#i Have rehearsals Until 6 every fucking Day until Next friday all Of my silly plans fell through To go to the Movies fuckinnn

[beegswaz]

im Going to Start fucking Maiming no nvm. Anger has become sadness. Again. good Night i cant do this Shit rn

[abovethesmokestacks]

Make Me Feel Like I’m Real (5/7)

Title: Make Me Feel Like I’m Real Pairing: T.J Hammond x OMC Rating: General Audiences Warnings: swearing, increased hate for tabloids? Otherwise none Spoilers: spoilers for Political Animals (esp. the last couple of episodes)

I am so sorry I flaked out for MONTHS. I got caught with the nastiest flu ever in mid-November and didn’t shake it until week after New Years. In between better and worse periods of being sick, I had a very untimely case of writer’s block, so all in all a shitstorm as far as writing was concerned. Finally managed to finish this baby tonight, and I hope you all enjoy it! Let me know if you want in on the taglist.

TAG LIST: @loup-malin, @ursulaismymiddlename, @sarahsassafras13, @bakexprayxlove, @booksandshowsandmovies-ohmy, @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki,@lilasiannerd, @the-hidden-seeker, @bovaria, @ceebeetumbles, @the-scars-and-the-stripes, @smile-youlookbetterhappy, @captain-amelia-bradley, @mrshopkirk, @amrita31199, @winter-in-wakanda, @avengerofyourheart, @creideamhgradochas, @themcuhasruinedme, @feepsmoothie, @nuvoleincielo, @wellfuckbuck, @callamint, @tatortot2701, @mellifluous-melodramas

<< Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 >>

June 2014

”Please jailbreak me.”

”That bad?”

”I feel like I have ants crawling under my skin.”

”Do I say ‘you’ll be okay’? Or will that make it worse?”

”I hate myself.”

”I love you.”

”I don’t deserve it.”

”I still love you.”

”Please bake me a cake with a rasp inside it.”

”I’ll send you cupcakes and a $1 nail file.”

”How you holding up?”

”Okay, I guess.”

”Really?”

”No. I’m terrible. I remember exactly why I tried to halfass my way through it before.”

”But you won’t now?”

”I won’t. I promise.”

”I’m sorry.”

”What? What happened?”

”No! No, it’s-it’s a step. I should be doing this face to face, and I will, I just… I’m so sorry.”

”Oh.”

”A conversation for next week. Just… I don’t know. I wanted to get a head start.”

He returns home at the end of March.

Rehab was different this time. Same place, a couple of people he recognized from his previous stint, but this time T.J actually tried. Dutifully went to appointments, talked, reflected, fought, accepted. The first week was hell, as expected. One year apparently did very little to tame his cravings. He was commended for making it so far essentially without help, for returning to rehab, and when he stepped outside the doors to finally leave, he felt ready. He could do this. One day at a time.

And then he realizes he promised Aiden he’d call once he was home, and one day at a time becomes one second at a time. They’ve only spoken on the phone a handful of times, exchanged a couple of pictures. Trouble is huge now. The sensation of ants under his skin returns full force when T.J picks up his phone, and he can’t even bring himself to call. He scolds himself for being such a fucking chicken and sending a text.

>>Can I come over?

>>ofc

>>I missed you

>>me 2

Everything seems so amplified. He’s about to see his boyfriend for the first time after three months, for the first time since that night. The rehab welcomed him immediately, and T.J packed his bags, sending Aiden and his parents a short text from the cab. His mother called a couple of times during his stay, asking if he wanted them to visit. He declined her every time. It was better that way. He couldn’t fathom having to deal with himself at times, even less his family. Plus, things were getting serious on the campaign trail. Caucuses and rallies had kept Elaine busy. T.J didn’t want to interfere. Either way, it wasn’t his first rodeo.

His bags feel lighter as he dumps their content on the bed, sorting through the mess. Dirty clothes, toiletries, a notebook he got to keep track of all the things he wants to do, needs to do. It’s gotten to be a pretty extensive list. Smiling, T.J sets it on the bedside table. He’ll have to look through it later, see where he can start. It’s mostly amends, but he figures he can’t ignore them, not if he really wants this to stick.

When Aiden knocks on his door ten minutes later, T.J’s heart kicks into high gear. It’s… He realizes he’s scared. They are together, or so he fervently hopes. What if Aiden wants to take a break, the kind that always remains a break and never has a happy ending? T.J pulls at the sleeves of his henley, trudging out to answer the door. Aiden’s outside, smiling expectantly. It’s not the full-on grin that’s like the sun on a cold winter day, but it’s something. T.J’s heart is still beating hard, but it’s as if the other man’s presence calms it, however little.

”Hi.”

Yeah, it’s awkward, and if he didn’t know better, T.J would say he’s been transported back to high school. For what feels like hours there’s only tentative smiles and hands shoved into pockets before Aiden takes the first step. He brings T.J in for the tightest hug he’s had in three months  ̶  three fucking months  ̶  and it’s the best thing he’s ever experienced, he’s sure of it. It’s more than the sensation of being held tight; it’s the scent of Aiden that he would happily drown in, and just being home. Aiden presses a gentle kiss to his lips, and T.J can swear he’s flying. He’s home.

It’s not easy to be back, and it takes a couple of weeks for them to get back into the life they were right in the middle of before New Years. There’s the issue of T.J having to adapt to life post-rehab, taking the responsibility he never really bothered with the last time. There’s also, well, life. T.J has things he needs to do. He needs to leave the club, or at the very least renegotiate his position in the hierarchy. Aiden keeps busy, rehearsing with the orchestra for a month-long concert tour that, yes, has T.J worried. There’s also the issue of the election.

Preparations for the final stretch of the nomination process have been going on for a while, gathering support from delegates and maintaining their donor base. Sooner or later they will knock on his door, and he will be asked to do his part. He’s not sure if it will be easier or harder this time. It’s not him the spotlight will be on primarily, but with his history, he will be dragged into it plenty. The addict son of the Secretary of State, now second-time-Presidential candidate, and the former President, at least one suicide attempt, hospital visits that were swept under the rug, plenty of scandals to choose from. Yeah, what opposing candidate and newspaper would turn that down? It’s easier because he’s trying to stay clean, level-headed, and not fall apart at the slightest hint that he’s in trouble. And, he has Aiden by his side. It’s harder because he will have to deny himself the escape when the spotlight eventually stays too long on him and tries to burn him. And… he has Aiden by his side. The tabloid article that ran back in October was nothing compared to what might be published now. He’s not ashamed of Aiden, absolutely not. He just wishes he could shield him from the cruelty of the press.

Some of it is easy. T.J gets out of his club deal, no hard feelings (just an obscene amount of paperwork), and he continues his efforts to fulfill the program outside rehab. Making amends with Gunner has his stomach in knots, and he feels like he’s doing it wrong when the other man nods and pulls him in for a hug. He fucked up another man’s sobriety, and this is it? It feels too easy, and T.J wants to do more, but can’t come up with any gesture that would atone for his wrongdoing.

Most of it is… not exactly hard, but unfamiliar. He thought he’d be more confident in his abilities, in his resolve to stay clean post-rehab, but all he can see nowadays are potential pitfalls. Each passing day bring him closer to Aiden leaving to go on tour, and it’s hard to feel confident when he knows what happened last time he was alone. He also realizes he has to let Aiden go, that he can’t let it stand in his way. He went to rehab so he could get past not only the addiction, but the co-dependency, too. It will be okay. T.J repeats it like a mantra, rehashing the coping mechanisms he’s learned should he be tempted, making sure he has places to be while Aiden’s gone.

When the day comes, he’s restless. By 8 am, he’s already on his third cup of coffee, and keeps rechecking Aiden’s bags to make sure he has everything he needs. It sucks. Things are finally starting to settle between them, they’re doing good, and now they gotta make it on their own for a month. Aiden lets him fuss, until the cab honks angrily outside his apartment, after which it becomes a race to see how many affirmations and kisses and silly little declarations they can cram in before they have to open the door and wave at the cabbie to wait.

”I’ll miss you,” T.J mumbles, straightening the lapels of Aiden’s blazer, fingers tripping over each other from too much caffeine.

”You’ll do fine. You can text me anytime, about anything, and I’ll call you as often as I can, okay?”

”I’ll still miss you.”

”Trouble will take care of you,” Aiden coaxes, nodding to the now very large cat sitting at their feet.

They’ve decided to let Trouble stay with T.J until Aiden gets back home. It’s easier for everyone. T.J gets to stay in his safe space, he’ll have something to focus on daily and Trouble gets taken care of. It’s a win-win for everyone.

”I’ll blame him for everything then.”

Aiden rolls his eyes at him, leaning in for a final goodbye kiss before taking his bag and the cello in its case, and walking out to the cab. T.J feels like some strange 50’s housewife, waving off his man as he rides off into the distance. Only thing missing is a fucking handkerchief. Behind him, Trouble meows loudly, looking very perturbed and apparently knowing that his owner has gone off and won’t be coming back for some time. T.J snickers, picks up his phone and snaps a picture of the groused cat.

>> he looks like he will murder me X attachment img_1293.jpeg

>> Damnit, told him to wait until Friday! X

>> play good ok? X

>> I will. I love you. X

>> i love you X

>> I love you. X

>> i love you X

>> Turning off the street now. I believe in you.

He keeps staring at those four words throughout the day, smiles as he reads through the rest of the conversation. So blessedly ordinary, so perfectly okay. T.J knows the feeling won’t last forever, and revels in it for as long as it lasts. Aiden calls when they get to their first stop, only dropping his phone twice as he tries to unpack and talk at the same time. It’s easy, effortless. He can do this. He can. He can.

For the most part, he does okay. The schedule he’s set up for himself helps. Meetings, dinners, Trouble. He plays a lot, working his way through the treasure trove of sheet music Nana gave him for Christmas two years ago. The first week of Aiden’s three week tour goes by without a hitch. He’s energetic, he has a plan, it works. It goes so well T.J starts worrying, and so is not surprised when the following week he suddenly wakes up one day with a weight on his chest that is another kind of trouble. It’s that dangerous cocktail of loneliness, doubt and a day with no plans. His skin feels electrified, fingers twitching for something to do, the apartment feels too small. The real Trouble meows, demanding his attention, but T.J can’t focus. He makes sure the furball has food and heads out.

It’s dangerous, and he knows it. Last time this happened… He lets out a shuddering breath, digging his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans. It will be okay. It’s not even noon, he would be foolish to try, he’s been doing good, he just- he has to come up with something to do. T.J keeps a running commentary on himself as he stalks downtown, heart aching because he wishes Aiden was here. His first truly bad day since coming out of rehab, and of course Aiden has to be away. He knows he’s supposed to be okay, that his sobriety isn’t and shouldn’t be tied to his boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean this feeling of anxious worry in his chest will go away as easily as it would if Aiden was by his side now.

>>not doing so good 2day. trying 2 find smth 2 do. miss u.

It takes Aiden all of two minutes to respond.

>>Tour is overrated. Can’t wait 2 come home. U will make it through 2day, I know it. Call me if u need to, travel day 2day. xo

This man, he’s too good for him. His body this aches and wants and writhes, but T.J fights. He ends up going to lunch, finding a reason to kill an hour. It becomes two hours, a staffer who used to work for Elaine on Dougie’s team recognizes him, comes over to talk. It’s good, normal. Smalltalk and business talk and empty phrases. ”I don’t know anything about that, and even if I did, you know I couldn’t say anything about it.” ”Tell Doug I said hello.” ”Sure, I will!” T.J can’t even remember the guy’s name.

He visits Nana, determined not to let anything tempt him today. She’s surprised at first, but seems to realize he needs refuge from the world. They play showtunes and watch horrible soap operas for hours before T.J feels safe and centered enough to return home. Trouble needs him. It’s a strengthening thought. He’s needed. The cat climbs him like its own personal tree the second he’s inside the door, and he holds the purring fuzzball close, doesn’t mind when Trouble curls up next to him on the bed. He can’t wait for this loneliness to come to an end.

He should have known even thinking about the possibility of being happy once Aiden gets home was tempting fate. The days have felt impossibly long, and he has gone stir crazy trying to work through the combined stress of loneliness and worry about his resolve. T.J can practically see the finish line. One more day, one more night. He can do it.

With one day left, he’s pulled back into the harsh reality. T.J’s phone explodes around 9 am, sending Trouble into a tizzy that ends with claw marks etched into his arm before the spooked animal sets off like a rocket to hide under the couch. Hissing at the quickly reddening marks, he fumbles for his phone and blindly sliding the blinking icon to answer.

”Yeah?”

”Aw. You sound like you’ve had a lot of sad, lonely nights.”

”Aiden?” T.J sits up, clenching his fist so as not to itch the scratches. Aiden snickers at the other end of the line.

”Were you asleep?”

”Are you surprised? It’s Saturday!”

”I thought you’d be lying dramatically on the couch, crying your heart out,” Aiden rebuts, and though the tone is teasing, the comment confuses him.

”Are we- Should I know what you’re talking about?”

”Oh. Oh, okay. You haven’t seen it. We’ve apparently broken up according to at least two tabloids.”

T.J’s blood freezes in his veins. He tells Aiden to hold on, bringing up the browser on his phone, taking a steadying breath and then does what he’s long learned he shouldn’t do. He googles himself. In less than a second, his screen is filled with headlines screaming at him.

HEARTBREAK FOR HAMMOND?

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST? - FORMER FIRST SON SPOTTED ALONE

TWEAKING T.J? NO THANKS!

LOVE 'EM AND LEAVE 'EM?

THE SINS OF THE FATHER… A YOUNG BUD HAMMOND IN THE MAKING?

His eyes skitter from one headline to the other, feeling his heart rate increase and his mind instantly kick up a whirl of ”What did I do?” It’s only when Aiden calls his name loud enough for him to drag him out of the judgmental tailspin that he takes a moment to calm down. Nothing has happened, it’s just gossip. They’re still together. Aiden is just away, doing a concert tour. No heartbreak.

Right?

”Aiden…” he begins, rubbing his forehead. ”I’m so sorry, I-”

”T.J, don’t. This isn’t your fault. I don’t blame you. You told me this could happen, and I accepted it. I know we’re not over, I hope you know that, too.”

”Of course! I miss you like crazy, and I’ve- I have had a few hard days. I’m still good.”

”I’ll be home soon, T, I promise. Are you eating okay? You looked a little pale in the pictures?”

Of course there were pictures. T.J groans.

”I’m not subsisting entirely on takeout, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replies, making a mental note to take out the boxes that have accumulated in his kitchen. ”I’ve had dinner with Nana a couple of times. Wholesome, filling meals. You would be very proud.”

His phone beeps, indicating another call, and he misses most of Aiden’s no doubt sarcastic comment checking his screen. Elaine. Fuck. He bites his lip.

”Mom’s calling,” he says, putting the phone back against his ear. ”I gotta take it.”

”Of course. Text me if you need anything, okay?”

”I’m sorry. Again. And again.”

”And I love you. Again. And again.”

They say goodbye, and T.J has to call Elaine back. She’s somewhere in Wisconsin, incidentally also heading home to prepare for a rally set for next week. Apparently she has put him on Google alert, and T.J’s not sure if he’s supposed to be grateful or miffed. As is, his mother is more worried than angry, asking if everything is okay, if he needs anything.

”I’m fine, mama, I promise. It’s all lies,” he assures her, crouching to hold out his hand when Trouble crawls out from under the couch to check if things have calmed down.

”You sure, sweetheart? I’ve got staff working on finding out the source for the articles. The timing is a little too convenient. They’ve left you alone for so long now, and suddenly running a purely libelous excuse for an article this close to-”

”I promise. I’m okay. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Aiden will be home tomorrow, he’s… he’s actually kinda amazing about this whole thing.”

On the other end, Elaine lets out a breath, and he can almost see her trademark smile. T.J can’t help but smile in kind, not caring that she can’t see it. Trouble comes trotting towards him, sniffing his hand to check if there’s a treat waiting.

”I’m glad. I’ll be home in a few days. We’ll talk more then, okay?”

After promising he’ll come by with Aiden once they’re all in the same city, they say goodbye, and T.J quickly works through his notifications. Doug has sent a bunch of texts, and the righteous anger almost jumps off the screen. Nana and Bud have both left voicemails, a bunch of emails have dropped in. Nothing to worry about in the grand scheme of things. And yet…

He can’t help himself. Against better judgment, T.J scrolls through a couple of the online articles, knowing they’re worse than the printed versions. Whoever invented the comment section should get a swift kick to the shins with a steel toe boot. It’s all variations on the same spiel, T.J Hammond spotted alone, looking tired and haggard, where is the still unknown boyfriend he’s been sighted with, are drugs behind the supposed breakup, and… There’s a picture of him talking to the staffer – what the hell is his name again? – that makes his stomach lurch. He still looks tired, but the pap has managed to catch him in a moment where he’s smiling, however tentative. Even though this is –  should be –  same old-same old to him, the insinuation that he’s cheating or moving on because of a relapse makes him nauseous.

By some miracle, T.J manages to tear himself away before he makes the terrible mistake of delving into the comment section, fearing it might set him off and make him do something stupid. He clenches his teeth, shutting of his laptop and pushing it away from himself. It’s.. not okay, but he’s okay. He can do this, it’s nothing he hasn’t encountered before. Only it is, his mind quietly tells him, and T.J can’t really protest. There’s never been anyone like Aiden in his life when this has happened. It’s been months, they’re good, even with his recent stint in rehab. All things considered, they’re good, he’s clean, why does this have to happen?

It’s a blessing to wake up to knocks on his front door the next day, to Trouble galloping to serve as welcoming committee, to Aiden’s smile as he sets down his bags and bring T.J in for a hug and a peppering of kisses, to calm in his soul. Couldn’t the paps capture this instead? Is this not as desirable?

”Next time, I’m bringing you with me,” Aiden speaks against the crook of T.J’s neck, holding him tighter. ”I don’t care how, you’re going in my suitcase. You’re getting contortionist classes for Christmas.”

”I missed you, too,” T.J replied quietly, drawing in the scent of his boyfriend.

He still smells a bit like bus and airplane, but there’s that ever-present smell of sandalwood hidden underneath, the soft cotton of his shirt evening it out. Aiden smells like safety, his tall and slender frame so easy to wrap oneself around, always warm no matter the season. Maybe it’s regressing a little bit, but right there, wrapped up in Aiden’s arms, T.J can’t help but feel relieved. He’s back, he can breathe a little easier. It is a nice little moment, tender and stretching out until seconds feel like minutes.

Until Trouble decides he’s done being ignored and uses them as his personal scratch tree.

They have a nice two days before Elaine calls to inform T.J that she’ll be home the next day and wants to have dinner with them both. He can almost hear how smug she looks when he turns to Aiden to ask if the time is okay, and he’s not entirely sure why it makes him blush a little. So Aiden hasn’t gone home since he got back. So maybe they’re enjoying the domestic bliss. So maybe it makes him feel better and not think about the articles so much. So maybe he likes it.

Aiden hasn’t been over for dinner with his family since Christmas, and T.J feels like he’s introducing him for the first time all over again. The way he hugs his mother is perhaps a tad perfunctory, but his stomach does a wild little somersault when he sees the way she smiles brightly at his boyfriend, hugging him as tight as she would her own two sons. Nana, true to her nature, is as brash as ever, holding her arms open for T.J and beckoning him over with a ”Come here, you little shit.” He’s almost surprised she doesn’t slap Aiden’s ass when they head to the dining room, where Dougie and Anne are waiting for them.

They chat amicably, polite questions about Aiden’s trip, about his parents. Dougie goes on a tangent about something that happened in Minnesota, and T.J can’t help but look at Anne by his brother’s side. She looks good, a lot healthier than she did back before they married. As fucked up as T.J had been, of course he’d noticed; the way she shuffled her food around her plate, the sometimes less than subtle excuses from the table. It’s a struggle, just like his own, and he can’t even bring himself to be jealous of her progress.

”So, how you holding up. T.J?”

Smooth, Dougie.

”Your faith in me is breathtaking, bro,” he shoots back, chewing demonstratively on his food.

Doug pulls a face at him, huffing. ”I just meant, it’s been a while since-”

”I’m good. It sucks, but it comes with being a Hammond. Same old, same old.”

”You know that’s not true, honey,” Elaine admonishes him, setting down her knife and fork.

And T.J knows that’s not entirely true either. The second Bud announced his intention to run for president, their lives were never the same. They became public property, something for people to scrutinize and put expectations upon. It’s not his father’s fault, but he’s not sure if he should put the blame on the people or the ones that cater to them.

”Any luck finding the bastard behind this?” Nana, always there to distract, even if it brings them back to the matter at heart.

”Nothing substantial yet,” Doug says, but T.J can tell from the way he clenches around the cutlery that there is something. ”I talked to Daniel-” That’s the fucking staffer’s name! T.J thinks triumphantly, ”-he didn’t seem like he was hiding anything.” His brother turns to him. ”Asked if you were okay.”

”Peachy.”

”Come on, man, we’re trying to help you!”

T.J is about to launch into a rant of his own, feeling the exasperation rise in his throat, but it lodges there, frozen in place when Aiden places his left hand over his under the table. It’s Thanksgiving and Christmas all over again, thumb running smoothly over his knuckles, a quiet show of solidarity, a simple gesture to say ”I’m here. It’s okay.” His outburst dies before it has time to potentially ruin dinner.

”I…” His voice comes out thick and low, and he squeezes Aiden’s hand. ”I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, it just makes it worse.”

”I know you don’t,” Elaine tells him, reaching out to pat his cheek. ”But if this is something… more, I want you to know that we’re not going to stand for it. You’ve been through enough, darling.” She pauses for a second, eye contact briefly breaking to look over at Aiden. ”Why don’t you bring Aiden with you to the rally next week?”

”Mom…”

Elaine pulls back, once again sitting straight in her chair. ”If you don’t mind?” She looks inquiringly at Aiden, and T.J can feel him stiffen in his seat.

”I… guess not? I-I just gotta check m-my schedule?”

”You don’t have to do this,” T.J assures him, then turns to his mother with a sharp look. ”Right?”

”Of course not, I just thought you would appreciate having him there. I know you don’t like these things all that much.”

Well, she’s not wrong about that. Elaine’s first campaign had been taxing enough to get through and that was when he could battle the pressure of presenting a perfect picture with blow. He’d been high a couple of times throughout, it was easier to smile and pretend that way. That’s not an option now. No floating through rallies and fundraisers in a blur, all edges smoothed out. T.J hates the way his mother managed to trap him, hates the way he can’t look at Aiden for the rest of the dinner, hates the way conversation dies down to hums and platitudes. He’s almost thankful when the family disperses after dinner almost like they knew this was painful. Aiden carries most of the charm as they say goodbye, thanking Elaine for the delicious food, giving her a hug that to T.J’s eyes looks as sincere as anything. He himself barely manages a light kiss to his mother’s cheek before he’s out the door.

”You’re angry,” Aiden states, slinging his arm around T.J’s shoulder.

He’s not sure whether to contest the statement or not. It’s not quite anger, not all of it. It’s worry and disappointment and apprehension, all swirling inside him, and T.J knows he needs to get a grip on it before it sets off his itch.

”You don’t have to come,” he murmurs, still keeping his eyes trained downwards, following his feet as they steer homewards. ”I can manage. Done it before.”

”But you don’t have to.”

Aiden stops mid-step, holding onto him gently to make him stand still, too, before placing both hands on his shoulders.

”I’m not… wild about the idea of standing in front a crowd, waving and smiling, but I can see what your mom’s thinking. If we go… if we stand there together, it’s a statement, right? We prove them wrong.”

”I hate that we have to do that,” T.J says, reluctantly looking up, breathing slowly in and out. ”I never thought I’d have to bring you into this, not this much. If she- If mom becomes President, I won’t move back. I don’t think Doug will either. It shouldn’t be as exciting as last time, people were going on and on about how the White House had not one but two First Sons, the first since JFK junior.” He uttered the last few words with rehearsed disdain, having heard them so many times, always with the same expectations attached to them.

”They came after you, T. You’ve done so well, and I want them to see that. If it helps that I stand by your side and show them just how much I am still in love with you, then baby, I’ll do it. I’ll dress up in my best suit, and I’ll kiss you on national god damn television if that’s what it takes.”

They both break down in snickers at that, T.J leaning in to press a kiss to his boyfriend’s jaw.

”You only have one suit, idiot.”

Aiden grins, kissing him back. ”Then clearly it’s my best one.”

It doesn’t take away all of his worries, but it eases them slightly. They spend the following days preparing, Aiden asking questions upon questions, getting asked questions in turn as he’s cleared by Elaine’s security to attend the rally as part of the family. It’s the only time before the rally T.J sees him even a little bit nervous, sitting with his hands clasped tightly in his lap, shaking and nodding his head so vigorously when he answers it sets the tight curls of his hair dancing. T.J draws a small sense of pride in being able to be the supportive one, to be the one who has the answers, who knows what will happen.

It doesn’t change the fact that they’re both a mess the day of the rally, hands shaking as they tie their ties, cursing under their breaths. True to his word, Aiden is clad in his only suit, hair pulled back into a tight bun. Though his heart is thundering in his chest, T.J can’t help but admire the man in front of him. It’s been almost a year since that first kiss, two years since they first met. It’s strange to think how much things have changed since Aiden came into his life.

”Hey,” he whispers, taking hold of Aiden’s hands as the man struggles to wrestle the silk into a tidy knot. His own fingers steady as they pry Aiden’s hands away, taking hold of they tie to twist and turn it in a pattern familiar to him. ”It’ll be fine. Find something to focus on. Not the people, that’s… overwhelming. Look at a flag, there’s always flags. Or balloons. I usually try to play connect the dots with them. One flag, linger. Another flag, linger.”

”And here I’d worked on my royal wave,” Aiden jokes, voice shaky as he exhales.

”You can wave.” T.J tucks the wide end of the tie through the loop he’s created, pulling to tighten the knot. ”I’ll be there.”

He smooths out Aiden’s shirt, pulling lightly on the lapels of his suit jacket. Aiden smiles weakly at him, fixing T.J’s tie in kind, straightening the collar before cupping his cheeks. T.J relishes in the sensation, the lightly calloused finger tips against his cheeks, the warmth emanating from the contanct. Tilting his head, he kisses Aiden’s hand, taking hold of it with his own, letting their fingers interlace.

”Ready?” he asks, gaze flickering over Aiden’s shoulder to the door behind which the public awaits.

”As I’ll ever be.”

It takes them both by surprise at first. Aiden, who has never been in front of this large a crowd before, breathes out a surprised ”wow” as they step onto the podium, squeezing T.J’s hand a bit harder. For T.J, it’s been a while since he’s been in the spotlight, but he eases into character sooner than he’d guessed, an easy smile gracing his features. He waves to the masses, his heart doing a little somersault when he sees Aiden doing the same from the corner of his eyes. The booming roar rises when Elaine finally takes the stage, and for a second, it’s almost like he’s back in that ballroom in Chicago.

The ruckus dies down as Elaine begins to speak, motioning with her hands for people to calm down. It’s always been fascinating to T.J how skillfully his mother can work a crowd, how with a simple gesture or a few choice words she can make her audience listen with bated breath, even when it’s just the standard phrases that precedes her true message.

”I am so happy to be here today, to see all of you. Your support and your enthusiasm are truly inspirational,” Elaine starts off, making a sweeping motion with her right hand. ”These are tough times, and we face even tougher times ahead of us. It is so important to stay strong, to stay together through these hardships.” The open palm becomes a fist, striking down with a decisive thud as her voice softens. ”It is far too easy to take the easy path, to turn a blind eye to injustice. I say, no more. No matter what happens, I will protect what matters to us, to this country. We are all family, and anyone who tries to challenge us, who tries to harm us,” She pauses, looking out over the crowd, and T.J can swear she is zeroing in on one of the cameras filming, “will see that we are prepared to defend ourselves.”

T.J has to fight to keep from frowning. It’s a tad more aggressive than he’s come to expect from his mother, almost to the point where it’s retaliatory. He steals a glance at Doug, looking proudly at their mother as the crowd breaks into cheers and applause. They all follow suit, but T.J can’t help but think there is something else going on, something in this speech he is missing, someone who will listen to it and see so much more than the impassioned outcry of a presidential candidate. He plays his part, knowing full well he will be in the papers for the coming week. He and Aiden have talked about it, prepared for it as best they can. The need to protect Aiden from the uglier sides of this mess boils in him, and through the final minutes of Elaine’s speech, he’s terrified that he made a mistake in letting Aiden convince him to come with him.

The man in question must have caught on to his discomfort, as he lean in to T.J when Elaine wraps up her speech.

”I’m fine,” he whispers under the thunderous roar, his breath tickling.

Something in him shifts, slotting together like pieces of a puzzle. They have made it. One year of sobriety and relapse and rehab and now the articles. It’s not gonna get easier, but they’ve made it this far. T.J thinks about how he’s been the older brother all his life but constantly been the one needing taking care of, needing protection. He wants to take that responsibility now, wants to be the man Aiden sees in him. When he smiles up at Aiden, there is true joy behind it. It stays etched on his face throughout the rally, on the walk home, settling into the kind of smile that lives in your eyes. Aiden stays the night again. Trouble sleeps nestled between them. T.J briefly wonders if this is what love really feels like before drifting off to sleep.

It takes the tabloids two full days to find out who Aiden is, running his life story over the following week. There’s nothing in there T.J doesn’t already know, but he can see the hurt in Aiden’s eyes, understands what he’s feeling. Someone has trespassed into his lover’s life. The way Elaine and her staff handles it makes warms his heart. She still refuses to say exactly what was up with her speech at the rally, brushing it off or switching the subject. T.J doesn’t believe for a second that the pointed jabs were just theatrics to win over the crowd. Maybe he’s not as invested in politics as Doug, but he’s sharp enough to see the broad strokes; the upswing in the polls leading up to the Democratic convention, the way the tabloids slowly back down from reporting on their every move. He’s sharp enough that when he sees President Fred Collier congratulate his mother on winning the nomination, he spots the unbridled disappointment and malice that the man tries to hide behind a slimy smile and grovelling words.

This man tried to destroy him. T.J swears to not let it happen again.

[theliterateape]

Farewell to Chicago [1989–2019]

By Don Hall

Thirty years. Almost to the month. Like my ten years with the Chicago Public Schools (closer to nine), my decade in the public radio mines (shy by two months) and my five years hosting The Moth (just short by a month), I’ll round up and if that bothers you, consider yourself a pedant and kin to that fucker who corrects your grammar while in line at a CVS.

No one in Chicago knew a goddamned thing about me on April 7, 1989. I didn’t know anyone in Chicago that day as I drove my blue and grey 1984 Bronco II onto a crowded Lake Shore Drive in Friday afternoon rush hour. Having spent my years growing up jumping from place to place, new wasn’t intimidating but that traffic was something I had yet to encounter. Christ, it took me two days in Chicago to figure out that when other drivers were honking at you, they weren’t waving but flipping you off.

I had no clue on that day that I’d spend the next thirty years of my life in Chicago. 

A recitation of accomplishments, jobs, marriages (three), personal and public wars, and lessons learned easy and hard wouldn’t do it justice. I might as well list the cash amounts paid out to rent and utilities. There are, however, moments that help sum up and define what became known as my Chicago.

1989

“Are you the new librarian?”

“No. I’m the music sub but they didn’t have a music position open so I’m being paid as the library sub.”

“Oh. Well, can you bring the book cart to my classroom at 10:45 anyway?”

“Sure.”

“By the way, you know you can’t sleep in your truck in the school parking lot, right?”

“Oh. Yeah. Got it.”

BIG FISH

1990

Marty DeMaat welcomes the Level One students to the Second City Training Program. I look around at the new faces and see Alida Vitas, whom I steamrolled through in our audition scene a few weeks ago. I wave “Hi” and she smiles. Joe Janes is there. He auditioned right after I did so he was in the room during mine. He seems slightly surprised to see me.

“Oh.” he says drily. “They let you in?”

Weeks later, he and I and a cast of other trainees concoct a sketch show entitled “Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman” that we produce in Andersonville later in the year.

1991

“I can’t believe you’ve never had a Lincoln Breakfast,” he mused.

Carey Goldenberg, a Jewish Deadhead who had performed at Second City with Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Dan Castelleneta and was now an eighth grade math teacher, sat down at the booth.

“Try the The Monitor Skillet Eggs.”

“Monitor?”

“Named after an Ironsides ship from the Civil War.”

“Oh. Weird.”

“So what’s the big number for the choir next week?”

“We’re doing a tribute to Journey.”

“And the kids dig it?”

“They love it. It’s all new to them. They think ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ was written with them in mind.”

“It kind of was.”

“Yup.”

“You aren't Going to Tell My Mom, are You?"

1992

Jeff Hoover, Joe Janes and I, sitting in the grass just behind the Chicago History Museum. Each of us have cigars and are smoking them.

Weeks earlier, Jeff and I saw “Cannibal Cheerleaders on Crack” on Broadway and, in a slightly drunken haze, decided we could could probably do better.

“Let’s call Joe,” Hoover slurred, tipping his Modelo just enough to dribble some on his shoes.

In the grass, amidst the stinky clouds of barely smoked Romeo and Juliettas, the three of us decide to start our own theater company. Weeks later, we hold auditions in the Neo-Futurarium and cast Level 6, an ensemble of improvisers and sketch comedians with aspirations of something more.

Peculiar Journeys Ep. 28

1993

From the Chicago Reader when they reviewed shows every week, every show:

A MEAN WATUSI

Level 6 and Free Pickles 

at Shay's

Only suckers and wimps do just one show at a time: that seems to be the spirit behind the two new revues being hosted by the comedy group Level 6, and for chutzpah alone they deserve credit. While running their straight improv show A Mean Watusi every Sunday night at Shay's bar, they've also put together a scripted show, Silence of the Frogs, a so-called "nonrevue of unimprovisation," which they perform Wednesday nights. Unfortunately, the young group's ambition has overreached their talents, and what might make a fresh 90-minute show has been inflated into two overlong evenings.

The group's biggest mistake is failing to isolate its real creative strength. In A Mean Watusi Level 6 shows what it does best with new twists on the standard improvisational games and some quick wit. While not all the scenes are winners, the group's good humor and high energy make the clunky moments easier to take.

SILENCE OF THE FROGS

Level 6 

at Puszh Studios

In Silence of the Frogs, the creative limitations of Level 6 really begin to show. One would think the luxury of a script would prompt them to weed out some of the dross, but instead their material only seems worse. After an interesting introduction in which actor Don Hall plays a muted trumpet to an audio background of croaking frogs, the show screeches to a halt in the first scene.

Cliched dialogue, nondescript characters, and half-realized situations, the sketches end before anything really happens. To make things worse, Joe Janes's direction is so uncertain that the actors appear uncomfortable as they carry out silly stage business (such as when the workmen begin scrubbing an el platform, a spectacle I have never witnessed in all my years as a commuter).

The rest of the scripted material suffers from the same problems. The choppy structure and uneven quality of material give the revue a sluggish pace that is often hard to follow. While a lack of communication between people seems to be the vague thematic thread, it is never clearly outlined and comes across as a lazy afterthought. The show picks up, though, after Silence of the Frogs, when the group returns to do some improv.

In their press release, the group makes a revealing statement: "In Silence we're out to create good art. That doesn't mean it's not entertaining, it's just not our primary objective." Maybe they should abandon their pretensions and stick to what they're good at. At least in improvisation there's not enough time to think about making good art.

— Tim Sheridan

Government Cheesh

1994

Closing up the band room after teaching from 7:30am til 3:30pm and then having after school band until 5:00pm. One of my students, a drummer, helps put things away.

“What do you do after school, Mr. Hall?”

“Some nights I have shows with my theater company. Other nights I perform improv comedy with ComedySportz.”

“Ain’t you married?”

“I am.”

“Prolly not for long.”

✶

As one gets older it becomes more difficult to make friends. At least that’s been the case for me. In my experience, the friends whom I can say I’ve cemented a lifelong bond with have all come from making art together. Sure, many have come and gone in that theater immediacy of sort of falling in love with each other during the rehearsals and run of the show, the promises to keep in touch after the show closes, only to move on and be friendly acquaintances. Faceborg connections. 

Chicago is one of those places in the world, like the bizarre tourist attractions that give power to Gaiman’s American Gods, that draws amazing artists to her embrace. I have met and worked with so many extraordinary humans within the gates of this town it boggles my mind to reflect upon the sheer number. Because art is a dramatic and contentious preoccupation, there are some whom the explosion of ideas and execution burned away from the raw electricity. The burning of those connections are always a bit sad but the celebration is of the creation.

One friendship that has remained intact and with the gravity of true family across my time in Chicago is that which I have with Joe Janes. He and I have been a part of so many artistic experiments — from the early days of Level 6 to the producing of his first full-length play to the spectacle of putting up all 365 sketches he wrote in a year — despite some dark patches and irreconcilable differences along our nearly thirty years, he is the closest thing to a brother I’ve ever had. I hope I can convince him to move to Vegas but even if I don’t I will always consider him the best of friends (not to mention one of the kindest humans I’ve ever run across from and the Spock to my Kirk.)

✶

1995

We held a yard sale. We sold bars of chocolate. I managed to snag us an Air Canada sponsorship for ridiculously cheap flights and booked a 17 room three-flat just minutes from the Fringe Central ticket center for around $50.00 per person for the month.

“The Armageddon Radio Hour” and ComedySportz. 26 shows in the month of the largest theater and arts festival in the world. While Chicago roasted that summer, the gang of WNEP Theater performed and saw more awesome, bizarre, experimental stagecraft than we could’ve imagined. We stole so many of those ideas and employed them back in Chicago it is no exaggeration to say that a month at the Edinburgh Fringe is better than a theater degree.

All Sandwiches Matter

1996

Joe Bill (of the Annoyance Theater) and I sit in the court room, waiting for my name to be called. We were there because a few months prior, in an act of guerrilla marketing, I instigated the fly posting of thousands of ‘teaser posters’ for the newest WNEP play and wasn’t smart enough to realize that once we put up the real posters, we’d get busted by the city.

For a few weeks in our little circle of artists and theatergoers, the question was “What the fuck is ‘Metaluna’?” Posters featuring the word and a photo of Sigmund Freud in a slip were plastered everywhere. I had multiple conversations about the mystery always with a smirk in my brain because we were in rehearsals for this ridiculous, massive show that made no sense spawned from the cracked mind of Joe Janes and directed by the equally off-balance Bob Wilson.

Five stages. Two constructed fat suits. Expanding arms. Muttonchops. A theremin. DADA poetry on vaudeville stages. Giant circus-like posters painted by Kevin Colby. It was the most ambitious show we had created to date and caught the eye of Jen Ellison, who after seeing the show, decided she wanted to be the artistic director of the company responsible.

The city fined us $20.00 but warned that they could’ve fined us $10,000. It was not the last time we would come into contention with Chicago but it was definitely the lightest sentence.

In Nonsense Is Strength

1997

Mr. Jose Barrias was the beginning of a trend.

Hired by Sharon Hayes to come in and teach music at District One Middle School, my predominant skill she prized was my tendency to bend both the rules and the expectations placed upon the role of music teacher.

My classroom had no desks or chairs. We had rugs and pillows. We didn’t spend any time learning to play plastic recorders. We listened to and discussed music and musicians and read from my college music history text. I had the HOT ROOM across the hall. I had a wall of gum that the students (not supposed to chew gum in school but did anyway) would add to every day.

In 1996, Sharon left. Barrias was hired. Jose did not appreciate my less than orthodox approach and, while he did his best to get me to follow a more traditional protocol, it didn’t take.

A year later, my teaching career was over. The trend was set — get hired to shake things up creatively, person who hires me leaves, bureaucrat comes in who wants a by-the-book approach, I stay a year longer than I should then split.  

Did I Say Hot Room?

1998

“I think I want a divorce. We’ve been this for a while since college and I’m pretty sure you hate Chicago and I love it and we’re both kind of miserable.”

“That’s what my grandma said marriage was.”

“Seriously? I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll probably get a bachelor apartment in a crummy neighborhood, jump right back into another relationship, get marginally suicidal but mom will talk me through it. The theater company will kind of blow up because I’ll spend too much time drinking because the idea of being divorced is a bit intense for me and I’ll be a total fuckwad. We’ll do some shows but I’ll be mailing it in for the most part. It’ll cause a huge rift between Joe and I but we’ll repair it a while later. How about you?”

“I’ll get the fuck out of Chicago, move back to Texas, get remarried, he’ll die a year later but then I’ll meet the man of my dreams, we’ll get married and have two children. Oh, and I’m keeping both the dog and the cat. You can see them on Facebook in ten years.”

1999

FOR WNEP, IT'S `APOCALYPSE' NOT YET

THE FOUR HORSEMEN ARE READY TO RIDE

It was always about Keith Whipple. Sure, we had a massive cast and spent more money on this ridiculous, ambitious monstrosity. Twenty-five working televisions, five VCRs connected, amazing costumes, and a dark satire on Christianity. Cathleen Carr, one of our producers, broke her pelvis during load-in. Joe Kaplan built a set that could actually withstand the apocalypse. 

Whipple, however, stood out on Lincoln Avenue before every show improvising riffs on Revelations with a megaphone to an unsuspecting pedestrian audience before crashing the start of the play. He endured eggs thrown at him, physical threats, and the police called on him. And he never once flagged or complained. 

✶

The wonderful cesspool that is Chicago holds a special place for the transplant. Sure, there are the diehard Chicago natives, stuck in their neighborhoods and allegiance to their high schools and local digs, but the transplant has this wide open space to navigate. Chicago has been a magical playground, like a hardcore Midwestern Disneyworld with different “lands” to go to and experiment within.

I was always the new kid in school because we moved around a lot. As much as anything else, it is this foundation upon which my many career moves were made while surfing across Lake Michigan’s shores.

Public school music teacher. Off Loop Theater Producer, Director, And Actor. Improvisational Comedian. Playwright. Improv Coach and Teacher. Venue Manager and Landlord. Retail Tobacconist. Massage School Facilities Manager. Public Radio Events Director. NPR House Manager. StorySlam Host. Digital Publisher and Writer. Independent Events Consultant & Producer. Front of House Manager of Millennium Park.

Only in Chicago could I bounce around so sporadically, learning from each experience and growing in my skills. Only in Chicago could I have that many shifts in vocation without adding “Unemployment” or McDonald’s to my resume.

✶

2000

She was both excited and incredulous.

“You signed a lease on a theater?”

“I did. It was about time we had our own clubhouse.”

“Can we afford it?”

“We have to. I mean, we don’t really have a choice now.”

“How much is in the company bank account right now?”

“$18.00.”

“…”

2001

I woke up late. Jen was in the front room. She was crying. I came in and she was staring at the TV. The footage was live and it was off a disaster of some sort in New York. As I sat next to her, neither of us spoke. We sat like that for almost an hour as the non-stop feed kept informing us of the attack.

Later that day, she and I went shopping for props for her one-woman show that was in tech rehearsals. We went to a vintage toy store on Broadway. The streets were mostly deserted.

Later, I started getting emails and phone calls from the cast and crew of “Lives of the Monster Dogs” and “Soiree DADA.” We were scheduled to open the Monster Dog play on September 12. We had a DADA show that night. What were we going to do? Should we cancel the DADA? Should we postpone the play?

Jen was of no help. So I decided. I sent out an email to everyone in the theater company. If people felt strongly enough that they couldn’t perform, that was fine but we would do the shows despite the attack. We would do what we do. We would entertain as best we could.

I’ll never forget Bob Wilson, in full DADA costume, reading the ending monologue from The Armageddon Radio Hour and sending chills throughout the room.

2002

I lived across the street from our theater which meant I was on call whenever any one of the thirteen shows per week was running

A random Friday night. A midnight show by a renting organization. I’m in the back, watching to make sure everything is copacetic. I notice a guy, solo, in the back row. He’s jerking himself off. No one else in the audience or onstage is the wiser.

“Yo. You get two choices, bub. Unclench your pud and quietly get the fuck out of my theater or continue to choke it as I drag your ass out of here by your hair. Choose now.”

Just a day in the life.

Nothing is Sacred. Not Even You

2003

I was upstairs when I got the call. The DoR was downstairs. They wanted to see our Public Place of Amusement license. “It’s on the wall. In the nice frame.” Three minutes later, the phone rang again. There was a problem. I threw on my pants and came downstairs.

The next morning, the Sun-Times ran a short story about the DoR sweep of six or seven small, Off Loop theaters that had been shut down due to licensing violations. We were among the list. Adding insult to injury, our theater was saddled with the only full paragraph and quote, saying that our license had been forged. I called to see what they were talking about. I called my landlords who didn’t return my calls. I called the League of Chicago Theaters and was told they couldn’t help us because it was reported that we — I — had forged the license.

Outside, there was a huge red sticker on our place — CEASE AND DESIST. We were being shuttered. I spoke to an attorney and was cautioned about what I might say to the press. “Don’t piss these people off. Play nice.” I was told. So when I was interviewed for the Reader, I played nice. When I was interviewed on WBEZ, I played nice. I’m not particularly good at playing nice, at watching what I say. And it made me seem guilty. The expectation of those around me was that I wouldn’t sit still for this. That, if I were in the right, I would tear off my shirt, march down to City Hall and raise bloody fucking hell. A natural born brawler, I tried to dance the political Foxtrot.

Three of my best friends — who had stood up with me at my wedding — became convinced that I had, indeed, forged the license. That, while they were performing shows, I was out in a back alley, selling forged documents to strangers using Photoshop and a color printer so kids could get into bars and underage girls could get abortions. They started working with the landlords to transfer the lease to a member of our Board who was ALSO a member of a theater company that had also been shut down.

My books were audited. Every dime, every receipt. It was concluded that everything was kosher — that there was no malfeasance. In fact, it was this audit that uncovered the fact that I had “donated” over $35,000 of my own money over three years to keep the place afloat. But, said my friends, I was pretty clever and could have figured out how to cook the books ahead of time. In the span of a month, I had gone from the guy who made sure the stage was painted and the lights worked to a criminal mastermind. It was like Kafka.

At a meeting of the majority of the 48 members and associates of the theater, I broke down in tears. I felt trapped and maligned. The tears were hot and angry and impotent. I was failing on an epic scale and could not find a way to make things right. The Three Groomsmen had successfully negotiated the transfer of the lease to the other theater behind my back; it was up to us whether or not we wanted to try to fight it out. We didn’t because I didn’t.

Getting Up the Eighth Time

2004

From the New York Times (top of fold on the cover of the Arts Section in the print version):

“John Huston's ''Let There Be Light'' (1946), a meticulously shot government-sponsored documentary that presented psychiatrists curing World War II veterans of mental ailments with such absurd quickness that many suspected it was rehearsed, now appears like more of a piece of propaganda for Freudian psychoanalysis than for the United States military.

Jen Ellison and Dave Stinton's adaptation of this fascinating movie, which was banned by the United States for over three decades, is one of the most curious shows in this year's fringe festival. It's a staged version of a documentary that may have been staged itself. Instead of commenting on or contextualizing the material, the creators of the play, which concentrates on four of the soldiers, play the material as straight as if it were a kitchen-sink drama. While the style can be stiff, the sensitive actors playing the soldiers -- Peter James Zielinski, Peter De Giglio, Chad Reinhart and James Yeater -- manage to tease emotional depth and nuance out of their thinly drawn parts.

Still, the show's optimism about the government's treatment of its veterans is jarring, especially when compared with more cynical recent moves like ''Born on the Fourth of July'' or ''The Manchurian Candidate.'' It's almost comic when Cpl. Joe Hardy (Mr. Reinhart) regains the feeling in his legs after a few moments of hypnosis.

Ms. Ellison and Mr. Stinson seem to acknowledge this anachronism in their one major departure from the film -- Mr. Zielinski's sensitive and beautifully realized portrayal of a depressed grunt who never recovers from an unspecified psychological sickness. He adds a dour tone to the drama, reminding us that the talking cure has its limitations.”

2005

One fall day, I substitute taught at a school in Humboldt Park. It is a neighborhood filled with culture and vibrancy but is one of those in Chicago left mostly out of the resources loop but I discovered that I am, as a teacher at least, at my absolute best when working in the classic "troubled inner-city school" filled with kids who America has chosen to leave behind.

I bopped around the school in the early morning, providing prep periods for fourth and sixth grade teachers - strictly high priced babysitting. Then I landed in Room 102. Seventh Grade Science. For the rest of the day.

Most teachers I know fear nothing more than seventh and eighth grade. The kids are just swimming in the chemical dump of their overloaded hormones and their emotions and bodies are careening at a breakneck pace without the experience to guide it away from the fourth turn wall. I love this age. They crack me up; every time I work with them I have new stories to tell and feel like I successfully navigated a rudderless boat through the most violent of storms and lived to tell about it. (Jesus - a NASCAR metaphor and a sailing metaphor in one paragraph - what you got to say to me now, motherfucker?)

The day was interesting. I had enough time during the day to talk to a couple of the teachers, all of whom looked tired and stretched a bit too thin and who spoke in the slow, hushed tones of the shellshocked. They told me of the gentrification on either side of the local neighborhood and the resulting dramatic rise in drug dealers and gangs in their school over the past few years. They quietly railed against the sense of entitlement their students were trained to have in an environment that dictates that teachers could not punish children in nearly any way whatsoever for increasingly violent behavior - the idea that flunking, suspending, or holding back a kid who has no perceived use for school in the first place is like fighting a wooly mammoth with a loaf of bread. While the kids were away, they would talk with a worn but slightly amused look on their faces which immediately hardened into a disgusted scowl as soon as any kid appeared.

Excerpts of my day include:

"I forgot to tell you," I gleefully stopped the class in the mid-riot of getting prepared to switch classes. "Look at this look on my face." I deadpanned. "It says 'I don't care.' You say you absolutely have. to go to the washroom or you'll die and you must have your friend with you? 'I don't care.' Your friend jabbed you in the eye and you can't see? 'I don't care.' Your teacher said that you sit in the corner with six others while 'doing your science' together? 'I don't care.'"  "You say you need to KNOW something or are looking to LEARN something?  Then I care."

"Mr. Hall, why are you so happy?" "Because teaching you guys is like a day at the zoo! And who doesn't like the zoo?"

"Pardon me. (a beat) Excuse me. (a beat) I need your attention! (a beat) I don't want to yell over you, folks. (a beat) Excuse me! (a beat) GOOD GOD - THE SKY! LOOK AT THE SKY!! OK, listen up really quickly -" "Mr. Hall - you're weird."

At one point, I run into Antoine. Antoine is a 15-year old, six-foot-three inch, drug dealer's son. He is a huge white kid who somewhere along the line decided he would mimic a stereotyped black kid. He is in the behavior disorder class and, according to his teachers, pretty much has the run of the school. He is what most teachers know to be a hopeless case - no pragmatic use for education, no respect for any adults except those that can pummel him, and the realization that nothing, absolutely nothing can be done to him until he's eighteen.

He came in during a class switch and was chatting up one of the girls. I had no idea he wasn't supposed to be there and was actually mystified that he simply would not shut up for me (I'm actually pretty good at that sort of thing). He literally acted as if I wasn't there. After ten minutes of attempting to explain the science lesson (Matter, Mass, Volume, and Density), he gets up and makes for the door. I intercept.

"Where are you going, Antoine?"

"This ain't my class."

"Then why have you been here for ten minutes?"

"Ah bumbbges digghuff chaetky mumblemumblemumble...."

"What?"

"Nothin. Get out my way."

"How about we wait for the security guard to swing by and take you to the class you're supposed to be in - I don't get a thrill at the prospect of you roaming the hall freely."

"What?" He tries to shove me out of the way of the door, getting right up in my face. "Don't you lay your hands on me!"

This is a trick. Antoine knows that this is the phrase that freezes the blood in most teachers' hearts. In a time where parents file lawsuits against teachers for failing grades, the stigma attached to a corporal punishment charge is career suicide.

"I didn't lay a hand on you, Antoine. In fact, it was you who laid your hands on me. We now have two choices." I get quiet enough for only Antoine to hear. "We can wait for the guard to come by and pick you up and escort you out of here so I can teach some seventh grade science. Or. I'm gonna beat the crap out of you and then have you arrested for assault. Make your choice."

His face reflects a number of conflicting emotions and finally he flashes a shit-eating grin and asks, "We cool. right?"

It turns out that the kids don't really care much for Antoine. They're afraid of him. The teachers are, too. I think it's a shame that things have come to this - it's only October. The atmosphere for the rest of the day slows down to a mere category 2 hurricane and the day breezes by.

✶

In thirty years, I’ve lived in a lot of the neighborhoods in the city. Again, in the laundry list version:

Edgewater Rogers Park Bridgeport Lakeview Avondale Northcenter  Portage Park Bucktown Uptown Wicker Park

Every neighborhood has its own flavor and people and businesses. The cornucopia of experiences based entirely upon your immediate surroundings is extraordinary. All of it connected by the train (and busses if you go to where their are fewer rich, white people...)

The best part? Local businesses. My guess is that Vegas will be populated more with chain restaurants, bookstores, etc. It is the local dives and boutiques and coffee shops that make Chicago one of the most amazing places on Earth.

My Chicago is:

The Lincoln Restaurant Haymarket Pub & Brewery The Green Mill The Metro Chicago Comix The Athenaeum Old Town Tobacco Bang Bang Pies The Red Lion Victory Gardens Theater at The Biograph Quenchers The NeoFuturarium G Man Tavern Smoke BBQ The Chopin Theatre Pequod’s Pizza Easy Bar Uncharted Books The Music Box Theatre Empty Bottle Lem���s BBQ Dollop Coffee Black Dog Gelato

Sure there are more but I’m old and can’t remember everything. Calm down. 

✶

2006

“Did you hear that Hall kicked Bernie Sahlins out of the Athenaeum lobby last night?”

“What? Why?”

“One of his Chicago Improv Festival stage managers pulled the lights on some Los Angeles group because they were going way over time and Sahlins lost it. Found Don and tried to dress him down in front of a crowd getting tickets. Hall stood by his stage manager and Bernie was not having that. Finally, he snapped an told him to get his old motherfucking ass out of the theater.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, Pitts got heavy pressure from Second City so he had to fire Don.”

“He’s been with CIF for, what, five years?”

“Not any more.”

2007

“Can I ask you a question I’m not legally supposed to ask? You seem like you’d be alright with it but I want to check.”

“Shoot.”

“You’re twenty years older than every other applicant for this job. Why do you want it?”

I laugh. “First, I like Wait Wait...Don’t Tell Me!” Second, I like NPR and WBEZ. Third, if I do a great job house managing for peanuts, maybe you decide to offer me a full time gig.”

Four months later, he offered the full time gig.

2008

“Are you Jackie’s son? She’s right. You got fat.”

Betrayal in Tornado Alley

2009

Monday morning at WBEZ. Eighteen voicemails. Not so many until you understand that the outgoing message specifically instructs people to NOT leave voice messages and that these eighteen recordings were from the same person.

“Hello! My name is [REDACTED] and I’m here to see “Wait Wait...Don’t Tell Me!” I have a ticket and I’m at the Chase Bank but I can’t find the auditorium. Can someone call me back?” - “Hello. [REDACTED] again. I’m wandering around the bank and no one seems to know where the show is being taped. Please call me back. I don’t want to miss a minute!” - “I’m in my car right now and I can hear that you’ve started the show! Where am I supposed to go? There are no signs and nothing on the ticket page. Where are you?” - “Goddamn it! I can HEAR THE SHOW RIGHT NOW! LISTEN! Someone needs to call me right the fuck now or I’m going to lose it!”

This went on for an hour, all the way up to voicemail number seventeen which was apoplectic. Voicemail number eighteen was the next day, Sunday.

“Hello. This [REDACTED] and I am so sorry I left all of those messages. Oh my. I’m so embarrassed. My husband pointed out to me that the ticket to your show was for Thursday night, not Saturday morning. I’m so used to hearing it on Saturday, I thought... Well, you can guess what I thought. Please accept my apologies.”

I called her back and gave her tickets to the following Thursday. VIP. But only if I could tell the story.

2010

For part of 2008 and all of 2009, Jen worked with a team of nineteen writers on a project that involved them writing short one-act plays or scenes inspired by the artwork of Edward Hopper.

Following the divorce and her resignation from WNEP Theater, these writers came at me.

“Are we going to do anything with these pieces or was it all just wasted time?”

So I hunkered down, stitched together 24 scenes to create a ridiculously huge theater piece, cast 18 actors, 4 understudies, booked the Storefront Theater on Randolph Street, and hired a few brilliant designers

It was the last show I produced for WNEP. It was the last theater piece I directed for WNEP. Unbeknownst to me, included in the sold out run’s audience were Jen and her new husband, Lois Weisberg, the acting Chairs of the MCA, The Art Institute and the Driehaus Museum, and a woman who hadn’t been in Chicago for very long but heard about the show and came with a friend. This mystery woman also went to the play’s off-night series and reconnected with her college roommate, Scott Whitehair.

Four years later, I’d marry her in Las Vegas.

2011

“There’s no electricity in this warehouse.”

“What? It’s 4:30am. Why are you calling me?”

“The warehouse where I’m supposed to set up the movies, the spoken word, the B-Boy/B-Girl Dance Battles? I have no electricity and the door between spaces is welded shut.”

“The Block Party starts at noon. It’s 20 below zero. What are you going to do?”

“I suppose I’ll find an old breaker box that seems to still be connected to juice and try to hotwire it. I’ll electrocute myself the first time and my fingers will turn black from it. The second try will knock me unconscious for around seven minutes and make my mouth taste like pennies. The third time — because I’m both tenacious and stupid — will work. Though later tonight when I get home, my feet will be bizarrely bruised and look like dark purple beets with toes.”

“Oh. Good plan.”

“Breeze?”

“Yeah?”

“WBEZ doesn’t pay me enough.”

2012

“Your story was amazing. We loved it. We wanted to know if you were interested in hosting the story slam at Haymarket?”

“Hosting? Why not have Tyler do it?”

“He’s the producer. We love him but he’s not really host material.”

“Yeah. OK. Sounds good.”

The back room at the Haymarket Pub & Brewery is packed to the point that people are sitting on the floor. Tyler introduces me with platitudes about being the House Manager for WWDTM — it’s a touchpoint the largely NPR crowd can cheer.

“According to the legend, The American feud begin over notches on the ears of a hog Exchanges of retribution from this humiliating start Gaining traction to equal the obsession of two warring families 

The thirst for vengeance, once fomented Is unquenchable, irresistible, all-consuming The Klingons say revenge is a dish best served cold But most of the meal involves the heat of righteous anger. 

Someone became stridently political Someone else cheated with your boyfriend Yet another spread rumors about you There is no end to the razor-sharp slights you have endured.  Time slipping through your fingers, wasted on rage That thing that got the revenge ball rolling Lost in a cacophony of calls for justice and "It's not right" 

Revealed to be, in the end, nothing more than notches on a hog's ear. 

Tonight’s theme is GRUDGE. Welcome to The Moth!

Like a Burning Moth Without a Clue as to How He Caught on Fire: A Collection of Word Jazz

Of The Seven, Americans Suffer Sloth More Than the Other Six

✶

The act of reflection upon a thirty year period forces perspective. In writing this, one of the choices to make has been to determine which moments are worth hanging onto and which ones are better left erased. Sure, these erased moments are still visible but like a heavily used white board, the remnants of the words are almost scrubbed off, slightly visible but unimportant.

The odd, highly passionate fights that occurred are not limited to one or two years but peppered throughout like scars that look like faces if you squint. The betrayals are lower in volume, a tune you remember from way back when but can’t quite recall the lyrics. The specifics and details behind divorces and other failed relationships might be juicy in that Buzzfeed sort of view but aren’t truly relevant.

I scaled a mountain and, during the journey, broke few bones, got hypothermia, and lost some of my equipment but no one wants to hear the tale of those things but rather the feeling of epic transformation that such a path includes. I’ll not use my platform for therapy, gang.

I know people who tend to stare back into the rear view mirror and wax nostalgic as if the best times (or worst) are behind them. I am not one of those people. What’s past informs the navigation but does not determine the destination. I have very few regrets and I think that’s the best way to live.

✶

2013

“You were involved with the Global Activism Expo?”

“Yeah. I produced it.”

“The 5K Fun Run with Peter Sagal?”

“Produced it.”

“The Chicago Chef Battle at Kendall College? The WBEZ Day of Service? The Winter Block Party for Chicago’s Hip Hop Arts? The Year in Review at Park West? The Sound Opinions Summer BBQ?”

“Produced them all.”

“Did you have a favorite?”

“Oh yeah. The Richard Steele Holiday Party at House of Blues with featured performers Billy Bragg and the Sons of the Blues. That was seriously one of the highlights of the year.”

2014

“Hey. How about you shut the fuck up?”

Three dates later.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

How to Jump Out of a Plane and Survive

2015

Along the road, there was General Admission. It was a WBEZ podcast co-hosted by my Events Assistant and myself. We interviewed local artists as well as a handful of national talents (including Kate Mulgrew, Steven Yuen, Taylor Mac, and, of course, Henry Rollins.) A true highlight of 2015 was getting to sit down with a personal hero of mine, Chuck Palahniuk, and ask him questions. The interviews for these are long since deleted but the memories remain.

Half a Century

2016

A meeting at the bar below my apartment. Commiseration over the online trolling I’d endured from unfriending a psychopath and her army of aggrieved idiots. A pitch — how about an online magazine? Something cool and interesting and featuring all kinds off writing? Something that Himmel could sink his own Angry White Guy voice into like a fetid beef sandwich with so much mustard it covered up the gristle and the rot?

“Well, I’ve recently updated my 10-year blog (Angry White Guy in Chicago) to something less Trump-centric sounding. I’m calling it Literate Ape. Whaddya think?”

“Sounds perfect.”

2017

“In the nearly five years I've hosted The Moth (58 regular slams, 8 Grand slams and nearly 700 stories in that time) I've had a real ball.

I started every single slam with the admonition that while we are each snowflakes, unique in every way with our individual crystalline natures, we are all just made of fucking snow.  With the onslaught of identity politics and partisan bickering, I hope that is something people remember. 

I closed every single slam with a quote: "If you want to change the world, have a meal with someone who doesn't look like you." - Chef Coco Winbush.”

Farewell to The Moth

”In parting ways, I can say that my decade working for WBEZ, Vocalo, and especially NPR's Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me! was thrilling, challenging, inspiring and worth every moment. I got to watch Obama's first speech as president on multiple televisions in a bona fide newsroom. I got to meet Michael Moore, Denis Leary, speak to Bill Clinton and hang out with Tom Hanks. I produced events for as many as 5,000 people (as well as had a hand in producing a record-breaking performance of WWDTM at Millennium Park for 17,000 people). I produced events at the House of Blues, Victory Gardens, Adler Planetarium, Metro Chicago, City Winery, Chicago History Museum, Chopin Theater and hundreds of other excellent venues.

I was there to assist in orchestrating the 10th Anniversary of WWDTM at Adler Planetarium. I was there for Carl Kassell's final show in D.C. I directed Ira Glass, Scott Simon and Peter Sagal in a gala performance. I have been privileged to work with Bill Kurtis. I got to throw Richard Steele and Claude Cunningham their retirement parties. Winter Block Parties with YCA, New Year's Eve Parties with The Moth, Pi Day, the brilliant town hall meetings for the Race Out Loud series. Jim and Greg of Sound Opinionswith Frankie Knuckles on the MCA stage. Drive-In movies in West Chicago. 5K Runs with Peter Sagal. Running front of house for WWDTM with Kate Kinser by my side almost every single night. Laughing and planning things with the amazing Vanessa Harris.

The list of amazing experiences and incredible people is a bit mind-boggling in hindsight. And Good Christ, the Pledge Drives..“

Farewell to the Public Radio Mines

2018

“In the park, there is only one we, the collective patronage of the thousands of multicultural Homo sapiens gathered to hear an orchestra or a jazz ensemble or the blues or a rock band. It is a larger and more lovely we and, therefore, a stronger foundation from which to find solutions to the seemingly insurmountable obstacles to society.”

All the World’s a Stage and Identity is Just Another Costume

“"Tiffany to Don."

The terrible analogue radio crackles in my left ear.

"This is Don. Go."

I'm on the southwest end of the park. It's hot. Really hot. Hot enough that one begins to question the sanity of standing out here, wearing all black, amidst 11,000 people listening to a world-class orchestra play Tchaikovsky. Tiffany is one of my 50 ushers. She has encountered an older couple who came out to the park to hear the music yet hadn't really thought through the difficulties of being post-70 years of age in heat that can only be described as Global Warming Hot as Balls HOT. The gentlemen is so overheated that he can no longer walk. They need a wheelchair.

"Copy that. I'm on my way."

I walk quickly to the Welcome Center on Randolph, check out a wheelchair, then navigate the unwieldy thing through throngs of casual walkers around to the east side of the the stage. It takes me around eight minutes and I'm sweating like I'd been in the volcano room at King Spa. The old man sits in the chair after navigating the fear of just falling on his ass while sitting down. They need to go to their car in the parking garage.

Tiffany shrugs. "I don't drive. I don't know the parking garage."

"I got it," I say with a forced smile.

I wheel the man and his wife through the bowels of the building. We get to the elevator and they can't quite remember what floor they parked on. They left their ticket in the car. We sit for a moment, as the garage is huge and the prospect of finding their vehicle with no concept of even what floor (of the seven levels) it is on is an impossible task.

"It's on three."  "How sure are you?" "I'm pretty sure it's on three."

We go to three. No idea what section (3A? 3B? 3C? Jesus Christ…) they give me a description of the car and a license plate number and we set out through each aisle, each row, looking for the car. Thirty-five minutes later — with frequent radio calls for assistance that I direct while seeking an end to the labyrinthian journey I'm on — I spy their ride. They are relieved and thrilled. So am I.

The wife wants to tip me and offers me a dollar. I politely decline and send them on their way. I return just as the concert ends and just in time to set up the two recycling bins in the arcade for the ushers to dispose of the now outdated programs leftover from the weekend.”

Managing a House for 50,000 People

2019

Seven weeks. 2019 in Chicago has been spent doing side gigs, hanging out with people who have meant something to me in the past thirty years, and driving to old neighborhoods and reflecting upon the time here.

My last night in Chicago is spent on the Haymarket Pub & Brewery stage doing BUGHOUSE! And drinking myself stupid on Mathias Ale. 

✶

And that, as they say, is that. 

If you made it all the way down to this sentence and clicked enough half of the links, I applaud you. Writing this freaking tome took me most of the final seven weeks and occupied more of my brain space than most things I can recall. I’ve spent the entirety of my adult life in Chicago, a feat that I could never have predicted in 1989. 

Chicago has shaped me, taking the doughy calzone that crashed upon the shores of Lake Michigan and baking me until I was a golden brown with tons of gooey melted cheese and some questionable meat product. While not born here, I can and do call myself a native. A Chicagoan. 

Certainly, I won’t miss the weather — I’m quite certain there is no such thing as dibs or a viable need for shoveling and salting your walk in Las Vegas.  There will be things I will be happy to shed my daily grind of: the incredibly high cost of living, the taxes, the corrupt government, the fucking parking issues, the baked-in tribal mentality of neighborhood cultures, the extreme segregation, the crap school system. Dana and I are riding the crest of a wave of deserters as Chicago continues to bleed residents like she goes through restaurants.

I will, however, miss the grit of the people. I’ll miss the almost blissfully ignorant pride in the city. I’ll miss the transit system that binds us together like arteries and the theater and spoken word scene that blossoms even under the auspices of the interminable social justice rage profiteers. I’ll miss my friends especially those who have stood by through good times and harsh times and, while always challenging me, never gave up on me either. Just like the city. 

There is so much I did not include in this Dear John letter it’s hard to fathom but that’s the nature of something like this. Plenty left out but always stuck to me.

Just like the city. 

[vincemarie]

Daryl, Bella and I went to dinner tonight at MaGerks in Horsham. It started with just Daryl and I, but Bella, while Daryl and I were halfway down Norristown Road heading to Horsham road, calls me to ask about my whereabouts. I told her that I had yelled up to her to let her know I was leaving. That I had thought she was sleeping.

“Can you and I go out to dinner? Grab a Sonic?”

“Of course baby. Would you mind going to dinner with Mr. Madden and I at MaGerks?”

“No, I don’t mind.” She says.

I make a U-turn. I look at Daryl and say “You don’t mind.” I already made the U-turn, so it’s basically my way of saying politely “You better make the right decision here buddy. Suck it up. I love you, but my baby comes first.”

  Daryl and I have some drinks. He orders some IPA. Asks the bartender to surprise him with an IPA. I order a Bulleit neat. We stand outside on the patio. I smoke a cigarette. We talked about life. Daryl teases Bella as usual. She’s her smart-ass way.

I get texted that our table was open. We walk back to the hostess area, and back to where we were near the patio door. “Crowded.” I say.

“What did you expect? It’s Friday night.” Our fucking Bella says to me. I’m thinking “How the hell do you know what a Friday night at a sports bar looks like?”

  I don’t order any food. Mama had stopped over earlier in the afternoon and dropped off some food. I had a bite then. I don’t eat typically after 4pm anyway. Except for our nightly snacks. That was a bad habit. But I loved that bad habit. It was our bad habit.

  Bella ordered the Mild Wings and Fried Mozzarella Sticks. “Shirley Temple?” I ask Bella.

“Nah, I’m fine with my water.” She answers.

I’m impressed. Healthy. Good decision baby. Way to make the right decision on your own. No one forces you to make a decision. We raised your brother and you so that you could make the right decision. We cannot be there for you every minute to make decisions for you. We can only raise you to hopefully you make the right decision. The rest is on you. You make your own path. You are both strong, smart, talented, leaders, and most importantly, compassionate. That means the world to me. Compassion. To stand up for what is right by others around you is compassion. Both of you are activists. You do not approve of the system and you voice it in your own way. Neither you nor myself pushed our babies to do or say anything. We allowed them to express themselves. We never taught them religion. We only taught them to believe in a God, a spirit, a higher power, call it whatever, why put labels on it? Treat people the way you want to be treated. Love others. Stand up for what is right. Be tolerant of other cultures, religions, ideologies, philosophies, and always listen. Talk less, listen more.

Neither you nor Bella could ever shut the fuck up. You both talked more and listened less. Must be a female thing. You love listening to yourselves talk. Ladies, we tune you out. I am telling you. We learn to tune the dial, the pitch, the levels all down to “0”. We can hear everything else around us clearly.

“You don’t fucking listen to me.” You always said to me.

“I do.” I would always reply. “Babe, I do listen to you.” Reinforcing to cover a lie. I seriously don’t remember a fucking thing you told me. I don’t even remember what happened yesterday. I’m at “Overload” capacity. More shit in my brain cannot get in. So you telling me about your PTO at Maple Glen Elementary and the fundraising events you used to put on with the rest of the board, I really didn’t listen. I just nodded. nodded. nodded a little more. But my mind was elsewhere. My mind was working.

  I dropped Daryl off to his house and drove back to our home. He was getting his cigars and heading over.

He and I had a great talk. He shared more of his stories. You loved his stories. You loved the way Daryl tells a story. No one could tell a story better than Daryl. He made you fucking laugh. Every time he made the open mouth “O” face you’d bust out laughing. Every story has an “O” face in it. His travels stories. His sick and twisted stories. Every one is better than the one before it. I remember once trying to tell a story that happened to Daryl and myself. It was a hysterical story that I can’t really share. I had to at one point stop myself and hand it over to Daryl to describe it to all. I was butchering it and I knew he’d do a better job at telling it. And of course, he killed it.

  Earlier while he and I were driving, he confessed to me how much he misses you. He misses your constant harassment of him. In texts, in-person, over the phone, car window to car window, any means possible to you to lay an insult. Insults, one after the other. He loved it when you insulted him. He looked forward to them. He almost used to set you up so that you’d insult him. You made him laugh like no other. You made all of us laugh. I miss the way you used to make me laugh.

  Yesterday was a lot of fun. I started it late in the day. I was lazy. I rented an AirBnB house in the city earlier in the week. Used to get us a room at the Monaco. This time, I wanted to change. I’m not ready to go to the Monaco. The Louix Award Show was last night. You loved attending the Louix’s. We were online looking for dresses for you a few days before I lost you.

  Check into the house  was at 3pm. I meet up with Jenn and David at the Studio first. I was picking Jennifer up first before we head to the house. We loaded your car with booze. Jenn and I headed over to the house. David was going to follow us there.

  I invited Carla’s nephew Frankie to come to the award show with me. The kid has the “It”. He’s going places. Reminds me of myself when I was his age. I’m going to take him under my wing and teach him the advertising business. He said he wanted to get into marketing. Brace yourself there Frankie, it’s going to be a wild ride. See you on Monday.

  He meets us at the house around 5pm. The Louix wasn’t starting until 6:30pm. We had time to drink, smoke, chill, dance, whatever. The house didn’t have any toilet paper. WTF? It has fucking Google Home, but no toilet fucking paper?

We had a blast laughing at silly shit. We were giddy. It was going to be a great night. All of us. Well, almost all of us. Rich and Charlie couldn’t make it. Rich is sick, still sick with a cold. Charlie was rehearsing for his role as the Beast in “Beauty and the Beast.” We’re all going to go see him perform. I asked him “How do you make a 5′ Jew into a 7′ Beast?” Laughingly. “Are your hooves also stilts?” I question him more. And in his Charlie way, he pauses to chew on a smart response to outdo my zinger. The best he came back with was that he keeps tripping on his shoes/hooves. Plus he’s wearing a long trailing cape that keeps obstructing his movement. I’m of course busting laughing at the image of him. I love him. He’s a fucking awesome guy. Honored to be working with such brilliance.

  We got there around 6:45. We were supposed to Uber over there, but Jenn was running late getting dressed. She said her husband Michael and her would just catch up with us there. So David, Frankie and I take your car and head over to Sugar House Casino where the Louix Award Show is taking place. I valet. Next car pulling over beside me is Ameet. Perfect timing. So now there are 4 of us out of 17. Gather the troops. Where are we meeting? Everyone is running late.

We finally get to the venue. You would have loved it. Oh my God would you have loved it. You would have been in your element. All sexed up, looking stunning as you always did, and in the middle of the casino. You’d be in your fucking heaven.

I say my “hi’s” to almost everyone I know. Hugs all around. Everyone was kind and supportive, no one over did it, just “Love”. They try to console me, but they also understand that tonight it’s about having fun. We’ll all chat about it at a later date over drinks. Hit me up and I’ll make it happen.

All 17 of us start to gather together except for fucking Sarah, she was running as usual, late. Her and Lubna just flat out suck with getting anywhere on time. Their body clock is super fucking slow.

The show starts, we were outside smoking on the balcony. Fucking brilliant venue. Convenient for us smokers. I go inside and sit at a seat at one of our two tables.

Ginger and the rest of the board had placed this Louix trophy on my seat. When I read it, I choked and teared up.

  Best of Show – Badass Bitch – Janine Fresta Marie – We Love You – Love Forever ADCP

  We won Louix’s for the piece you worked on as the Prop Master. You have never done it in your life. But I trusted you’d pull it off. And pulling it off you fucking did. You were amazing. Just flat out amazing. Not because you were my wife, no, you know better from me. If you “suck” I’ll tell you. No baby, you fucking rocked that shit. You fucked up here and there, but nothing that you couldn’t fix. And you fixed it as a professional would.

The piece won for Corporate Video something, Original Music, and I think some other category I can’t recall what it was at the minute.

I can see you here working on it.

[fvplayer src=”https://vimeo.com/257238649″%5D

  And here is the piece.

[fvplayer src=”https://vimeo.com/230911678″%5D

  We won for “Video Scripting” on this piece. Thank you Doug. You fucking Rock. This Louix is yours. Love you.

https://vimeo.com/252938755

  And we won “Corporate Communication” for this piece.

[fvplayer src=”vimeo.com/247836311″]

  We hanged for a little, some of us headed back to the house, while others stayed behind. I was one of the ones that headed back to the house. I was spent. I needed quite. I couldn’t handle the noise. I needed peace.

Jenn and I Uber’ed back to the house. I was too fucked up to drive and so was Jenn. David ended up driving your car back to the house. We met up with Jenn’s husband Michael at the house.

Sarah, David and not sure who else was going to come later.

  The house was okay, nothing really great about it. Fresh paint, minimal decor, all white. Modern with beautiful hardwood floors. 2nd floor has 3 nice-sized bedrooms. A bathroom centers the hallway connecting the bedrooms. I kept hearing the toilet water running. The 3rd floor is a master bedroom loft. That would be my room. I paid for the fucking house. I go first.

I wanted to take a quick power nap at 12:15am, but I choose to write to you instead. I needed to let you know. I couldn’t wait to tell you.

  Matt Paul texts me that he’s on his way over. That he needed the address to the After After Party house. I text him the address back. He’s 15 minutes out. Perfect. Take a quick nap.

  I climb the narrow steps down. I had my work boots on. I decided not to get all dressed up for the show. “Fuck it. I’m just going to be me.” I underdressed. You would have yelled at me had you and I went together and me looking like that. “You’re an asshole. I can’t believe you’re not even going to look nice. I can’t believe it.” A pause. “Could you please tell me what the fuck are you thinking? I don’t get it.” A breath. “Could you at least put some nice shoes on? I mean for fuck sake look how I’m going to look.” I’m just staring at you with a grin. Not a word. You already know. You accepted it. You accepted that I was going to do what I wanted to do, and no one was going to change my mind. But you tried. Your insults were your effort for me to change my mind.

I let you win some times. “Just make her happy, dumbass. Give this one up.” I’d tell myself and follow suit.

  A knock at the door. It’s Matt, he made it. I greet him in, we hug again. Love is in the air.

I pop open a beer for him. I get my Honey Whiskey.

  A knock at the door. I walk over and open the door. This you would have loved.

Let me set the scene up first.

  Earlier in the day, we were investigating the house as anyone does when they first walk into a vacation home, a room at the hotel, a foreign frontier. Jenn opened the basement door and screamed back to me: “Oh my God, there are rat traps down the steps. Holy shit, the size on those traps. Come look at these Vince.”

I walk over and climb the first couple of steps down. They’re all lining up down the steps. Size of a foot long and hand in width. Wrapped in some film of plastic. We assumed it’s the sticky plastic that rats could escape before the hammer comes down snapping their necks in half. What an awful way to die. Imagine another more intelligent specie setting up human traps that snaps your neck in half. But before you do, we’re going to fucking trap you with this sticky plastic to freak the shit out of you before we kill you.

Isn’t there a more humane way to remove them?

  Where was I? Right, the infamous “knock.”

  I know I could tell you all about it. But I thought, an exchange between the landlord and myself earlier today will do just enough to explain what took place. I had received a text from the landlord with checkout instructions:

  <– Me responding to his checkout instructions message –>

Thanks Frank. We’re all checked out. Tried our best to get it to its original shape when we walked in. I hate being a bitch about a few things that would better help your tenants have a better experience than we had: – Would be nice to have toilet paper stocked and available. Or at least an early heads up would have been appropriated.

– We had an interesting experience with a gentleman last night named Mike. He claimed to have seen one of our guests piss on a tree in the park across the street. He said he worked for the park and the Fine would be $300. I asked for his credentials and an ID, he handed me his drivers license. Ha. I politely asked him to write me the Fine and I would gladly pay it with the city. He threatened to call the police, at which point I advised him to do so and closed the front door. 5 minuets later he barges into the house demanding a resolution. I questioned him how he got into the house, he said he had a key and that he worked for you. Trying to resolve this issue, I ask him what can we do so he could leave us alone. “$20 and a beer.” He answers. “2 beers, no $20. You’re trying to hustle us?” I negotiate back. My producer hands him $20 and he left.

Not sure what type of operation this was, but totally unprofessional.

Have a great weekend.

Cheers, Vince

<– Frank –>

That’s totally not acceptable, this is my neighbor mike who has live there his whole life, while he does work for the parks department in no way is he someone who could write a fine. We have been letting mike take care of the trash weekly that is why he had a key. We will no longer be using his services, I wish you would have given me a call, I have no problem refunding the $20 plus for the toilet paper.

<– Me –>

Lmao. Save your $20 and the toilet paper. All good. We figured out what the odor was, we believe a rat was murdered down the basement last night. There must’ve been a rat massacre down there.

I think you may find one of our peeps stuck in the rat trap going down the basement steps. Just let him loose, he’s harmless.

Cheers, Vince

<– Frank –>

You guys are amazing, Please if you or anyone in your group find yourselves in Philadelphia again and need accommodations for the night, it’s completely on us we have more than just this place! We have about 15 other places all throughout South Philadelphia and Fishtown. So just let us know and we got you covered!!!

<-End->

  I had a cup of coffee late today. I’m wired. But I need to stop writing to you now. I have to go get some rest. Last night I had a rough night sleep.

  Good night my sweet.

  I love you,

  Me

                Day 20: Daryl, Bella and I went to dinner tonight at MaGerks in Horsham. It started with just Daryl and I, but Bella, while Daryl and I were halfway down Norristown Road heading to Horsham road, calls me to ask about my whereabouts.