me to do.”
“Yeah, but that Boing Boing stuff? Seemed real to me,” said Jane.
“I’m a hell of an actress,” said Nellie.
Jane decided to work this story from another angle. Nellie wasn’t going to spill the beans until she was good and ready, so Jane would have to play a “just the facts, Ma’am” game as well as her mother did. And was that possible? Not in a million years. No one defined “need to know basis” as well as Nellie. Even when Jane used to ask her what the family was having for dinner, Nellie would give her a look.
“Who wants to know?”
So Jane decided to take her questions into the barroom while her mother cleaned up in the kitchen.
“Dad, what exactly is going on with all the banners downtown and what just happened here?” Jane made herself comfortable on one of the padded bar stools and out of habit Don placed a cardboard coaster down in front of her. Jane knew her dad didn’t carry Grey Goose vodka, so she nodded toward the tap and Don drew a textbook glass of beer—frosted mug, perfect amount of foam and icy cold. The snack rack was back, so Jane grabbed a pack of beer nuts and tore it open, offering the bag first to her dad, then to Francis on her right. Both shook their heads.
“I thought your mom told you all about this. Pretty exciting for everyone. Lucky Miller grew up here … at least until sixth or seventh grade. His family lived over near Saint Stan’s. He hit it big as a comedian and now they’re doing a comedy special, like one of those dinners where everybody insults the guy who’s being honored, and he’s filming it here in Kankakee.”
Don crossed to the other side of the bar to draw a beer for Bobby, one of the lingering few who didn’t disappear for dinner when the free drinks ended. Francis nudged Jane and nodded.
“Pretty exciting, Janie.”
“How can they be shooting everything here?” asked Jane. “Where is there a studio or a soundstage or a—”
“They’re fixing up the old stone factory over there on Water Street. Making it just like a New York loft,” said Francis.
“Francis,” yelled Nellie from the kitchen, “what’s a loft?”
“Mmmm-mm-mm,” (Kankakeean for I don’t know) muttered Francis, reverting to his native tongue.
“What I thought,” said Nellie, still working in the kitchen.
“Yup,” added Don. “That factory’s been empty for thirty years and now it’s getting some life again. I heard they got the rental for nothing, just a promise of cleanup and bring the electrical up to code.”
Jane sipped her beer. Now that beer had become the new wine, everybody rattled off special brands and brews and labels and batches, and discussed hops and barley and malt the way they used to talk about nose and fruitiness and cru and clarity. Last time Jane had met some of her old advertising colleagues in Chicago, they had pressed upon her red ales and Michigan breweries and seemed to really know the difference between lagers and IPAs. Everyone now seemed to know the difference between hoppy and very hoppy. Jane wished she could just treat all the new beer afficionados to a perfectly drawn ice cold American lager from Don’s immaculately clean tap system.
“Perfect, Dad,” Jane said, holding up her glass and toasting her father. “I’m still not sure I get all the fuss about Lucky Miller, though. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Aha! Finally! An honest citizen of Kankakee!” The writer who Lucky had called Malcolm slid over from the dark corner near the cigarette machine. Jane figured all of the out-of-towners left when Lucky and his followers sashayed out the back door, but apparently, Malcolm had chosen to remain behind and, hidden behind the bulk of Bobby on the bar stool to his right, he had been drinking and listening. Now, it seemed, he was ready to talk.
“I bat cleanup for Lucky and the crew,” said Malcolm, dipping his head in an introductory bow. “Correct American baseball reference, right? I make sure
“Yeah, but that Boing Boing stuff? Seemed real to me,” said Jane.
“I’m a hell of an actress,” said Nellie.
Jane decided to work this story from another angle. Nellie wasn’t going to spill the beans until she was good and ready, so Jane would have to play a “just the facts, Ma’am” game as well as her mother did. And was that possible? Not in a million years. No one defined “need to know basis” as well as Nellie. Even when Jane used to ask her what the family was having for dinner, Nellie would give her a look.
“Who wants to know?”
So Jane decided to take her questions into the barroom while her mother cleaned up in the kitchen.
“Dad, what exactly is going on with all the banners downtown and what just happened here?” Jane made herself comfortable on one of the padded bar stools and out of habit Don placed a cardboard coaster down in front of her. Jane knew her dad didn’t carry Grey Goose vodka, so she nodded toward the tap and Don drew a textbook glass of beer—frosted mug, perfect amount of foam and icy cold. The snack rack was back, so Jane grabbed a pack of beer nuts and tore it open, offering the bag first to her dad, then to Francis on her right. Both shook their heads.
“I thought your mom told you all about this. Pretty exciting for everyone. Lucky Miller grew up here … at least until sixth or seventh grade. His family lived over near Saint Stan’s. He hit it big as a comedian and now they’re doing a comedy special, like one of those dinners where everybody insults the guy who’s being honored, and he’s filming it here in Kankakee.”
Don crossed to the other side of the bar to draw a beer for Bobby, one of the lingering few who didn’t disappear for dinner when the free drinks ended. Francis nudged Jane and nodded.
“Pretty exciting, Janie.”
“How can they be shooting everything here?” asked Jane. “Where is there a studio or a soundstage or a—”
“They’re fixing up the old stone factory over there on Water Street. Making it just like a New York loft,” said Francis.
“Francis,” yelled Nellie from the kitchen, “what’s a loft?”
“Mmmm-mm-mm,” (Kankakeean for I don’t know) muttered Francis, reverting to his native tongue.
“What I thought,” said Nellie, still working in the kitchen.
“Yup,” added Don. “That factory’s been empty for thirty years and now it’s getting some life again. I heard they got the rental for nothing, just a promise of cleanup and bring the electrical up to code.”
Jane sipped her beer. Now that beer had become the new wine, everybody rattled off special brands and brews and labels and batches, and discussed hops and barley and malt the way they used to talk about nose and fruitiness and cru and clarity. Last time Jane had met some of her old advertising colleagues in Chicago, they had pressed upon her red ales and Michigan breweries and seemed to really know the difference between lagers and IPAs. Everyone now seemed to know the difference between hoppy and very hoppy. Jane wished she could just treat all the new beer afficionados to a perfectly drawn ice cold American lager from Don’s immaculately clean tap system.
“Perfect, Dad,” Jane said, holding up her glass and toasting her father. “I’m still not sure I get all the fuss about Lucky Miller, though. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Aha! Finally! An honest citizen of Kankakee!” The writer who Lucky had called Malcolm slid over from the dark corner near the cigarette machine. Jane figured all of the out-of-towners left when Lucky and his followers sashayed out the back door, but apparently, Malcolm had chosen to remain behind and, hidden behind the bulk of Bobby on the bar stool to his right, he had been drinking and listening. Now, it seemed, he was ready to talk.
“I bat cleanup for Lucky and the crew,” said Malcolm, dipping his head in an introductory bow. “Correct American baseball reference, right? I make sure
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