15 Minutes with Kevin in Evanston
Kevin was on his own. His endgame, I had figured out, was just to let his rage unfurl until the booze wore off. At which point, assuming he avoided arrest, he’d walk home. I figured this because I had been there before. And truth be told, I was having a bit of a bad day, too. Nothing specific. Just a general sense of annoyance with being awake. It happens. It’s one of the reasons we drink beer in bars and put up with bar trivia hosts.
Hope Idiotic | Part 28
Each week they walked a few blocks to the therapist’s office. His name was Adam, and he specialized in couples. Adam was part of a practice of three other couples’ therapists who saw patients out of that location, and the waiting room was a revolving door of jilted lovers. The awkward efforts of the couples to not make eye contact with each other were exhausting ocular acrobatics. Lou missed the intimacy of Dr. Milner. The sessions were hour-long free-for-alls during which Michelle purged her frustrations with Lou’s faults. Among the faults: “Sometimes he’s too driven toward things that I just don’t understand.”
Losing a Best Friend 10 Years Later — Remembering Mike Zigler
On Friday, October 16, 2009, one of my best friends, Mike Zigler, died.
It was a stupid death. One that was completely avoidable if Zigler hadn’t been the man he was, and maybe, if I hadn’t left Las Vegas two years before to continue my life in Chicago. When people ask me how he died I joke and say, “With his hands at two and ten” — the textbook instruction on where a driver should place their hands on the steering wheel. Zigler died in his car, in the garage of my Las Vegas house, which he was renting from me.
Pick Up At The Bar
The red door is near, faded and worn from the hands of so many patrons. From the quiet sidewalk, the din is growing. In the pretense of the holidays, the flock gathers at their flowing altar and pray long hours deep into their bottles. They cheer at sports, they laugh about each other’s lives. Farmers, factory workers, caregivers, teachers. The little town’s heartbeat throbs inside where the air is dark and the fragrance of stale cigarettes sits in the back of throats.
Anxiety is the thing that’s ripped our country apart. It has divided us, caused us to fear and hate those who think and live differently than us, and even caused us to hate those who only slightly disagree with us. It has led to panic and overreaction. And I worry that American Anxiety is only going to exacerbate the social and political divide in this country to the point that there is no coming back.