Looking for a story
the Lantern, I thought I'd actually discovered a dive bar in downtown
Naperville. Turns out not to be the case. The men's bathroom is clean,
and it has functioning soap and paper towel dispensers and four toilets
that flush — automatically, in fact.
So will a classy establishment such as this welcome a lowly scribe
looking for a last-minute story about Washington Street to contribute
to his paper's 70th anniversary special section?
At 2:15 p.m. on a Friday, I figured it was worth a shot.
Out of habit, I grab the spill seat and order a Jack and Coke with
lime. Then I realize the place appears to be a beer-drinkers' bar. Oh
well. I'll only be here for a few minutes. I mean, I still have a story
to write.
You know, I expect Naperville's soccer moms and senior citizens to
patronize the downtown business district in the middle of the
afternoon, but I must admit I'm surprised to see so many people in this
place at this particular time of day.
I'm also a bit surprised that the television is tuned to amateur bowling on ESPN 2.
"Must not be much on TV," scoffs the old man three stools to my left. "You might as well put it on Spanish soccer."
To my right, a 30-something bruiser with an unlit cigarette dangling
from the corner of his mouth returns from the bar's new-fangled jukebox
to his bar stool and half-empty pint of beer. As soon as the Rolling
Stones' "Shattered" starts to spill from the speakers, the man strikes
a match and starts to complain.
"I cannot believe your jukebox has no Zeppelin," he tells the barmaid
after lighting his cigarette. "That's just embarrassing. Unbelievable.
And I really wanted to hear 'Whole Lotta Love.' Man, I swear, a jukebox
without Zeppelin is not a jukebox."
He finishes his song and his beer, pays the lady, and leaves.
As the barmaid brings me my tab, too, I realize I'm outta cash. So I
ask whether the bar will accept my credit card, or whether I'll be
washing dishes before I finally get around to reporting that story.
"Yeah, we'll take your credit card," she says. "But you can wash dishes, too, you know. I'm OK with that."
I literally stumble out the front door, nearly into the arms of two
women walking east on Chicago Avenue. Seriously, someone should do
something about that first step. It is, as they say, a doozie.
You know, I have a birthday party to attend later tonight, and cigars
should go over well with that crowd. So before I get back to business,
I'll just take a slight detour to the Bull and Bear Tobacconists right
across Washington.
I know most people hate 'em, but cigars smell so good to me. I just
can't help it. I'm only going to smoke one. Then it's back to work.
I'm too poor to be a cigar connoisseur. Truth is, I normally smoke
whatever my wealthier friends are willing to pass around at parties and
poker games. So, after stumbling around the shop a time or two, I
settle on a $13 Cohiba Robusto, take a seat on the leather couch, and
commence to watching Michelle Wie work toward making the cut at the
John Deere Classic.
I guess there is more on TV than amateur bowling, after all.
Right away, Wie sinks a birdie putt from the fringe on the 14th hole.
The shot puts her one above the cut line and at the center of
conversation among the shop's regulars, who are puffing away at their
cigars of choice.
"She got it," says a preppy fellow kicked back in a leather recliner to my right. "She can putt like the devil."
I'm surrounded by regulars, and, of course, Max, the shop's manager
seated in the wing-backed chair next to me. Max seems like quite a
character. He sounds like Thurston Howell III imitating a 1930s-era
gangster, which is fitting when he describes certain cigars as "to die
for."
Speaking of death, it'll be mine if I don't get this story done.
I stroll out the door an onto the sidewalks of downtown Naperville. I
think I'll drop in on either Rick Motta or Terry Szpiech and crank out
a quick, colorful story about their barber shops — which are located
almost right across from each other on Washington, between Benton and
Van Buren.
Before I even make it from Chicago up to Jefferson, though, my cell
phone signals I have a new voice mail message awaiting my attention.
Well what do you know? I've been spotted by half of The Sun's sports
staff — Assistant Sports Editor Todd Adams and sportswriters Paul
LaTour and Brad Engel, the man who placed the call.
"Hey Tim, we see you walking the streets of Naperville with a cigar in
one hand and a notebook in the other," Engel said. "You should stop by
Jimmy's if you're not working too much more, and have a soft drink or a
beer with us before you go back to the office."
OK, to hell with writing about Washington Street. I think I'll just keep experiencing it.
7/17/05
