boys. In my defense, when’s the last time the Cubs were relevant this late in a season.”

“I got ya.” Darwin softens seeing the situation for what it is. “I stopped on the drive in from O’Hare to catch the ninth, the driver had the game on his radio, and we agreed to duck into a pub he knew. You see the smack Sosa gave that ball over the bleachers; two outs, runners on first and third, winning run at the plate. Hot damn that was something, walk-off homer, and against the Cardinals to boot. We ought to catch a matinée before the series is over, but then again, given what’s going down here maybe not such a good idea.”

“Absolutely we should,” Vincent responds from a reflex that comes before careful consideration, “be just like old times.” His exuberance quickly fades as reality sets in. “But between work and a pregnant wife, matinées aren’t easy, she’s got this insane hormone-induced notion that because I slip out to have beers with the boys and catch a game I don’t love her and am gonna leave her cause she’s fat and ugly.”

“You wanna try saying that last part to my face,” Ilene suddenly interrupts with drill sergeant aggression.

The boys stiffen in shock, a stillness that comes from knowing the danger at their back, but then, like characters in a horror movie about to enter the abandoned tool shed, they slowly wheel around in stunned silence knowing this is not going to end well. “Now honey,” Vincent stammers, “I was just relaying what transpired this morning and telling our guest what you’re always telling me and I wasn’t done with the story. If I had finished, you’d have heard me say how I think you’re as beautiful now as that blessed day five years ago when I first called you my darling wife.”

Ilene stares with a cold contempt that makes clear if she had a gun there would be cause for concern. “Lucky for you I heard most of what you said, or you’d be sleeping at the Peabody until you ran out of whatever little I left you after the divorce.” She pauses for a moment letting the unbridled extent of her anger sink in before her stern features soften to a subtle smile. She looks at Darwin, “you know I can’t stay mad at him even when he abandons me on a Sunday to watch his precious Cubs. It’s my fault I suppose, daddy told me not to marry a North Shore boy, said there’s plenty of good men in Saint Louis. I should at least be happy he doesn’t drag me along to his games.”

“So, just to be clear,” Darwin probes, “you’re okay if me and Vinny catch a game while the villainous Cardinals are in town?”

“You too,” Ilene stammers in exacerbation, “what’s wrong with the Cardinals?”

“They’re traitors,” both boys shout in syncopation. Darwin continues, “They should have never left Chicago, and for what, Saint Louis, who does that?”

“Apparently successful baseball teams.” Elene smiles with satisfaction while looking up toward heaven, “That one’s for you daddy.”

“Again to be sure” Darwin asks, needing confirmation, “you’re okay with us catching a matinée?”

“Unless you’d rather go antiquing.” Ilene sarcastically retorts.

“I think we’ll stay with warm beer and mustard dogs at Wriggly.”

Ilene turns to Vincent, “I suppose I have to forgive you; you told me straight up before our wedding about your silly Cubs and I agreed. Of course, you never mentioned it carried over to the Bears, Bulls, and Blackhawks, but I suppose it’s all in the unwritten small print so what’s a wife to do.”

Vincent rushes into Ilene’s welcoming arms. “You’re going to make a great mom, you know that?”

“Why would you say that?” Ilene coyly asks.

“Because even when you apologize, I end up feeling guilty.”

“That’s not being a mom silly, That’s Wifing 101.” She pauses for well-rehearsed added effect. “And I was mom’s best student don’t you agree, I mean Gwen’s got nothing on me.”

#

The boys retreat to the living room for a nightcap following Ilene’s delicious dinner. Vincent hands Darwin a bourbon on the rocks while confidently reasserting his prediction, “I’m telling you, Sosa’s gonna win the home run title. Sure, McGwire’s got the lead now, but a guy that juiced can’t maintain.”

“Care to wager?” Darwin teases.

“What kind of stakes we talking about?”

Darwin smiles with satisfaction as he sets the hook. “If McGwire holds on and wins the title, I get to name your son – in accordance with family tradition of course.”

“Pretty damn big wager, and if I win?”

“I’ll date Gwen until she realizes this thing she thinks she has for me is seriously flawed.”

“You’re saying you won’t be the one to initiate the breakup?”

“Nope.” Darwin declares.

“For as long as it takes?”

“Until death do us part.” Darwin swears while making the sign of the cross over his heart.

“Hell yeah, I’ll take that bet, pot odds demand I do if nothing else, but I warn you, a brother’s bond is absolute.”

“Agreed.” The boys shake hands to seal the deal. “Though, when I win,” Darwin continues, “you have to convince Ilene the name’s your idea, she ain’t gonna take well to me naming her first born.”

“What I want to know,” Vincent banters back, “is after you lose, how you gonna stay forever with someone you don’t love?”

“People do it all the time, in fact, they say couples from arranged marriages are the happiest, at least that’s what all the California Hindus preach.”

“What about Becky, can’t imagine that’s the sort of arrangement she’s down for?”

Darwin takes a drink of bourbon to brace is resolve, “Becky’s a conversation for a night at Murphy’s that goes into extra innings.”

Vincent smiles in satisfaction, “I suspected something was up.” He’s about to auger deeper into this obviously good gob of gossip when-

“Hope you boys saved room for dessert,” Ilene announces carrying three slices of Trilece cake on a tray with coffee into the living room.

“Romeo here, was just saying he might ask Gwen out.” Vincent declares.

Ilene sets the tray on the coffee table and looks up smiling. “Don’t you be teasing Vin, you know she’s got a thing for Darwin. Besides, I don’t think Becky would find that an amusing way for him to spend his vacation.”

Darwin considers setting the record straight about Becky breaking up and him not being here on vacation. Instead, he finishes his cake and coffee in silence, douses down the last of his bourbon, and excuses himself for bed. He’s not really in the mood for sleep but his presence has suddenly become somewhat awkward as the banter and PDA between Vincent and Ilene is getting increasingly frisky.

Darwin does his departing complements and retreats to the guest room where he starts to unpack before deciding since he plans to stay until the baby’s born, he has lots of time for that sort of nonsense. He instead chooses to finish the book he started on the plane but as he reaches into his backpack his fingers find the hard edge of the unused journal he bought on Telegraph Avenue the afternoon his life went to shit. It’s not the first time he’s taken it out, but each iteration ends the same; staring at the first blank page with nothing to say.

This time it feels different, he’s inspired. Maybe it’s finally getting out of crazy California or possibly seeing Ilene ready to pop, most likely though, it’s the Sammy Sosa bet that has him ready to memorialize. How cool would it be to name his brother’s son; that’s a story worthy of retelling up and down north shore bars. He even already has a name from back when Becky still believed he was the one. Darwin digs out his fountain pen and loads an ink cartridge. He scribbles on a piece of scratch paper until sure the ink’s ready to properly flow, he then opens the journal to page one and with great deliberation writes, September 23, 1998, in the upper right-hand corner. “There,” he proudly promotes his success, “baby steps.”

Darwin’s never been one to journal, of course he keeps meticulous lab books for his ideas and innovations but to write about his personal life, or worse yet, his feelings, that’s a fiction best left unexplored as any truthful engineer worthy of his status will agree. As he stares at the mostly blank page, he recalls the recent string of events that initiated all this commotion. He allows himself to lament walking away from the life he was destined to live. He replays his presentation at the Berkeley Faculty Club, what it meant and how it felt to open the piece of paper the investor slipped him with so many commas and zeros. He assesses all the good his innovation should have done but stops short of carrying things over to the other side of the ledger, that’s a place he promised himself he wouldn’t venture, not now, not ever. There are things a man chooses not to retain and there are things he can’t retain, his reason for leaving California must forever be sealed and stashed away.

For the next hour Darwin repeatedly starts to write something in the journal, but each time stops just as the tip of his fountain pen is about to touch paper. At one point he gets out a blank sheet of engineer’s paper to write Becky a letter. She just needs some time he convinces himself, “time and distance, that’s how someone like me begins to look good again to someone like her.” It doesn’t seem to matter much that he’s moved on from journaling to letter writing; he’s still locked in the same repetitive pattern of attempting to write and having nothing to say.

What would be the point of telling Becky he loves her; it’s not like he hasn’t already said it a hundred times. Then again, maybe the hundred-and-first time will be the one that fixes what was broken. She says she doesn’t love him anymore and won’t follow him to wherever the hell it is he’s going. He gets the not following him until he figures out where he’s going part, he tried to pitch the not knowing as a grand adventure, but Becky wasn’t buying and he gets that. What he can’t wrap his mind around is her not loving him, how does someone go from, “I love and want to have children with you,” to coldly stating “I don’t love you anymore?” It’s as if she’s returning a dress she tried on but never intended to wear.

She obviously doesn’t mean it, how could she. Sure, things have been a bit off and what went down at Berkeley certainly didn’t help but it isn’t the “I don’t love you, I can’t be with you,” kind of shit; at least not to him. It hurts, not only what she did, but how she did it, that’s the part he can’t write about. When he needed her more than at any other time in his life, she abandons him, calls him a fool for even caring that his fortune is blood money. When he tells her he’s thinking of giving it all away, she uses it against him, saying that’s just the kind of foolish shit she’d expect from a foolish boy. So now he can’t give his fortune away. When he wins Becky back, he’ll need to demonstrate he wasn’t foolish and has the means to support her well enough she doesn’t need to stay in California. She just needs time, then everything will be okay. That’s the mantra he keeps repeating as he slips into another night that will ultimately be devoid of restful sleep.