Blast furnace heat. Thank the gods for baggies. Loose linens and the errant breeze make the walks tolerable, and walk he must. Not cut out for sitting in an air-conditioned office, he’s outside wandering, or at least it looks that way, even when he’s on his way somewhere, he has the mindset of a nomad. Weather can be challenging and heatwaves of summers past taught him to plan for these weeks in the midyear. The difficulties of being a dandy were ever-present, just different in summer. “As baggy as I can get without looking like I’m wearing someone else’s pants” he told the salesman. “Fabric light as air, and colors like tinted cream” he continued, “I have to walk out there…”.

Wilted collars mandate beat-up hats, both being closest to the face, and needing to match. The pressed poplin chemise won’t last the five blocks to the office in this humidity, so let’s roll up, unbutton, and get comfortable here. If we are lucky, that faint breeze will broaden the trousers, and penetrate enough to provide the sensation of seaside relief, though imagining an oceanside promenade might be counter-productive here – let’s keep our minds in the game. Trying to look good under this dome of hot air takes some concentration. Which side of the street has building shade? How far is it to the park? Is there a way to carry my jacket so that it won’t crease?

He turns a corner and out of nowhere a cold gale smacks him in the face. He grabs for his hat, just like he does in the winter when that north wind barrels through the grid. He is reminded of the dandy’s problems during those months; the unflattering bulk, the need for sturdy and weatherproof soles, etc., but just then the blower cuts out, and he’s back in the broiler.

He’s out of buttons to undo. It’s summer, so it’s either this or the A/C. Walk he must.

–Danny Grosso

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I meant to go home early last night, but then the D.J. played my favorite song and this girl whom I’d seen before cut her way into my little pod of dancers. Coming in closer, she spread the pod girls out with her hands while her eyes were closed and her chin was up and it was like she was hearing some other music, because she was moving just a little bit slower then the rest of us. Yet, she kept the beat, and when she opened her eyes to me again I saw some fire emerge from that serene moment. We went on and on on that lighted floor for almost an hour before I asked her if she wanted a drink, and she said “Let’s just get out of here…” – because she had to work in the morning, some weekend job downtown or something. I drove her home in my jalopy, and on her porch, where her dishwater bob looked iridescent under the strange light, she turned and kissed me for a long, soft moment. “I gotta go in,” she said, giggling as I tried to reach around her waist, “see you back there some time.”

I was not gonna keep this from my friends – I’d like to have found out if any of them knew her, but when I got to the diner they were already in the middle of a muddle, something about Morris Day going off on his own, or maybe it was Jesse Johnson, I wasn’t sure, they were all talking at once and filling the air with cigarette smoke, so I had some coffee and laughed at the histrionics. More friends showed up, one booth became two, and another table beside. When they started quoting movie lines and arguing about them, I summoned another cup and settled into the booth for the rest of the show.

The birds were already chirping when I left the diner, and my short drive home brought me to my stoop just as the sun was rising, and it was beautiful, like her, I thought, so I sat out there and watched the sky redden and then fade into a baby blue silk. Unfortunately, none of this fatigued me; there was the coffee, and my ears were buzzing from the club, and the diner, and, well, everything else, so that when I went in I didn’t go to sleep, I just laid there for a while replaying the short film that was the night, staging in my head that slow, walk up moment, with her center stage, from different angles so I could relive it new, again and again.

A lot of nights are like short films now, they even fade to black…

I woke up with a start a couple of hours later, saw the time and hustled into the shower. Early game today. I kind of jumped into my softball pants and socks. I’d carry my jersey, and my spikes were in the car, so I ran out, and seemingly a minute later I am here, ensconced in another serene moment, under the blue summer sky, leading off, watching the world quiet and slow down once again, as I wait for that fat, new 16″ clincher to come down off its long arc.

–Danny Grosso

Clockwise, from middle left:

“It’s his score on the narcissist scale.”

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“More like the obnoxious scale.”

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“I think it’s what he paid for it.”

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“Oh my God – that jacket…”

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(To herself): “I helped him stud it, but now I’m not so sure I should tell anyone.”

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“I know he can’t count that high, because he still owes me about that much.”

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“It’s definitely not his I.Q.”

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–Danny Grosso

Alone on the branch, these two find some measure of calm, at least as much as can be, with little birds. Their heads flit back to forth, wings shivering, but they stay a bit. They are two dandies on a runway, in dangerous territory, finery on display. Lit up and glistening against the fading light, like candy, they catch the eye and engage other senses as well. Down through the ages, they’ve learned to move around quickly, to observe furtively, to love desperately.

They are aware that their shine makes them attractive, and that it also makes them targets.

–Danny Grosso

Remember this? This and that? Everyone together talking about this and that? She would make this and bring it along, even to a restaurant, because she wanted to show how she loved getting together. Her friend would order that for the table when they arrived because it was the perfect complimentary dish. He would pour and pour, champagne he could not really afford. Another girl would save up for that dress and risk the wine spill. That guy over there would store up jokes for weeks so he’d have enough to last the night. We all did this and that once. We all may do it again, or not, but in the meantime, the artists will endeavor to remind us that this, and that, used to be our reasons for being.

–Danny Grosso

“Pace, Fratello,” that’s how they greeted each other, because they were brothers in faith, or, more than that, in the immigrant experience. Pace, Sorella, as well; Peace, Sister, for the nonnas and bisnonnas who left their bus shoes on the outside steps of their childrens’ homes after changing into mud boots to tend the gardens. They did this because it was early in the morning and everyone was asleep, and knocking, or a doorbell, might wake the grandchildren. At parties they’d toil and keep watch, for need, for more wine, more food, for dirty dishes. And during lulls they’d drift back to the kitchen and make more pies from the gardens’ frutti and verdure. On the rare occasion that they went out, they’d still be working, or play acting at it, habitually clearing the tables or adding food to still half-full plates. They looked very uncomfortable all dressed up, yet they never seemed unhappy in a crowd of relatives.

The men, the household royalty, in their clean white shirts or shiny suits, well, they’d be catered to, and mostly, learn to be oblivious of their privilege. In or out of the house, they’d regale each other with song and story, sharing little with the older women but the joy of being a family together. The gatherings were raucous, loud, and sometimes unforgiving. Many hurt feelings would be subjugated to the greater ambitions of togetherness. How many stress-related illnesses, how many tears alone behind closed doors…

They wished each other peace but gave each other a more common ribaldry, at least for the evening, before saying arrivaderci and returning their yearnings to the heavens. Peace may not be realistic but it is aspirational. Love may not be attainable but for inspiration, but it is real nonetheless, and on display at these great little gatherings. Stop in at a home like this at Christmas, or a restaurant table like this on a beloved uncle’s birthday. See what looking for common ground; what showing up with an open heart can do.

They put so much time and effort into each other. Perhaps that’s why they wished each other peace, They needed a break from all the work needed to produce a happy family.

–Danny Grosso

 

From Chicago Gothic (2007). Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

Continuing the expeditions of Jeff MacNelly, James Kilpatrick, and Eugene McCarthy, with apologies.

The Ghoul

Abiding, rather than living, in the epochs of geopolitical time, the enigmatic Ghoul is a recurring visitor to the Bestiary. Incited in periods of realpolitik, the creature rears its bespectacled head and lowers expectations in capitals all over the globe. Need to sidetrack some badly needed reform? Subpoena a Ghoul to testify before committee. Want to douse the spark of a people’s revolution? Post a Ghoul to that far-flung embassy. Trained in the dark arts of emotional distance (Ivy League) and invisible control (Langley), the creature is well suited to its tasks, in which it revels, quietly. The Ghoul, congenitally reticent and, at times, attention averse to the point of invisibility, can sometimes be easily spotted in the wild. Its recent habitats include the House GOP Caucus rooms, the international terminal at Reagan National, and the U.S. Embassy in Hong Kong.

-Danny Grosso

It’s the light this time of year. Misty, maybe primeval, and full of foreboding. There is the sense that, as the mist settles, it is reborn in the new saplings that share its fragile tint. Or is that just the light this time of year, bepaling everything in its veil?

Things falling, things springing up; all in the fresh cool of the season’s mornings, and in the teals and sky blues that burst through the bogs. The light this time of year creates specters: rainbows that appear and vanish, clouds that descend into the pavements. Bad craziness, you think; foolishness, you say. You amble through the light as if it is all emptiness, just another void to disregard. Keep your head down, you say.

And then, out of the mist, through the new palm fronds, an angel rises…

–Danny Grosso

You said once that you wished you could hush the city for good, and I think you and your dust have done it this time. But, your dust has affected the inhabitants as well, given them strange powers or robbed them of passion. They amble along, alone mostly, unable to remember what they’ve been destined to do…

 

From Chicago Gothic (2007). Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.