The Space Between Spaces
I was thinking last night about the time period in which I was not journaling. The "lost years", so to speak.
I knew at least a year beforehand that I was going to be leaving the city and moving to the suburbs. This was in the late 2014, early 2015 period. I know I was writing sporadically at the time, but I also know there was a lot of change and drama happening that I don't remember reading about when I was going through it all recently.
To say I was terrified of the changes I was about to undertake in life is an understatement. All I knew for close to twenty years was living in the city. Living an urban life, walking everywhere, having my whole world in a tiny little area. I had started expanding my horizons, visiting the suburbs more, going hiking and stuff like that. I know from what I did write that I began to hate the city and had little solace in my friendships, that mostly felt shallow.
As the reality of my forthcoming changes seemed to be coming at me as if I was a frozen deer in headlights, I found myself latching onto one of my friends at the time, the Curmudgeon. He and I had begun to dabble in that world of "friends with benefits", and because of the emotional stress and fear I was living in about my future, I began to misinterpret the situation. In fact, I'd go as far as to say he became the embodiment of my life in the city and I desperately attempted to cling onto him as if he was a log and I was drowning in a raging stream.
It all got very awkward. On a couple of occasions I intentionally found myself outside of friends apartment buildings so I could text or call them and then invite myself up to unload and cry like a baby about the whole thing. It was really rather pathetic and I am quite embarrassed just remembering it all now. It ended when I made a plea for a commitment between he and I, which he thankfully rejected. So I sent some dramatic email as if I was 21 again, saying that I understood why things were going the way they were but that I had these feelings at the time.
My gods, it was pathetic.
Moving to the suburbs was one of the biggest decisions I'd ever made in my entire life. I was so afraid of the choice, but it had already been decided and I was panicking over an inevitable future.
After the end of that situation, I found myself going to a bar down the street we'd frequented here and there called The Call. I needed to drown my sorrows, and I hated sitting at home alone at the time. Partially because I was also dealing with my psychotic landlords, whom I lived above. Either they or their kid would constantly be knocking at my door if they even heard me take a step up there.
The first evening I went to the bar, I remember getting a drink and going off and sitting in a stool on the other side of the place. I am thinking at the time there were probably some folks at the bar I'd come to know later. But, I sat off by myself, feeling sorry for myself, with my eyes filling with tears. It was all so very dramatic.
As the weeks went on though, I found myself going back the The Call daily. The bartender that worked the shift between 4:00 when they opened and 9:00 was named Richard, and he was a very nice guy. We developed quite the rapport and I enjoyed talking to him as much as anything. It got to the point where, from Tuesday to Friday (and sometimes Saturdays), I would be at the bar almost literally when the doors opened and I'd drink until at least 9:00 at night. Five days a week I'd drunk. And I wasn't just having one or two. With Richard's heavy pours, I was getting obliterated nightly.
It had truly become the closest to being an alcoholic I think I ever was. I lived for those nights and I loved getting drunk. Work was incredibly stressful at the time. The aforementioned stress over leaving the city. This perceived "heartbreak" I was going through. It was all birthing pains as I was about to start a whole new life, and the booze became like the pain medication. And I was quite addicted to it.
I became one of the many regulars there. We all knew each other. We all talked to each other. We all expected each other to be there every day.
There was this loudmouth guy they all called "Shirley", apparently it had something to do with a time he dressed in drag. His partner was sometimes there. He was the exact opposite, and was quite subdued and often I remember him being very moody and angry, like he was unhappy to be trapped in this long term relationship with the loudmouth. There was this big, fit gorilla of a cop guy who was white, whose boyfriend was this effeminate black kid who did drag at the bar on the weekends. There as another guy who I'd met through Rockwell eons before. Not to be cruel, but he was quite unattractive with a face only a mother could love and an attitude to go along with it, but when we did joke around it was all good.
I know there were more regulars than that, but I can't even remember the rest now. The entire period of time is somewhat of a drunken blur. It's been ages since I even thought about it all.
After I moved I still drove back to the city to go there. We ended up also making "friends" with the Friday night bartender, Greg. Richard eventually moved back to Oregon to help out his ailing parents. This had to have been around January of 2017. I remember that I still went there after Trump won the election, though I kept my mouth shut at the time concerning politics when I went there. Richard was one of those extreme liberals and likely would have kicked me out of the bar had he known.
I'd brought the Sparrow there several times, and he was with the Doctor and I on Richard's last night. It was very sad because I had spent hours, days and months seeing this man for at least a year. We really bonded and he often saw the "good" in me, even though I was going through such a dark time. And truly, his companionship, even just in the capacity of a bartender/customer situation, really got me through that period. We both cried when we embraced and said our goodbyes that night.
The Call kind of became the go-to place for the Doctor and I to hang out after I moved to the burbs. I do think I went down there at least one or twice a month to hang out with him. We really setup a rapport with Greg, the other bartender at the time. Even though things had changed so much for me and I no longer lived in the city, The Call and those times with the Doctor were like a small taste of the past... a positive one, more or less.
It was at The Call where the Curmudgeon and the Italian first met the Sparrow and tried desperately to destroy my budding relationship with him. It was also, on that night, when I saw that the Sparrow didn't take shit from all these "friends" that had torn me down for years. It was at The Call where I asked the Doctor to be the best man at our wedding. That was the Friday before the fake "pandemic" scrambled everyone's sense of logic and reason in 2020.
We did eventually go back there once the dumb and useless lockdowns were over. But, the owners, who always briefly talked to us, seemed to be "true believers". That combined with seeing so many dumb liberal morons wearing masks around the bar made it difficult to want to go back there.
I don't really remember the last time we actually had drinks there. The Sparrow and I had no desire because we weren't going to put masks on to walk into the place. Then, last winter we went down there to hang out with the Doctor. We parked around the corner and walked to The Call, and the place was closed. Not closed simply that day, but closed permanently.
While it had its intolerable clientele, it was ten thousand times more easy to stomach than going somewhere in Boystown. It was "our place" and I felt genuine sadness that it had closed. I had spent so many hours (and dollars) in the place. And I did have good memories there. It was a "home away from home".
On the other hand, the owners were braindead Covid true believers and I am almost certain beyond a doubt they had to close the bar because of the financial effects of the draconian (and useless) lockdowns (that did nothing). The Call was always a struggling bar, and I always heard of all the ways they cut corners to try to save any money they could. The fake "pandemic" was a deathblow to the place. Much like Covid itself, the virus didn't kill, the preexisting conditions of the patients did.
It's funny that it is so long ago now. I was first going there ten years ago. Granted, we had stopped in there before that time on occasion. I think the first time was during one of those Zombie Pub Crawls we partook in.
I can see in my head right now the view from my spot at the bar, looking across the bar itself through the often dirty windows and blinds out to Bryn Mawr Avenue. Seeing a Jiffy Lube (I think it was), a hot dog place and a McDonalds behind that. That particular McDonalds I had Christmas Eve dinner at twice I believe, before I'd wander that old neighborhood looking at decorations.
That period of my life was so tumultuous when I did live in that apartment. But, I was changing so rapidly and going through so many emotions. It was clearly all a factor in why I was no longer writing as often. Whether or not this record has any relevance to anyone in the future other than me, I know I lost so many insights and experiences to time because I turned my back on my writing. The poison of social media was also to blame during this period, as I felt a witty Facebook post served the same purpose as keeping a real journal of my life. How wrong I was on that point.
I hated when I lost my apartment in Boystown. An experience I relived by rereading recently. Then that awful apartment with that hard-walking whore I lived under for a year. Followed by the very last, very nice, very large and fun apartment I had living above those awful landlords, who ruined the entire experience.
But, at that time I really did get over that "loss" I went through leaving Lakeview. I came to love that Edgewater neighborhood. I developed my routines up there, going to antique stores and White Castle. I created new routes for running and biking. I LOVED walking around there during Halloween and Christmas, seeing all the decorations. I really re-learned my enjoyment of independence and solitude up there.
I was going to say that I "grew up" more in that time period, but I was already in my late 30s/early 40s... I was an adult, whether or not I saw myself that way.
I knew at least a year beforehand that I was going to be leaving the city and moving to the suburbs. This was in the late 2014, early 2015 period. I know I was writing sporadically at the time, but I also know there was a lot of change and drama happening that I don't remember reading about when I was going through it all recently.
To say I was terrified of the changes I was about to undertake in life is an understatement. All I knew for close to twenty years was living in the city. Living an urban life, walking everywhere, having my whole world in a tiny little area. I had started expanding my horizons, visiting the suburbs more, going hiking and stuff like that. I know from what I did write that I began to hate the city and had little solace in my friendships, that mostly felt shallow.
As the reality of my forthcoming changes seemed to be coming at me as if I was a frozen deer in headlights, I found myself latching onto one of my friends at the time, the Curmudgeon. He and I had begun to dabble in that world of "friends with benefits", and because of the emotional stress and fear I was living in about my future, I began to misinterpret the situation. In fact, I'd go as far as to say he became the embodiment of my life in the city and I desperately attempted to cling onto him as if he was a log and I was drowning in a raging stream.
It all got very awkward. On a couple of occasions I intentionally found myself outside of friends apartment buildings so I could text or call them and then invite myself up to unload and cry like a baby about the whole thing. It was really rather pathetic and I am quite embarrassed just remembering it all now. It ended when I made a plea for a commitment between he and I, which he thankfully rejected. So I sent some dramatic email as if I was 21 again, saying that I understood why things were going the way they were but that I had these feelings at the time.
My gods, it was pathetic.
Moving to the suburbs was one of the biggest decisions I'd ever made in my entire life. I was so afraid of the choice, but it had already been decided and I was panicking over an inevitable future.
After the end of that situation, I found myself going to a bar down the street we'd frequented here and there called The Call. I needed to drown my sorrows, and I hated sitting at home alone at the time. Partially because I was also dealing with my psychotic landlords, whom I lived above. Either they or their kid would constantly be knocking at my door if they even heard me take a step up there.
The first evening I went to the bar, I remember getting a drink and going off and sitting in a stool on the other side of the place. I am thinking at the time there were probably some folks at the bar I'd come to know later. But, I sat off by myself, feeling sorry for myself, with my eyes filling with tears. It was all so very dramatic.
As the weeks went on though, I found myself going back the The Call daily. The bartender that worked the shift between 4:00 when they opened and 9:00 was named Richard, and he was a very nice guy. We developed quite the rapport and I enjoyed talking to him as much as anything. It got to the point where, from Tuesday to Friday (and sometimes Saturdays), I would be at the bar almost literally when the doors opened and I'd drink until at least 9:00 at night. Five days a week I'd drunk. And I wasn't just having one or two. With Richard's heavy pours, I was getting obliterated nightly.
It had truly become the closest to being an alcoholic I think I ever was. I lived for those nights and I loved getting drunk. Work was incredibly stressful at the time. The aforementioned stress over leaving the city. This perceived "heartbreak" I was going through. It was all birthing pains as I was about to start a whole new life, and the booze became like the pain medication. And I was quite addicted to it.
I became one of the many regulars there. We all knew each other. We all talked to each other. We all expected each other to be there every day.
There was this loudmouth guy they all called "Shirley", apparently it had something to do with a time he dressed in drag. His partner was sometimes there. He was the exact opposite, and was quite subdued and often I remember him being very moody and angry, like he was unhappy to be trapped in this long term relationship with the loudmouth. There was this big, fit gorilla of a cop guy who was white, whose boyfriend was this effeminate black kid who did drag at the bar on the weekends. There as another guy who I'd met through Rockwell eons before. Not to be cruel, but he was quite unattractive with a face only a mother could love and an attitude to go along with it, but when we did joke around it was all good.
I know there were more regulars than that, but I can't even remember the rest now. The entire period of time is somewhat of a drunken blur. It's been ages since I even thought about it all.
After I moved I still drove back to the city to go there. We ended up also making "friends" with the Friday night bartender, Greg. Richard eventually moved back to Oregon to help out his ailing parents. This had to have been around January of 2017. I remember that I still went there after Trump won the election, though I kept my mouth shut at the time concerning politics when I went there. Richard was one of those extreme liberals and likely would have kicked me out of the bar had he known.
I'd brought the Sparrow there several times, and he was with the Doctor and I on Richard's last night. It was very sad because I had spent hours, days and months seeing this man for at least a year. We really bonded and he often saw the "good" in me, even though I was going through such a dark time. And truly, his companionship, even just in the capacity of a bartender/customer situation, really got me through that period. We both cried when we embraced and said our goodbyes that night.
The Call kind of became the go-to place for the Doctor and I to hang out after I moved to the burbs. I do think I went down there at least one or twice a month to hang out with him. We really setup a rapport with Greg, the other bartender at the time. Even though things had changed so much for me and I no longer lived in the city, The Call and those times with the Doctor were like a small taste of the past... a positive one, more or less.
It was at The Call where the Curmudgeon and the Italian first met the Sparrow and tried desperately to destroy my budding relationship with him. It was also, on that night, when I saw that the Sparrow didn't take shit from all these "friends" that had torn me down for years. It was at The Call where I asked the Doctor to be the best man at our wedding. That was the Friday before the fake "pandemic" scrambled everyone's sense of logic and reason in 2020.
We did eventually go back there once the dumb and useless lockdowns were over. But, the owners, who always briefly talked to us, seemed to be "true believers". That combined with seeing so many dumb liberal morons wearing masks around the bar made it difficult to want to go back there.
I don't really remember the last time we actually had drinks there. The Sparrow and I had no desire because we weren't going to put masks on to walk into the place. Then, last winter we went down there to hang out with the Doctor. We parked around the corner and walked to The Call, and the place was closed. Not closed simply that day, but closed permanently.
While it had its intolerable clientele, it was ten thousand times more easy to stomach than going somewhere in Boystown. It was "our place" and I felt genuine sadness that it had closed. I had spent so many hours (and dollars) in the place. And I did have good memories there. It was a "home away from home".
On the other hand, the owners were braindead Covid true believers and I am almost certain beyond a doubt they had to close the bar because of the financial effects of the draconian (and useless) lockdowns (that did nothing). The Call was always a struggling bar, and I always heard of all the ways they cut corners to try to save any money they could. The fake "pandemic" was a deathblow to the place. Much like Covid itself, the virus didn't kill, the preexisting conditions of the patients did.
It's funny that it is so long ago now. I was first going there ten years ago. Granted, we had stopped in there before that time on occasion. I think the first time was during one of those Zombie Pub Crawls we partook in.
I can see in my head right now the view from my spot at the bar, looking across the bar itself through the often dirty windows and blinds out to Bryn Mawr Avenue. Seeing a Jiffy Lube (I think it was), a hot dog place and a McDonalds behind that. That particular McDonalds I had Christmas Eve dinner at twice I believe, before I'd wander that old neighborhood looking at decorations.
That period of my life was so tumultuous when I did live in that apartment. But, I was changing so rapidly and going through so many emotions. It was clearly all a factor in why I was no longer writing as often. Whether or not this record has any relevance to anyone in the future other than me, I know I lost so many insights and experiences to time because I turned my back on my writing. The poison of social media was also to blame during this period, as I felt a witty Facebook post served the same purpose as keeping a real journal of my life. How wrong I was on that point.
I hated when I lost my apartment in Boystown. An experience I relived by rereading recently. Then that awful apartment with that hard-walking whore I lived under for a year. Followed by the very last, very nice, very large and fun apartment I had living above those awful landlords, who ruined the entire experience.
But, at that time I really did get over that "loss" I went through leaving Lakeview. I came to love that Edgewater neighborhood. I developed my routines up there, going to antique stores and White Castle. I created new routes for running and biking. I LOVED walking around there during Halloween and Christmas, seeing all the decorations. I really re-learned my enjoyment of independence and solitude up there.
I was going to say that I "grew up" more in that time period, but I was already in my late 30s/early 40s... I was an adult, whether or not I saw myself that way.