da Barber gives up drinking for Lent. He's religious like that. Belongs to two Catholic churches plus one of some other denomination, for kicks. Kind of like cross-training for the soul. But yesterday marked the first business day after Easter, the end of Lent, the end of sobriety.
So I call him up. In the afternoon, for a lunchtime haircut, because truth be told, though I knew it was the end of sobriety, I wanted to stay sober. And it's easier to use I have to go back to work as an excuse than sorry gotta run I got lots of nothing else to do waiting for me to not do it. So clip clip bizz buzz eleven dollars plus tip later, he says, "too bad ya didn't come inna evenin, we coulda had a shot'n a beer and watched da ballgame." Cubs vs. Dodgers at Chavez Ravine.
"I'll stop by after work," I says.
And that's how it happens. So I show up after work, about seven. Ring the new doorbell installed under the old doorbell. No answer. Wait. Walk down the stoop. Look around. Not much happening on this street. Some fat kid came out of a house to start the minivan I parked behind, but that's about it. And then the door opens. da Barber's standing there shirtless, in pajama bottoms.
"Oh shit, were you sleeping?" I says.
"Aah . . . no, I'm doin laundry, see," he says. "Yer early, come on in, did I ever show ya my new washin machine?"
Follow him down this dark chipmunk hole into the basement. The only lights are a couple of green and red ones on this new washer I'm being shown, but otherwise can't see. What a great place to get murdered, this basement. So I climb the chipmunk hole back to the light.
"Ey, ya smellat?" Something simmering on the stove. "Das my spaghett! Ah man, ya gotta try it, ain't no one makes spaghett like I make spaghett! It's good shit, man! Ey, and uh I got da meatballs goin over innat pot, aaand ey, ya wanna beer?"
"Sure."
He goes to the mini-fridge and pulls out an Okocim. Polish beer. Big bottle.
"Ey, uh, ya ever tried dis one? It's good, man! It's like dem Japanese beer er sump'n, only Poland. Ya know what I mean? It's smood and goes easy wit da shots. Ey come on in here, I'll bring ya a glass fer da shot."
Walk to the front room and flop on the couch. Sip this oversized bottle of Okocim, which, on the Northwest Side, tavern windows glow brighter than Budweiser or Old Style. It's good. It's beer. And there's a lot of it.
da Barber follows with a glass and bottle of Beam.
"Ere ya go kid, dis'll relax ya."
"Cheers," I says.
We drink. He gets loud. In the way it's been bottled up for nobody to talk to about it for a long while loud. Liquor loud. Okocim loud. And I'm happy to lend an ear as I sip some whiskey after a long day of day, because he's loud for fatigue after a long life of life.
"Ah, listenna me," he says. "Waddyu tink, aah, ya know what I'm tellin ya? Waddyu tink?"
"Nothin'. I got no opinions either way," I says.
"Ah, ey, but'cha gotta be hungry, ey. Lemme get'cha some a dis spaghett, you ain't never had nuttin like it before at no restaurant. It's homemade, man! Aaanna meatballs, aaand ya chrow some giard'nell on top, mix it in, da best!"
He walks into the darkness of the kitchen, flips light. Some clinking and clanking and screeching of pots on the stovetop, light flips off. A plate of spaghetti in one hand, a pie tin of sliced garlic bread in the other out of the darkness. Puts them on a TV tray in front of me.
"Eat up, man. Oh ey, I fergot da wine." Takes my whiskey glass back to the kitchen and fills it with wine. Chianti. "Ey, dere ya go buddy, now ya got a meal."
I eat. It's good. I tell him so and he laughs and coughs till his lungs collapse, then lights a cigarette to refill them and cough a bit more.
We drink. He yells. Pours more whiskey and stumbles to the bathroom for a leak. Without flushing, he stumbles from the darkness of the bathroom to the darkness of the kitchen. Clink clank, screech, clink clink CRASH!!
Rush to the kitchen. It's dark. Flip light. da Barber's on all fours, staring at the floor, spaghetti and meatballs and garlic bread spread about in a tangled mess next to the standup ashtray he knocked himself over with.
"You alright?" I says.
"Aaah, look at me!" he screams. "Lookadis shit! Aah, don't worrybout nuttin, I'm just an old man fell down. Ah man, whadda mess!"
"You hurt?" I says.
"Nah, man, just old! Dis's what happens when ya get old! Drank too much. Just wanted ta have a plate a spaghett."
For a minute there, I thought he might cry. Can handle an old man down; don't like anyone out. But he didn't. He grabbed the fork slid under the counter, flipped the plate, and started scooping noodles and meatballs and garlic bread back onto it.
"There's plenty left," I says. "Why don't you leave it and make a new plate. I'll clean up."
"Aah, I don't give a shit no more," he says. "I cooked dis stuff and I'm fuckin hungry. Leave da rest dere, I'll get it inna mornin."
He took the plate back to the front room, and I cleaned up. Went to the bathroom to wash my hands, to find the old man forgot to lift the seat and pissed all over it. Cleaned again, lifted seat, washed hands.
Walked to the front room and flopped on the couch. Grabbed the whiskey and poured. Drank. Poured. da Barber munched his spaghetti and meatballs and garlic bread mixed with dirt and whatever little hair gremlins found their way out his cutting room to the kitchen floor. With marinara on his face like my two year old niece eating spaghettios, or a clown. Without his teeth. An exhausted, lonesome old man and his spaghett.
I poured one more and told him take'r easy, man, I gotta get home.
da Barber said he'd sleep like a baby tonight, another evening recharged for another tomorrow.
