Mystery Heart

My destiny, my future, begins here.

And with that little bit of knowledge commandeering my brain, I found myself strolling into Bernice’s Tavern to take in a few innings of the White Sox game along with a few cans of cold, refreshing Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Being the high roller that I am, I first had to ask the bartender, Melissa, if she could break my hundred dollar bill. She responded yes, so I placed my first order of a $2 beer. Just because I’m a high roller doesn’t mean I can’t be smart and frugal with my government issued cash.

I was one of only three patrons in the bar for the start of the game, so I took a seat one spot over from the two Sox fans who looked to be nearing the half century mark. I kept quiet while they chatted about baseball, but after a beer or two, I decided everyone would be better off if I contributed to the conversation with a bit of my baseball wisdom. I kept it plain and simple, as having heard the last half hour of their conversation, I didn’t want their south side White Sox brains to short circuit while desperately trying to understand intense concepts like on-base percentage and scoring runs. One of the guys (I never did get their names, so let’s call this one Bluto) mentioned that Hawk or Stone was nuts for calling Jose Bautista, of the Blue Jays, one of the five most dangerous hitters in the league, because he was only batting .230 on the year. Even knowing that he had hit close to 100 home runs in the previous two years combined, Bluto didn’t think he was a dangerous hitter because of that batting average. I let him know that the first two months of the year is still a small sample size for individual statistics, not to mention the fact that Bautista did hit over .300 last year, so it’s not like he’s always hit for a low average, but that didn’t seem to matter. Then I asked Bluto if he thought Adam Dunn was a dangerous hitter…he didn’t, so I decided to put an end to schooling these two and got back to watching Morrow mow down the White Sox.

Another gentlemen soon walked in and sat on the opposite side of the two sox fans. He had a European accent, which I couldn’t place. Those three started talking about GPS devices for at least the next half hour, commenting on the fact that most people who use them are given poor instructions for getting places. The European guy (let’s call him Gustave) agreed and mentioned how many times in Europe truck drivers, who use GPS devices, eventually end up driving through small villages, where they cannot navigate their trucks through the narrow town streets, nor can they back up their trucks when they can go no further. This results in them having to get towed out of town resulting in much lost productivity and late deliveries. In hindsight, I suppose this conversation was as good as any when it comes to chatting up strangers in a bar, but I didn’t really have much to add. Them knowing about my sister who needs her GPS to get to the Walgreens half a block away from where she lives didn’t seem necessary.

My interest was certainly fading, but then Gustave naively asked Bluto and his pal (let’s call him Rusty) if they were looking forward to the Euro Cup 2012. An extremely tired of being pregnant pause ensued before Rusty blurted out, “THE WHAT?”. “I laughed and headed for the bathroom. Thanks for the laugh, Gustave!

Not sure if you’ve ever been to the bathroom in Bernice’s, but when you’re pissing into the pot, a very beautiful thing happens. I couldn’t figure out how, but there was a strong, cool breeze blowing on the back of my ankles during the duration of the bladder evacuation. It was quite pleasant and I’m hoping it wasn’t just a fluke experience, because I’ll go back just for that sensation. It’s little things like this that can make one’s day, especially when you’ve been slightly conversing with the three stooges for the past hour and a half.

Returning from the bathroom, I found the bartender in shock over the fact that Rusty, Gustave, or Bluto had informed her that some parents use electric fences to keep their kids from getting out of the yard. To be honest, I only assumed it was out of the yard, and not out of the trailer park, which would make more sense. I tried to ease her mind by saying that the shocks were most likely of the low level variety and probably not all that harmful, but apparently Melissa, the bartender, is also a nanny, so she  couldn’t quite comprehend that sort of behavior. I, on the other hand, thought it was a pretty good idea. Not only are the kids kept in bounds, but if it’s anything like shock therapy on a smaller, more drawn out level, perhaps it could help out some of those more boisterous children with obvious behavioral issues. Over time, the shocks would cause a slow, steady, positive restructuring of the child’s brain chemicals. As far as I can tell the result would be a more obedient, loveable, retarded blob of a child. Seems like a win-win situation for everyone involved. The only downside for the parent might be having to clean up a lot of extra drool, but that’s a small price to pay for not having to worry about the whereabouts of your child.

Speaking of children, the White Sox were looking quite a bit like little leaguers on this night, as Brandon Morrow was shutting their offense down to Cub-like status. Melissa asked us all if the Blue Jays were as good as the Sox and the Bluto/Rusty contingent agreed that they were similar in skill level. She then had the audacity to say that she wasn’t sure if they were as bad as the Cubs. That was my breaking point. I had to speak up, so I told Melissa to go fuck herself, jumped out of my chair, slammed Bluto’s fat face into the counter and proceeded to give Rusty a roundhouse kick to his midsection. I’m sorry, that was a lie. Those were all lies. What actually happened was that I told everyone at the bar that I was a Cubs fan. Much like Gustave asking about the Euro Cup, Bluto was somewhat speechless for probably the second time in his life. Fortunately for me no violence ensued. They were actually pretty respectful of my limitations. I suppose when I let them know that the White Sox winning the World Series in 2005 was my favorite baseball moment of all-time, they may have had a bit more respect for me, not only as a Cubs fan, but as a fan of baseball. I’ve got pride in my city, regardless of who wins. Well, at least pride in the teams, not so much the (southside) fans.  Having written that, I will allow for the strong possibility that there are also plenty of stupid Cub fans. That’s just the way it goes for sports fans, as well as everybody in general, only so many of us can be intelligent.

Speaking of intelligence, Bluto and Rusty paid up their tab, and exited the premises. As sad as I was to see them go, I was even sadder to see Bluto leave behind his, more likely than not, 2006 model cell phone on the bar counter. I picked it up, hurried out the bar, saw one stooge get into his car, showed him the phone, but he just waved me towards the car a few lengths in front of his own. I jogged up, knocked on the window and handed the phone back to Bluto. He thanked me, I walked back towards the bar and Rusty exclaimed through the passenger window that I wasn’t so bad for a Cubs fan. I completely agree with that sentiment and I also agree that Bluto and Rusty are not so bad as well. That’s just one more example in the long tradition of me bringing together the citizens of this great city of Chicago.

Exit Bluto, Rusty and Gustave.

Enter Erin and Max.

Well, mostly Erin, because Max just sort of sat in the background, as I would have also probably done.

Let me tell you about Erin. Cute woman…probably late 20’s I’d guess. Exuberant personality. Friendly for us non-chatterboxes on the bar stools. Anyway, if the White Sox ever decided to replace Hawk Harrelson with a female announcer, she’s the one to get. Lovely person I have no doubts, but in the span of I believe three innings, she came up with the following gems…

Brandon Morrow strikes out Dayan Viciedo in the 7^th inning.

“Damn you and your well maintained beard!”

Alexis Rios drops a flyball.

“Alright Rios, you’re back to being just a pretty face.”

Brent Lillibridge gets thrown out at second base.

“What is the point of you?”

Pretty impressive commentary if I do say so myself, which I just did. I ended up talking to Erin and Max and grilled them on what might be interesting to do here in Bridgeport. They kindly suggested a few places, and since they lived in Pilsen, they filled me in on a few local spots up North, and then they left for the night.

Stingo begins.

Apparently on Wednesday nights, Bernice’s hosts Stingo, which is just like Bingo, except for the small fact that Steve emcees the whole shebang, thus the clever name. I got my board and my beans and switched from the $2 PBR over to the higher alcohol(ic) content of my very first Big Hurt Beer, which was also $2. Other than the somewhat interesting label on the beer, I don’t have many good things to say about Franks’s venture into brewing beer. I loved him as a ballplayer, but his beer tastes like shit. If you’ve ever had Steel Reserve, you’ve had Big Hurt Beer, and honestly, I hope you’ve never had Steel Reserve.

Big Hurt Beer and Stingo

I came pretty close to getting Stingo the first couple games, but ended up stuck on my barstool as others were called to the back of the bar to claim their prizes. It’s a sad bit of loneliness that occurs when others win games that were obviously not meant for them to win. I’m there, it’s my first night sitting alone in a bar (in Bridgeport) and I kind of think I should be winning, but at the same time I’m drinking a Big Hurt Beer, so perhaps I shouldn’t be winning? I was thinking of leaving, but I was still drinking and Steve was doing his best Erin impersonation while emceeing the nights Stingo game…

“G-56. Heinz lesser known flavor”

“B-9. I hope you don’t have a tumor, but if you do, I hope it’s B-9”

Those are the only two I can remember. Blaming the beer, I left Bernice’s, had a smoke and then reentered Bernice’s (that sounds dirty) and ordered up another PBR. Apparently that chain of events did the trick as my luck had changed. The very next game of Stingo had my name written all over it! No, I don’t remember the winning letter/number combination, but I do remember the pride I felt as I left my barstool behind to go claim one of the many prizes on the back table. I handed my card to Steve, he verified the win, and I locked my eyes down on a beautiful mystery heart box, which seemed to be beating out to me….take me, take me, take me…so I did. Opening up that box, I found an even more beautiful $5 bill tucked inside. Knowing that life wasn’t going to get much better than that tonight, I finished the rest of my beer, walked to the back to give my National Geographic magazine to Melissa, thanked Steve, and headed back home for the night. Not only was I five dollars richer, but even better, Bridgeport had literally given me a piece of their heart as well…even if it was made in India.