Brunch in Wicker Park. Walk down a street festival on the Sunday afternoon. Girls in their summer clothes play corn hole. Tossing a bean bag with one hand, drinking a cold one in the other. Not inhibited to have a bit of a beer belly. I love this town.
Enter into a neighborhood dive, saddle up at the bar for one Old Style while I'm in town. A haggard Polish woman is the lone barkeep. She's not amused by our company or our patronage. An eerie, disco-era-esque song comes on the jukebox, female singer. It's right for the place. But completely at a loss for who it is...
"Who is this?"
Barkeep: Huh?
"Who is playing this record?"
Barkeep: Machine.
Sums up the weekend.
No comments:
Post a Comment