Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Fifteen

The night is a bust. I spend the better part of the evening trying to fend off guilt over the incident at Eve's front door. 

I blame that puritanical bent that I was raised with. If I'm present, everything that goes wrong must be my fault...even though, in this case, I don't own the nightclub, and I certainly don't employ the steroidal bouncers who can barely contain their disdain for the permanently tanned among us.

But I bear my self-inflicted angst alone. Freeman and Eddie actually ditch me because I'm not carrying out my wingman duties. "You're distracted. That makes you a danger to yourself and us," Eddie says, laughing loudly as they stride toward a cluster of young women.

The upside is I leave the club long before my buzz has a chance to evolve into full-fledged drunkenness. So, my sleep is peaceful, and I wake up refreshed early Saturday morning.

Normally by nine a.m. I'd be on my way to the YMCA, just a three-block walk from my apartment, to meet Freeman and when he's in town, Eddie. But those two probably have some damage to sleep off from Friday night. And I don't work out well alone, so I skip it and go straight to Milk Bud's, a hippie coffee shop on a quiet side street a half block from my building.

I love Bud's because it's the type of place I can hide in, a place I can pretend to be in a different time, in a different place. The walls are covered with framed newspaper front pages dated Dec. 6, 1961 – June 5, 1968, the period in which Bud, the owner and resident hippie, insists the mold of the world was finally cemented.

The date in 1961 is when Bud picked up his copy of John Steinbeck's The Winter of Our Discontent, a novel about a guy named Ethan Hawley, who is both self-aware of his white privilege and at the same time completely unashamed for using it to harm others and gain advantages in life. Bud frequently reminisces about reading the book in one sitting.

As for June 5, 1968, Bobby Kennedy was assassinated on that date. On May 5, college students at Columbia University coordinated what was reportedly the world's first organized global protest – of the Vietnam War. And a month or so before that, on April 4, Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee.

In place of doors, the entrances to the bathrooms in Milk Bud's are obstructed by weed-green bead curtains. Kind of unsanitary, I guess, but they're fun to look at.

Bud bears no unique appearance. Just think of every male hippie stereotype you've ever seen and then throw Tommy Chong into the mix as icing on the cake.

He's angry with me over some perceived slight from several weeks ago - refusing to give him dap or a fist bump or something equally dumb.

I could let him stew, but then I'd suffer, too, by virtue of misery loving company. So, like a longsuffering parent reading for the seven hundred and fifty-eighth the exact same bedtime story in the exact same tone of voice at the exact same pace, I explain to him that dap, the cool, creative, artistic, and, most importantly, intimate take on the handshake, is not for everyone.

"I would not greet every female acquaintance with a kiss on the cheek. Most I'd greet with a handshake. But there are a few to whom I feel especially close, whom I trust with personal knowledge of my life. They get the kiss. The same goes for the fellas and dap, Bud.  It ain't a Black thing. If that was it, why would I spend money here damn near every day? Hell, if I didn't like you, you wouldn't even get a basic handshake out of me. I'd just nod at you from a distance. Maybe we'll get to dap one day. Maybe we won't. But two things are certain: it's really dumb that I'm explaining this again and that in spite of my unwavering patronage of this place, you still doubt we're friends."

He pouts. But Bud knows I'm right. Also, he's heard this all before. And so, without formal acknowledgment, we reach a truce.

Seconds later, a copy of the Midway plops onto the bartop next to my drink.

"Know who did it?"

I shake my head. "Wouldn't be here if I did."

He nods. "Word on the street is those boys were a message to the South Side to not encroach."

"And what do you know about the streets other than that they're made of asphalt?"

I've hurt his feelings again, but Bud inadvertently made a good point. Outside of domestic violence, murder victims are usually tucked away so as not to be found easily. This does read like a message.

I thank the puzzled baristo for his help and bolt for the door.