Once Upon a Royal Wedding Chicago Style
Evidently some current homeless folks feel the way I did about the previous extravaganza.
Note: This appeared today (with minor edits) as my first contribution to The Third City, an irreverent blog maintained by a group of disreputable characters, all fine if decidedly peculiar writers themselves. My friend Milo Samardzija is the one to blame for the invite. To see what my ravings look like on a blog read by more people than can dine comfortably in a phone booth check it out Here. And stick around to check out the other attractions.
The Norton Anti-virus folks warn Americans of infected web sites promising exclusive photos or videos of the Royal Wedding. More than 80% of web surfers were reported to be likely to follow the event. Well, I'm safe.
I don’t give a rat’s ass for the doings of the hugely unaccomplished House of Windsor a/k/a House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, the offspring and descendants of Mrs. Mountbatten a/k/a Mrs. Battenberg styled Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II of England and a whole lot of other places that used to be in the British Empire. If the Brits want to put up with their shenanigans for old time’s sake, I suppose it’s their business. But we gave the heave-ho to the addled King George III more than 200 years ago, so I don’t understand what the fuss is over the coming wedding of a balding princeling and a woman reasonably attractive enough to get a job pointing at Jaguars at auto shows.
But I have to admit it-I was part of the international audience for the wedding of the current chump’s dad, Prince Charles and the allegedly fabulous Dianne. You may remember it. He wore Alfred E. Newman’s ears. She wore puffy sleeves, a shy smile, and a train apparently several blocks long.
As it happened, I was officially homeless at the time. My previous abode, a shingle clad rooming house on Diversey near Ashland dubbed the Green Bunker by its denizens had burned one day while I was at work leaving me with the clothes on my back. What with most of my income earmarked for Lincoln Avenue saloons, I knew it would be a while before I could afford a new permanent flop.
One of those saloons was a place called Consumer’s Tap. Some of you may remember it. It was a long bar behind a liquor store across the street from the Biograph Theater. It was the kind of joint that opened at 7 A.M. to supply guys who need “eye-openers.” Its clientele were local blue collar folks, hard core drinkers, and the remnants of the Lincoln Ave. hippy street scene that had flourished a decade earlier. Drinks were considerably cheaper than tonier places in the neighborhood.
The proprietor was a youngish Chicago cop of Greek extraction. Hearing about my plight, he gave me a second job mucking out the saloon after it closed. I would find some couch to surf earlier in the evening after getting off a day job repairing and sewing sweaty football shoulder pads and get up to have a drink or two at the bar before it closed at 2 A.M. After the bartenders counted the cash and the owner disappeared with it into his office with some cronies to snort cocaine, I would throw the stools up on the bar, empty the garbage and the cans of broken beer bottles, swab out the toilets, sweep the floor, and mop. Unless there was more than usual puking or blood to clean up, I could finish in a couple of hours. All the while I would leave a TV on to keep me company-usually an old movie on WGN-and nurse a beer or three. When I was done, I would put the stools down and then stretch out on the bar with a roll of paper towels for a pillow and nap until 6:30 when the morning bartender would come in to get ready to open. Then it would be off to the day job. Not an ideal existence, but one which prevented me from actually freezing to death outside that winter.
One morning in February the usual black-and-white movie classic was replaced by a live broadcast of the Big Event from Westminster Abby. I admit, I was gobsmacked by the needless splendor of it all. Why just one of the bride’s pumps could have paid for a room with a toilet and running water, a kitchenette, and a bed that didn’t fold down from the wall for a few months. I didn’t want to be bitter. But I was forced to pour a stiff three or four fingers of the boss’s best John Jameson Twelve Year Old and pray that those IRA bastards who once blew up the bridegroom’s uncle would have good hunting.
I am, you will be pleased to know, no longer homeless. I now reside in a heavily mortgaged home worth considerably less than the debt out in the wilds of McHenry County and live a life of semi-respectability. But when this next wedding comes on, you can bet I will find something else to do.