More From Ennui Land
I have been encountering more people from my time as one of the owners of Ennui Cafe back in the day. Of course, some of them will say, “I didn’t know that you owned that place.” There were reasons for that and maybe I will hash them out later, but for now, I will allow sleeping curs to lie because it is what they do best. I think that the best stories are the ones that I was privy to in person- a naked man walking in and asking for coffee, bums locking themselves in our one bathroom and taking a nap, four women stupid enough to mess with my sister Peach, the challenged guy who wore a foam hockey puck on his head with his Sunday suit, and how Christmas Eve was always special on the corner of Lunt and Sheridan.
Ennui Cafe existed in a time warp. It was an old-school coffee house with regulars that liked to claim space and tell. you how to do everything. Some of our customers were the last of the patchouli cloud hippies and thought that everything should be free. In Haji’s case, he figured that he could be free of his clothes. He was a hippie chess player ad seemed to be spiraling. I think that the last phase was him buying a guitar and strumming out of tune.
It was a full moon night in August of 2002. Now while I am not entirely sure of the year, I am certain of the full moon and the month. It was Africa hot in Chicago and there was a full moon because everybody was in high dudgeon. The ice maker didn’t make ice fast enough so I made several trips on my bike to the gas station on Touhy for the cheapest 10-pounders. That was one of those rare nights where I would get to go home before 10 and even maybe take a bath. One of my most trusted baristas was on duty and I could trust Paulie to clean and close up as well as set unusual rat traps. Before you et all panty twisted about rats, every freaking restaurant in Chicago has them. Bet on it. When the restaurants closed those rodent fuckers came out in the open slumming for food.
Anyway, I was home and peeling off my sweaty and bleach-stained tee shirt. The minute I dropped trou the phone rang. I hated that stupid flip phone. There is no joy in always being available but that is what I was with that cafe-always available. I flipped it open.
Paul: Hey Kat…Haji is naked
Kathy: What the fuck you mean he’s naked?
Paul: Well, he came in and asked for a cup of coffee and he is naked.
Kathy: Butt naked?
Paul: Butt naked.
Kathy: Did he pay for his coffee?
Paul: Oh yeah.
Kathy: Where did he have the money?
Paul: In his hand. I told him that he would not get any refills without his clothes.
My mind was racing as I slid my work clothes back on and jumped on my bike. Why the hell does all of the weird shit happen at my place? Why have I attracted the weirdest chess players ever? Why can’t they go play in the park at North Avenue and get their coffee from Mickey D’s? I was zooming up on Lunt and saw the Chicago police slowly following Haji who was driving an old wood-sided car. I caught his gaze and his eyes glinted in the streetlights. That was one crazy motherfucker-smiling, gripping the wheel, and just having a gleeful time.
The other chess players kept playing their game as if nothing was happening. They were slapping the timer in beat with the bass rumbling cars driving down Sheridan. I looked to my left and there it was- the Sturgeon Moon lighting up the water and beaming through the trees still thick with leaves. I poured myself an iced coffee. I carried that ice on my back and dammit, I was going to get some of it.
Kathy: ‘Night Paul.
Paul: “Night Kat.
The naked guy was bound to happen. I always said that when the naked guy came in, it was time to find a buyer. I wished on that August moon for someone to come along and write a check so I could go and find a real job, collect a check, and not sweat my rent. ‘Night Kathy.
