Secret agents gotta eat too, so I popped into this joint on a breezy street just off the Mag Mile. The guys frequenting the place were done up just like me – they were secret agents of another kind, for different kinds of chiefs. So, being from separate tribes and all, they looked at me with cowboy eyes, and bared their teeth, which were strewn with garlands of rapini. I ordered a sidecar at the bar, and another, and by then everyone’s nerves seemed calmed enough for me to have lunch and sit on a stool. The place still had hooks hidden under the bar to hang hats. so I put mine there and ordered a Delmonico, rare.

Halfway through the steak, which was great, a twist walked in, half wrapped in a fur shawl. She stopped at a table for a whisper, then moved to the opposite end of the bar, resting just a bit of herself on a stool. Things stayed this way for a minute, and I was going to send a drink, but the bartender suddenly walked over to her, and after a short conversation, she got up and walked out the door. I took a bit to chew and headed for the restroom, wondering if this little vignette was something I needed to sort out. So I ran the water and pretended to wash my hands, and unable to decipher a scheme, I headed back into the dining room.

Everyone was gone, excepting the bartender, who appeared to be rooting around for something under the sink. Every table was empty and set, servers and bussers were out of sight. I spun my head around slowly, as I’d been trained to do, but saw nothing but an empty restaurant. The barman popped up, and asked if he could help me. His accent had changed from southside Chicago to cockney. He even called me mate. I could see that my place at the bar had been cleared. I nodded towards him, “You getting the place ready for a private party?”

“The whole of our world is a private party, innit?” he replied.

Free lunch or not, I wanted not to be there now or ever again, so I headed to the door, which was only there in theory, as it looked like a door but did not function as one. It was clearly part of the wall of glass and wood framing that fronted the place, and also not separated from it as an opening. Still, I pushed at what did not give. I could see outside now, and the street was barren, windswept, lots of East Berlin before the fall vibes. And then the light changed, accelerating shadows, daylight to dusk to sunrise again in a matter of seconds, cycle repeating, dizzying. I blinked, involuntarily, then hoped it would reset the scene. I turned around. The bartender was smiling at me, and around him were my family, as they were when I was a kid, the old grandparents, uncles and aunts included, dressed up for a party and bearing gifts as if it were Christmas. “You can join the party or not,” the tender said, “it is always your choice, always was.”

What ever else would I have to do in place of an old-time family Christmas? I disregarded all of my training, I subjugated all of my skills. In that instant, I knew that they were all useless against whatever power had produced this moment.

As I walked over to them, one of my aunts began singing a Christmas carol.

–Danny Grosso