Congress Street

It had been a while since he’d had drunken noodle, and so Jack—semi-retired, now working from home, living alone, and hungry—threw on his jacket and headed out to the nearest Thai restaurant with thoughts in his head of Brussels sprouts, sodium and chicken, the doctor’s recent concern that his blood pressure medicine was losing its potency, and the idea of tiny places in his brain rupturing, leaking, burst pipes and neglected industrial spaces, places where dubious government agents take loudmouth poets and dreadlocked anarchists for enhanced interrogations, broken skulls, bottomless torment. He entered the Thai restaurant and asked the couple in line if they were waiting to speak to the hostess. No, they said, they were on the list and waiting for a table. Jack stepped to the front and said to the hostess that he’d like to place an order to-go. He informed her that he did not need to see a menu, he knew what he wanted.
She was, to put it in the kindest terms, a curious looking person. She wore overalls and had peak–Corey Haim hair: gelled curls on the top and slicked on the sides, with long spiral twists down the back. It was, Jack felt—now setting kindness aside and going for blunt honesty—a ridiculous hairstyle. Ridiculous in 1986, and ridiculous now.
The hostess did not take his order. Rather, she asked him to step aside; she had, it seemed, a few things to do first. “Of course,” Jack said, and he moved to the dead space next to her podium. Far enough away to give her plenty of personal space, yet close enough to appear ready and easily beckoned. A few minutes passed. He observed her tapping the touch-screen on her stand. Her actions felt superfluous, not intentional or of value but rather performative and robotic. He had an inkling that his presence was perturbing and he thought it best to remind himself how one never knows what others are going through, i.e., she might be having a bad day, or she might be one of those people so addicted to screens that she cannot function in the world without tap-tapping every few minutes. He took another step away from the workstation and toward the metal shelf used for takeout orders, put his hands in his pockets, looked at the ceiling fan. She swiped the screen with a touch of drama, and vanished into the back. When she returned a new party was waiting at her podium and she spent a minute getting their details and informing them of the wait time. Next, she seated the party-of-two he’d encountered upon entering the restaurant. Now, the entrance was clear. There was a lull. He waited, shifting his weight from toe to heel, back and forth. She tapped her screen, sighed, and finally turned toward him:
“Do you have a smart phone?”
“What?”
“A smart phone.”
“Are you asking if I have a phone?” Jack said.
“Yes. A smart phone.”
“I have a phone,” he said.
She pointed at a taped-down square of paper on the front of the podium. “When it’s busy, we prefer you use our QR code to place your order.”
“Okay,” he said, trying to not grind his teeth. “Is that a new policy, because…?”
“…”
“So…you mean now?”
“Yes, you scan it here, then step outside and place your order on your phone.”
“You want me to get out my phone, scan this squiggle-box thing, leave—like actually go outside—then stand on the corner like a ne’er-do-well, holding my credit card in one hand, my phone in the other, squinting, and place my order, instead of me just telling you now that I want drunken noodle with chicken, spice level three, a papaya salad, also spice level three, and an order of Brussels sprouts? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nuts. You’re like a…like a health insurance company.”
“Excuse me? What did you say to me?”
“Like a phone tree. Press one. Press three. Hold. Then, all that dreadful looped and too loud instrumental music before, click. Oops.” Jack was waving his arms about. The vent in the ceiling over his head went hiss…
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” She lowered her eyes and again started to tap on her tablet. Jack stared at her hair for a second, then left, adding the establishment to his mental blacklist of FUCK YOU restaurants and other businesses that he found in violation of the golden rule, or the silver rule, or ruby rule, some shit-basket rule, bronze maybe. He walked a half-block down the street to the next Thai spot. He ordered drunken noodle with chicken and spring rolls—they didn’t have Brussels sprouts, he forgot the salad—and while he sat and waited he opened his phone and went to the website of the Thai spot he’d just left. He found the menu and started to click on random items, adding them to the cart. In the SPECIAL INSTRUCTION window he made requests like “no onions,” “extra cashews,” and “please add fresh dill.” He marked everything at spice level ten. He ordered appetizers and entrees, soups and stir-fries. He filled the cart until the cost was $197. He proceeded to check out, left a one dollar tip, and paid.
“Sir, your order is ready.”
Jack looked up from his phone. He felt hot and a little sick. He grabbed his order and walked home. He tried to watch TV while he ate, but all he could think about was the massive bag of food sitting on the takeout shelf of the first Thai restaurant, slowly growing cold, the grease congealing into clots of wasted energy and spice. Every once in a while, Cory Haim Hair would look over as the stain in the corner of the bag grew larger and larger.
The next day Jack awoke in his recliner, still in front of the TV. He rode the exercise bike, lifted some weights, and had a protein shake. He went upstairs to his office and pulled up the website for the Thai spot. This time in the SPECIAL INSTRUCTION spot, he wrote things such as “allergic to rice,” “left-sided cashews only,” “extra glue,” and “no egg whites no hippies no sadness no lost boys.” He filled the cart with $85 worth of lunch specials and appetizers. He paid, left a dollar tip, and tried to do some work. But all he could think about was the bag of food on the shelf. He went downstairs and grabbed his jacket.
Soon he was out in front of the Thai spot. He looked through the glass but couldn’t see the shelf with the takeout bags. He entered and walked to the podium.
“Table for one,” he said, staring at the floor. It wasn’t Cory Haim Hair working this time, but he still felt sheepish and unwilling to stand upright.
He was shown to a corner table and left with a glass of tap water and a menu. He had a direct view now of the takeout shelf. He waited, sipping his water.
“Something else to drink? Mimosa? Bloody Mary?”
The waiter had a red mist oozing from his mouth.
“Yes,” Jack said. “White wine, please.”
He sipped his wine and watched the shelf. He ordered curry puffs and tofu buns. He ordered a second glass of wine and drank it fast while his puffs and buns remained untouched. From the back, a woman appeared, carrying two large brown paper bags. She set them on the takeout shelf. Jack sat up straight. Looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Everyone appeared to be minding their own business. He picked up a curry puff and shoved the entire thing into his mouth. It was cold, but tasted wonderful. Chickpeas and grease.
He ordered a third white wine. An hour had passed. The two brown paper bags sat on the shelf while other bags came and went. Twice, someone had stopped to read the ticket on one of the bags. The second time, the woman went so far as to scan the restaurant. She looked at him and he held her gaze despite his anxiety-spike.
He paid his bill, leaving a fifty-percent tip, and left, pausing at the unoccupied podium to slash the taped-on QR code with his house key.
He was feeling a bit woozy, a bit balloon-headed, and a part of him knew he should go home and try to do some work, or nap, or masturbate even, for old times’ sake. But he didn’t walk home. Instead he walked farther down Congress. There was a new bar that had opened the month before. It had an ‘80s retro theme that included several props: board games like Hungry Hungry Hippos and Mouse Trap, an Atari 2600, and plenty of still-in-the-package action figures. He entered the bar. It was empty.
He sat at a stool close to the door and waited for someone to notice. A man came out of the back, young, bearded, start of a gut, and dropped a menu on the bar. Lots of cheap beer, cheap American beer, and even worse, there was a section of cocktails made with the same watery pisswater. He noted that their wine selection was also shit, and ordered a whiskey and water.
The bartender wasn’t in the mood to chat. The bar was only a few months old, but already it felt like a dying entity. The theme wasn’t working. Nostalgia for the 1980s paired with the worst beer brewed was a misfire. It was obvious, sitting in the middle of the concept, that the idea was half-baked and had zero appeal. Jack felt despair, which morphed into concern.
“You know what this place needs?” Jack said.
The bartender down at the other end of the bar didn’t move.
“It needs a wall of tapes.”
Now the bartender was looking his way.
“And a boombox.”
The bartender sighed, walked over and joined him.
“What do you mean?”
“You have this ‘80s thing going, but you’re playing…what is this?”
“Imagine Dragons.”
“So…shit, in other words. Also, a mismatch. You need a fun boombox, a Hitachi or RCA, and let the customers pick out tapes and play them. Hook the machine up to your sound system.”
“No one likes tapes.”
“I like tapes,” Jack said.
“You’re not everyone.”
“No, but I am your only customer.”
This did not sit well with the bartender.
“This your bar?” Jack asked.
“I’m a partner,” said the barkeep.
“Your windows are also shit.”
“Who the fuck are you? And by the way, that black hair dye isn’t fooling anyone.”
“I’m nobody, as you made clear. But I’m also a neighbor, and I have an interest in seeing businesses do well on the street, so they don’t become banks or pharmacies, another Rite Aid or Wells Fargo, know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“So, let’s start with the windows. When you’re passing on the street, your windows do nothing to entice the customer inside. It’s hard to tell what you even sell. Are you a junk shop selling old VHS tapes, are you a game store for nerds, or are you a diner selling shitty grilled cheese sandwiches?”
“Well, we’re none of those. Though we do sell food.” The barkeep flipped over the menu and tapped the lower half.
“But you get my point. The average passerby’s attention is yours for one to three seconds, tops. You have three seconds to communicate enough information to get them to alter course.”
“Well, our regulars.”
Jack looked over his shoulder, then, to make his point, under the lip of the bar, down at his pelvis, under the menu.
“Okay smart guy, what do you suggest?”
“Well, first, ditch the ‘80s thing. You can keep the games, but make them classy. Wooden chess boards for starters, Catan for the younger folks, none of this Hungry Hungry Hippos shit. No plastic.”
“What about your cassette tape idea?”
Jack looked the bartender in the eye: “You were right, that was a dumb idea. But you could get a turntable. Those are timeless.”
“They’re trendy and expensive.”
“Now they are trendy, but that will pass. The albums you choose to keep in the bar though, they’ll be classics-only.”
“Like?”
“Sly, Earth Wind and Fire, the Stones, Stevie, Tina Turner, Ruth Brown, Sabbath, Miles, Aretha, The Staple Singers, The Kinks, Giant Steps, Joni, Monk, ‘80s stuff like Michael or Sade or New Order.”
“Michael Bolton?”
“No, fuck. Michael Jackson…look, we’re off track, let’s get back to the windows. You want the passersby to look and see some green, I mean, plants, vegetation, you want them to see classy drinks and quality beers and wine, and you want them to see quiet nooks, game tables, and the promise of attractive people.”
“That’s a lot to stuff in a window.”
“You aren’t going to attract anyone with a sunbaked VHS copy of War Games.”
The bartender sighed. He’d clearly had enough of the conversation. “So no food? Another whiskey?” From the kitchen, Jack heard a cry, like a frightened child makes when confronted by a demon in the closet.
“Just the check.” Jack paid and left a thirty-percent tip. He stood on the sidewalk outside the bar for a second, plotting his next move, looking down at a dead fly on a yellow tile of a Rubik’s Cube in the window.
He crossed the street, feeling more than a little drunk, and entered the comic book store. Loud imitation punk music played over the sound system. Jack studied the covers on the shelf. He went deeper into the store and stood at the wall of Manga titles. The music playing in the shop was grating. It was music made by kids obsessed with The Decedents and Black Flag, music from Jack’s young adult life—he was never a fan, though he respected the originality. But the music playing now failed to push the genre forward, it simply imitated the touchstones of the aesthetic. Shouty vocals, power chords, suburban angst, the need to touch girls, the non-self-aware mention of greed and a burning planet. Jack had a theory that popular music had stopped evolving in the first decade of the new century. Specifically on the day Jack turned 40. The internet had broken it. For the entire 20th century, music had been evolving and inventing, one could put a record on and, with only a brief amount of knowledge, pinpoint to within a decade when the album was made. Now, everything was tossed in a blender and spat out through advanced production tools that made it all sound bassy, polished and designed as filler; thirty-second clips meant to soundtrack your Greek Isles vacation or your epic snowboard adventure in British Columbia. Everyone had beards, designer drugs, pants pulled too high, anti-capitalism slogans slapped onto the side of a pair of Vans or a shirt from H&M. These were dire times, in other words, and Jack again felt despair. Sure, he might be old-man-yells-at-cloud, but that didn’t mean the cloud wasn’t an asshole.
In the back of the comic shop were two working pinball machines. Jack watched as a boy and his father played Ghostbusters. The boy was no good, but the dynamic of father-son was so pure, there was love and joy and the handing down of tradition and gamesmanship, all of it soundtracked by bumpers being triggered and flippers flipping. Jack has missed this boat—procreation, the higher love—and now, watching the kid and his dad, he felt it poignantly, like an uptick in gravity.
Eventually the dad looked over his shoulder at Jack, who was breathing heavy from the wine, whiskey and melancholy. The father frowned and moved to block Jack’s view of his son. The air was thick, almost like a fog. Jack heard the man’s fingernails pressing into the side of the pinball machine, cracking the plastic; he knew that within seconds the man would crush the machine and toss it at Jack like a ball of wadded tinfoil. Jack stepped into the next aisle and stood before a wall of softback trades. He selected a volume of old Star Wars stories, some of which he’d read in decades past, and went to the counter. The clerk rang him up, “thirty-two dollars and six cents.”
Jack handed the tattooed man his credit card and moved to put the book into his bag. A hand with a Dead Kennedys logo tattooed on the top came down hard on the cover. “Please wait until your card has cleared,” the clerk said.
Jack felt a spike of outrage. What did this guy think was going to happen? Would Jack’s card get declined, but it would be too late, for Jack would be on his way out the door with his loot tucked snug in his bag? Was that his plan, go around town with bogus credit cards, and take advantage of the four or five second lag between the clerk swiping the card and the card coming back as no good? Here comes the master criminal, Jack, the Congress Street Bandit. Watch out for that guy, he’s clever. He’s outsmarted the system. He gives you a bad card, but before you realize what’s happened, he’s put his booty into his tote bag and has absconded from your reach. He’s out the door with a playful skip, the unstoppable criminal mastermind, a flood of malevolent mischievous brilliance, terrorizing the retailers of Congress Street.
The card finished processing and the clerk lifted his hand. Jack brushed off the cover, making sure the clerk saw this move, and put the book in his bag. He turned to go when the clerk said, “Your card.” Jack spun around and took the card. As he stepped away, he heard the clerk mutter, “dickhead.” Jack kept walking. From the back, the pinball kid started to cry. The dad barked, “I don’t give two shits Susan! Your sister is still a demon from hell, don’t you hang up on me! I swear Susan, if you hang up on me one more time, I’ll…”
More people on the street were exhaling red mist, and Jack’s legs felt heavy. The folks passing strode with low knuckles, bobbing up and down like on strings. Jack entered the city art museum, showing his membership card at the front desk before descending the wide staircase to the café. He ordered red wine and took his small bottle and plastic cup to the back of the seating area. Before him was a large painting of a river. The water was running low, and dozens of granite rocks and boulders were peppered across the waterway. The artist had put the viewer in the middle of the stream, wading, perhaps fishing or finding their way across, but now pausing to appreciate the sights. In the distance, hills and a wide, partly-clouded sky. Jack couldn’t take his eyes off the picture, he was imaging Cory Haim Hair trying to make her way across the river, jumping from rock to rock. He so wanted her to slip. He retrieved his phone, pulled up the menu for the Thai spot, and started filling a cart with appetizers and entrees, soups and noodle dishes. He was about to check out when he realized an old woman had joined him, had sat down right next to him at his table. She was looking at the painting. She wore black leather trousers, a cheetah print sweater—fuzzy and cropped—and a face painted in gaudy blue eyeshadow and thick, clumped, black mascara. A forest green beret. Dozens of bangles on each arm. Hair dyed scarlet. Skin like wasp paper. She looked like someone who’d traveled the world by steamship, or blimp.
“Maut,” she said.
“Sorry?”
The woman coughed. Clapped her chest, which caused a puff of pink bathroom scent to fill the space between them: “Neil. Neil Welliver.”
“Did he paint…?” Jack said, raising an eyebrow to the work on the wall.
“It’s a shame to put him in the basement, though I’m sure he deserves worse.”
“Yeah, it’s nice.”
“Have you seen his pieces at the Farnsworth?”
“No.”
“They have many of his nudes. I bet a fiver they’re in storage though. Nudes in a river. It must have been witch-tit cold, even though the banks are green. Do you like the TV show, Bosch?”
“No. I mean, I’ve never seen it.”
“His son, Titus,” the old woman said. Her caked black eyes lifted toward the painting. She took a sip of Jack’s wine. “Bloody pigs. A-Cab, am I right?” she said. Jack watched the remainder of his wine vanish into her dark red mouth. Her upper lip twisted and she flashed a smile; her teeth embedded with jewels of different color, other teeth, missing.
“What are you doing on your chaos machine?” she said, indicating Jack’s phone.
“I was…can I get you another wine?”
“Shit Charlie, you know how to talk a gal’s knickers right off, toss ‘em into the corner with a flick of the wrist. Toss them in the fire, watch them sizzle.”
Jack bought two more red wines. The young woman behind the counter gave him a look which suggested he might be a problem later, and to keep an eye out, maybe even mention Jack to security if it came to that. Jack tipped her twenty dollars, cash, and returned to the woman at the far table.
“Cheers,” he said. She gave him a disappointed look, tapped her plastic cup against his.
“So, your machine?” she said.
“Oh,” Jack frowned. “I’ll be honest with you. I had a bad experience at this Thai place up the street, so I’ve been…I guess you could say, I’ve been harassing them.”
“Calling, hanging up? We did that to my grandmother when she refused to give us cigarettes. Lowly bitch.”
“No. More like, placing orders, and not picking them up.”
“Paying for them?”
“You have to pay to place the order.”
“Fuck a duck. How much have you sunk into your little prank?”
Jack did some quick math. “About three hundred dollars.”
The woman whistled. Spittle landed on both cups. Jack ignored it.
“I suppose there are worse ways to spend the day,” the woman said. She finished her wine and stood up. She wore laced-up black boots with six inch heels. “My advice to you is…”
The woman fell forward, crashing through their table. Jack jumped, alarmed, and reached down to help her up. But all he grasped was a swatch of fuzzy fabric. The woman was gone. He looked side-to-side, confused and queasy. The worker from the café was around the counter, coming toward him, talking into a walkie-talkie.
“Sir,” she said. “Are you alright? You better leave.”
“Did you see her?” Jack said.
“Who?”
“The old woman.”
“Oh shit,” the worker said. Jack stepped back, worried that his proximity was causing her alarm. Then he realized what she was staring at. Red wine splatter covered a few of the river rocks in the painting. Drips ran from granite to stream to frame to wall.
Jack grabbed his phone. He ran up the stairs, knees aching, smack into the arms of two security guards. One looked exactly like the man from the bar up the street that sold pisswater and nostalgia. The other looked like the dad from the comic book shop. Both dug their nails into Jack’s forearms.
They dragged him through the lobby and behind the coat check, leaving him in a small windowless room that smelled of bleach and burnt bread. One table, one chair. On the chair was a napkin, a red cup and a pair of disposable wooden chopsticks. On the table was a mountain of Thai food, a six-pack of Coors Lite, and a brown prescription pill bottle. From the ceiling vent, red mist started seeping into the room. Jack sat down, poured a beer into the red plastic cup, snapped apart the wooden chopsticks, and poked with a sniff at what appeared to be cold pineapple fried rice. He took a bite, but didn’t chew or swallow. The air around him turned into a sunset, an exploding garden, a slow stiffening leak. He fed more food into his mouth, but swallowing was no longer an option. His cheeks expanded and swelled until they touched the walls and filled the room. Someone was trying to open the door, but this was no longer a possibility.