Redhead Piano Bar

I remember one night in college, inebriated, walking frigid, winter streets in downtown Chicago. On one hand, I wasn't alone; on the other hand, maybe I was. I stumbled down street level steps into the Redhead Piano Bar. It was very dark, subdued, with burgundy velour on half-moon booth seats. Cigar smoke made it hard to see but someone was playing a melody to match the soft murmuring of souls trying hard not to be seen. I didn't belong there and knew it, but stayed for a drink anyway.

The next day I went to a Blackhawks game during which I fell asleep.

Chelios was still playing in those days. I had been to a game in Chicago when I was in high school, under much different circumstances. Without telling my parents, I took the train with a few friends into the city to meet up with Billy, my red-headed, Irish-Catholic summer love. Billy and I instantly combusted when we were together — a heat I had never known. When he left Gun Lake to go back to Chicago in the fall, we promised to write letters. And we did write letters – the most beautiful letters of all time.

I didn't know until I showed up on his doorstep that Billy lived rough, in a shitty part of town. I remember his parents in the kitchen, his father looking tired and drunk, his mother doing dishes, surprised by our arrival. He said we couldn't stay there and managed to find us a place to sleep overnight. He didn't stay with me that night and I think that was the end of it all. I heard a few years later he was trying to find me but by then, I didn't want to be found.

I think there is always more to the story – so much more that it would take a hundred lifetimes to unravel it all.