Fruition

By James Borto

Perceived as a misanthrope by most of his co-workers, Emmett Welsh, a 69-year-old widower, develops a friendship with the one co-worker he does tolerate; Audrey, a twenty-two-year-old aspiring artist. After a string of misfortunes, including a break-up with her longtime boyfriend, Emmett offers a pregnant Audrey a place to stay. Despite her initial apprehensions, Audrey eventually accepts the kind offer.
As their friendship develops, the kindred spirits discover a great deal about one another. Among the treasure trove of information passed on by Emmett, Audrey comes to discover Emmett was a novelist back in the day, with noteworthy accolades. Tragically, his literary career was cut short following the sudden death of his wife and son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Borto
• Release date: Apr 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215982860

James Borto

James Borto has made the Chicago area his home most of his life. He attended NEIU to play football and pursue acting, where he was awarded a theater scholarship. While there, he took a great interest in writing and filmmaking, even transferring to Columbia College briefly to pursue those goals. He attended writing workshops at various academies, including Second City. James worked in advertising as a copywriter for Scott Ross Limited, where he worked on campaigns for Dad's Rootbeer (Monarch Beverages) and Willy Wonka Candies. At the same time, he worked feverishly on a myriad of writing projects, including short stories, poetry and a deluge of screenplays. His work in advertising has been witnessed globally.

Book preview

Fruition

By

James Borto

Fruition by James Borto

Copyrigth 2023

ISBN# 9798215982860

1

Life As I Know It

His steps were unhurried and governed by resent along the narrow aisle,. A routine depressing of the gas pedal awoke the engine, jerking the bus forward. Well-versed, Emmett and the remaining upright passengers were quick to steady themselves, becoming mindful of the passengers’ feet. Par for the course as far as they were concerned, at least until their dreams of financial prosperity came to fruition. With the rear section nearly packed to capacity, and the eyes of strangers tracking his progress, Emmett turned his six-foot frame around and settled for a seat two over from the driver; the optimal angle to catch the faces of every passenger.

To pass the time, the sixty-nine-year-old widower made a habit of guessing passengers’ backgrounds—their occupations—their stories. A collection of the prevailing faces was immediately discerned each assigned an identity and a story to match from past excursions. The new mugs provided revitalization to the diversionary practice. It wasn’t the most productive endeavor, but what else was there to do for the twenty-something minute voyage? Any attempt at utilizing his imagination to kill time was usually thwarted by the intermittent, irksomely loud and drawn out rattling of the bus. Furthermore, the diversion packed more exhilaration than people-watching all those smug bastards behind the wheels of their fully operational automobiles.

Wisdom, wit, resilience, humility, self-discipline, and conscientiousness were qualities and attributes he excelled in, and here he was relying on public transportation to take him to work every day. Two buses. Two schedules. Two mind-numbing undertakings. The many, many cars he had owned. Fine ones. Pricey ones. His calculations tallied eighteen automobiles owned in his lifetime. Over three hundred thousand dollars spent on cars over the years and his rear end was currently buried in a worn seat, tarnished with ink stains from a long history of leaky pens and markers. His last casualty, a Jeep Cherokee, could still be seen at the shop he left it at following its last breakdown, thirteen months earlier. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the means to purchase another vehicle; he just didn’t see the point at his age. Outside of his place of employment, every location linked to his social world was within walking distance of his apartment.

His lone ray of light, regarding matters of transportation, was stashed away in the garage, safeguarded beneath the protection of a high-grade cover. At his disposal was a mint-conditioned, 1966, Montero red GTO convertible; a symbolic masterpiece of what American engineering was once capable of. But who would dare drive that classic to work and park it in a bustling parking lot, leaving it susceptible to countless misfortunes, for hours on end? And that gem could never be driven in the winter, not in the salt strewn roads of Chicago and its adjacent suburbs. It was a special car to be driven on special occasions. Only those occasions were few and far between these days. Tonight, could have easily been perceived special enough, had it not been for the fact he intended on rewarding his gullet with a steady volume of alcoholic spirits.

The temptation to bypass his stop and ride out the remainder of the route was better than enticing. With any luck, the final stop would be in another dimension, light-years away from the one he currently found himself confined to. Though never one to wallow in self-pity, the setbacks in his life would have put lesser men on the path to suicide . . . or worse.

Gazing in the mirror, he never noticed a man on the verge of turning seventy, or anywhere near that age. Who could blame him? He was fit. His mind was sharp. He didn’t slouch and didn’t exhibit any noticeable limps. His posture exuded confidence, boldness, and indifference. Of course, his hair fell short on keeping par with his inner youth. What was left of it was mostly gray with very few enduring black strands. That didn’t bother him; his collection of cabbie caps guarded that deficiency respectably.

He didn’t have a wife and didn’t have any children. No uncles or aunts. No close cousins. Only a modest collection of friends and acquaintances, and a best friend he could vent to. Gilly seemed to enjoy listening to other peoples’ grumblings—on any topic. It was almost a sickness. Then again, it gave him the go-ahead to bitch about grating developments in his own life.

His stop fast approaching, the signal cord would have to be yanked relatively soon; a ritual he detested. Yanking on that damnable cord only bolstered his submission to his world and its prevailing limitations. He was forever hopeful someone else would do the honors, but rarely was there another commuter exiting the same stop.

Eyes fixed on the floor, and without summoning any other part of his body, he stealthily raised his right arm in the air and tugged at the cord. The ding echoed throughout the cabin. Naturally, he would not raise himself from his seat until the bus came to a complete stop. No standing and waiting near the steps for him.

Only in operation for six years, Bennett’s was the new kid on the block, when it came to wholesale superstores. In that short time, the franchise was continually making headway with consumers. Fusing the income from his social security and employee paychecks was enough to preserve both his place of residence and his indispensable social habits. That’s all Emmett needed. Essentially, it was all that mattered to him at this juncture in his life.

The book stacks were rearranged for the second time during his shift. It was a remedial task, bordering on pointless, considering the general lack of significance placed on reading material—by consumers and staff. Who actually came to Bennett’s with the sole intention of purchasing reading material? There were far too many justifiable sections to visit, tendering essential, life-sustaining items.

If it were up to him, Emmett favored arranging the books in what he deemed as their proper grouping. The so-called romance novels would be permanently relegated to the very bottom of all the stacks, beneath the celebrity autobiographies he regarded as annoying and valueless. The tops of every stack would be reserved exclusively for works he valued worthy of a read. Bennett’s didn’t exactly stock a vast collection of books, but it was refreshing to be around the available assortment. A vital source of energy, books were fundamental to his existence. Oddly enough, even the lousy ones, the very ones he felt never should have been published, had their place in the universe, carrying out their role of bolstering superior works of fiction.

Stepping away from her loaded cart, the thirty-something-year-old woman with a little too much makeup eased her way toward the book stacks. Little time was wasted in seizing one of the romance novels. The black-haired Adonis on the cover was shirtless, his shoulder-length strands draped just past his collar bone from opposite directions. The breathtaking female he was eyeing was holding the hand of another attractive man, whose unbuttoned white, long-sleeve dress shirt partially exposed his physically fit body. A classic illustration depicting forbidden love, or more accurately, forbidden obsession. Trite. TriteTrite.

It wasn’t long before Emmett took notice of the woman and her behavior. Holding the book for two solid minutes, she had yet to pull back the cover. How he wanted to shout to her, There’s nothing different with that book from the previous ten thousand books featuring analogous covers. But it would be far too callous and unrefined to utter anything of that nature. Nevertheless, he had to do something. There’s a recall on that book, he temperately joked, a measure thrown out to gauge the woman’s sense of humor.

Clinging to a befuddled expression, her eyes promptly rose from the cover. Excuse me? she said.

Without a degree of concern influencing his tone, Emmett promptly nodded and replied, Oh yeah. It didn’t matter to him in the least whether she would fail to see the humor in his jab, whether his comment wound up creating a situation, even if the situation escalated to the point of his dismissal. Collecting unemployment for six months while catching up on matters at home held favorable allure.

His disdain for individuals purchasing books of that nature, books he saw as being a waste of money, paper and time, had intensified over the years. And there were millions of those worthless paperbacks about, polluting the literary world and the earth in general. Worse yet, those particular consumers with their partiality toward detestable titles hampered the publishing of books featuring worthwhile, fulfilling stories.

Despite being wise to the old man’s implicit sarcasm, the woman aloofly turned her attention back on the book. Concerned she would come across on the defensive side, a pause for deliberation was essential to determining whether to continue the conversation. She was all too familiar with the stigma associated with the genre she happened to enjoy. The employee was rude, and his comment was inappropriate. For now, factoring in his elderly qualities, she would ignore him. However, further discourteous remarks would prompt her to put him in his place, which didn’t exclude bringing up his conduct to management.

Little did she know, regardless of the repercussions, Emmett secretly wished she would engage the topic with him. This type of consumer exasperated him to no end. He recognized people had their own little predilections, their own guilty pleasures, but books, literature in general, was something near and dear to him. His loathing was equally directed toward those relentless, soulless scribblers than the public who chose to read their substandard efforts. They were pumping out the same malarkey over and over. The ingenuous trite plots. The hackneyed forbidden love themes. The identical love triangles. All that was needed to give the stories any distinction from one another were the swapping of the character names, their occupations, and the backdrops. What moron couldn’t do that? You didn’t have to be a writer in order to accomplish such a trivial feat. All that was required was the willingness to compromise your soul. At least, that was Emmett’s take.

In a blatant show of disparagement, the woman tucked the book firmly underneath her arm and sauntered off. In her mind, she had won the battle. Emmett couldn’t help but smirk, genuinely respecting her for taking such a stand and not shying away from her intentions. So, she had bad taste in literature, at least she stood up for herself. Who knows, maybe someday she would embrace his philosophy. But he wouldn’t wager on it anytime soon.

The spacious break room was teeming with employees, a great number of them taking advantage of the abundant novelties—foosball table, an enormous flat-screen, commercial-size video games, an assortment of vending machines. The conversation at the wide, rectangular snack table was dominated by Tina, a vociferous woman in her early twenties who rarely applied filters when she spoke. Her gathering consisted of four fellow employees. Yolanda sat to her right. Dominick to her left. And across from her, Sarah listened intently, as she always did.

Audrey had planted herself at the end of the table, her preferred spot during her breaks—enough of a distance to enjoy a modicum of solitude, but not too much of a detachment to risk being perceived as unsocial. At twenty-two, she was wise well beyond her years, strong-willed and grounded. Sadly, at times, her wisdom and perception had to be curtailed, helping to curb any indignation from her co-workers lacking in those capacities. Her healthy skin, charming nose, and vibrant sandy blonde hair had already been a source of resentment.

The only employee in the break room over the age of twenty-seven, Emmett was buried in a book from the comfort of the lone recliner in the room.

He plays football at North Park College, Tina proudly boasted, her wide eyes augmenting her enthusiasm.

University, Audrey said, while still doodling in her sketchpad.

Tina snapped her attention toward Audrey. Even though she considered Audrey a friend, she never liked being interrupted while sensationalizing a story, and detested being corrected during the effort. Excuse me? Tina said, mildly amused.

Audrey raised her eyes from her sketchpad and smiled in the manner of a peace offering. It’s a university, she sheepishly replied.

Thank you for that, Audrey, Tina sarcastically said. Smirking, Audrey returned to her drawing. Like I was saying —Tina shot Audrey a quick look— He’s a senior.

What position does he play? Dominick inquired, prior to taking a man-size bite from his Cortland apple.

I don’t know, an ill-prepared Tina replied. He’s one of those guys that catch the ball.

A receiver? Dominick asked.

Tina pondered before pensively replying, I don’t think so.

It’s either that or a tight end, Dominick said.

Running backs catch balls too. My brother played fullback and he caught a lot of passes, Yolanda announced, as if pressed to validate her credentials.

Who cares?! an impatient Sarah shouted. What happened with Troy?!

We went to his apartment and I got me some of that! Tina animatedly boasted, raising her hand in the air toward Sarah. The two exchanged a high-five.

Without removing his eyes from his book, Emmett let out an impulsive chuckle. Naturally, his display drew the attention of everyone in proximity, particularly Tina. Confused as to what to make of his outburst, she adopted a probing façade. One thing seemed certain; it wasn’t likely he was responding to anything he was reading. Furthermore, it wouldn’t be the first time he laughed, contemptuously, at something she had uttered.

Eager to find out if, in fact, Emmett was having a chuckle over her, Tina just had to ask, What’re you laughing at, Emmett? Her words were delivered with a disdainfully teasing tone. For the longest time, she had hoped to put Emmett in his place. Nothing vicious, just something which would mollify that condescending, preachy attitude of his—justifiable payback.

His eyes remaining firmly in his book, Emmett replied, A woman bragging about getting laid is equivalent to a fish boasting it can swim. The response promptly drew the attention of everyone in the room, with some taking on grimaces. But he was far from done. You have a vagina, perky breasts, and a cute face. It’s not exactly a challenge to get laid. All that’s required on your part is consent and the parting of your loins. Yolanda’s jaw dropped. Sarah was quick to adopt a perturbed look. Dominick couldn’t help but blush. None of their reactions, however, matched the exasperation Tina was embracing. "Try being a man who is seeking to win the heart of a beautiful, intelligent, independent-thinking woman. Now that’s the real challenge."

What the hell! Sarah cried out as if she was the intended target.

Damn, Emmett! Dominick shouted, being both stunned and impressed. This old, normally reserved man was uttering all these brazen sentiments, and without even removing his eyes from the book he was reading.

No one asked you for your opinion, Emmett! Tina snapped back. Keep your judgments to yourself, if you don’t mind!

Lowering his book onto his lap, Emmett bookmarked the open page with his thumb. He didn’t especially feel like extending this petty conversation, but it was just too tantalizing to leave alone. When you make statements—that is, when you boast about something, you have to expect reactions and retorts from your listeners, my dear. That’s just human nature. And not all the reactions you provoke are going to be favorable, or pleasant even, he explained.

Tina’s frustration was approaching volatile levels, but she knew her wit was no match for Emmett’s. His statement had already struck an enormous blow to her standing, she wasn’t about to serve up any more opportunities for him to feast on and exploit. It was verbal retorts of that nature that encouraged wide berths when dealing with him. On the surface, he seemed pleasant enough, but God help you if you said something he perceived as just plain stupid.

Though Emmett’s choice of words had her notably taken aback, Audrey also found entertainment in the exchange. His incisive and mocking replies were a guilty pleasure for her. Currently, however, she chose to refrain from disclosing her enjoyment, and held off on her scribbling for the time being, just in case she was needed to officiate the exchange. It wouldn’t be the first time. She had a knack for playing peacemaker, particularly when it involved Emmett. She respected him, found him to be amusing, even though a great majority of the work staff didn’t share the same opinion, fondness. Tina, on the other hand, Audrey found to be slightly on the annoying side, a person who craved far too much attention. Conversations involving Tina were routinely dominated by her, even when someone else began them with their own specific aspirations in mind.

With the collective assumption, Tina would no longer prolong the powwow, the room went silent. Audrey was gratefully relieved, and desperately hoping neither party would say another word, at least not words pertaining to the hazardous subject. Now if only the rest of the staff could remain silent, disregard the previous topic, then things stood a better chance of blowing over. Currently inundated with domestic issues of her own, she just wasn’t up to intervening this dreary day.

Emmett had a propensity for uttering rationales that didn’t sit well with the recipients. Rarely did he apply filters when doing so, particularly after his ears took in statements he deemed as nonsensical and greatly warranting proper rectification. It was his way of educating the ignorant, although he never asked for the responsibility, nor was he ever solicited to do so. In his youth, like most people, he performed his fair share of walking on eggshells, permitted obnoxious developments slide for the benefit of others, and saw fit to apply diplomacy when justified. But now in his golden years, he was spent, worn out with this generation’s shortcomings. With all the technologies at their fingertips, with all the advice from generations past, and with all the educational programs available on TV, he felt stupidity and ignorance should have been at an all-time low and not at the current level it was hovering at.

Audrey’s take on Emmett’s colorful comments was a far cry from that of her co-workers. Often, she found them to be humorous. There were moments when she had to hide her face in her sketch pad to conceal her huge smiles, or to bridle her chuckles.

One afternoon, during a politically themed conversation, exchanged between a handful of co-workers, it was revealed that Emmett had chosen not to vote during the presidential elections, and that he hadn’t voted in any election for years, decades, in fact. When asked why he hadn’t, he calmly replied, For the same reason I don’t pay people to punch me in the balls. The comment drew hearty chuckles, primarily because it had been delivered by an elderly man. Others didn’t find the philosophy as being appropriate, or in line with their viewpoints. These people were viewed as brainwashed sheep by Emmett. And, therefore, their opinions were of little or no value to him.

On one other afternoon, Rafael became a victim of one of Emmett’s rationales, and from that day on, he carried a grudge against the fast-witted old geezer. The animosity took root following a conversation between Rafael and a pair of male co-workers exploiting the topic of luck—good and bad. Rafael stood steadfast in his belief that people made their own luck. His co-workers didn’t see it that way. Their contention was that people were either born with good luck or bad luck, and almost regardless of their actions, their destinations were predetermined. Unwilling to back down from his stance, Rafael strove to drive his point home every occasion his co-workers brought up scenarios involving individuals they considered to be lucky or unfortunate. Leaning on Emmett for endorsement and feeling ever so confident that Emmett was on board with his theory, he committed a cardinal sin when he asked, "Emmett, don’t you agree people make their own luck?"

Without missing a beat, without removing his eyes from the book he was reading at the time, Emmett boldly replied, Absolutely. Those two-year-old kids born with cancer made some poor decisions in their lives. And now they have to deal with the consequences. The comment left some desperately brooding over his reasoning. But Audrey knew exactly what he was trying to convey. At the time, per usual, she was prepared to interject at Emmett’s defense, in case he was to be berated by Rafael.

It had always been a struggle to comprehend why her co-workers hadn’t figured out the best approach when dealing with Emmett. If they didn’t care for his opinions or beliefs, then why address him? Why solicit his viewpoints? It was so simple—a no-brainer. You would think after years of working alongside the man, the rest of the staff would have ascertained that approach by now. Then again, where was the joy in that? Consistently entertaining, often educational, Audrey genuinely looked forward to Emmett’s humorous retorts.

Later that shift, long after the exchange between Tina and Emmett, Audrey approached Emmett during his inspection of the tool aisle. She had with her a gift-wrapped package she was able to carry in one hand. Emmett halted his actions and planted his eyes on the package.

What was this girl up to now?

Did you think I forgot? Audrey asked. Happy Birthday, birthday boy.

Emmett smiled, almost blushingly. Did I think you forgot? You know everyone’s birthday here. This is very kind of you. But I do wish you would stop wasting your hard-earned money, especially on the likes of someone like me.

"Actually, my gift for you is still in my car. I haven’t had the chance to wrap it yet, she sheepishly admitted. This one is from Tina. She was just too embarrassed to give it to you. I think you can understand why."

Harboring feelings of deep remorse, Emmett’s complexion instantly turned pale. Really? he asked. What a heel he had been. That poor girl. A sincere apology to her would have to precede his gratitude for her thoughtful gift. But how would he summon up enough courage to face her?

Shaking her head, Audrey gave way to a chuckle, struggled to let out a No.

Emmett gave her a look but would eventually chuckle himself. His eyes eventually took to the package, and he allowed himself to stare at it for a moment. I thank you, again.

Don’t open it now. Wait until you’re on the bus; it’ll give you something to look forward to, Audrey implored.

Knowing you, it’ll be worth the wait. Emmett’s stare grew more intense. Enough about me, how are things with you?

Audrey’s demeanor changed abruptly. Good. Things are good. It was a generic response, unconvincing and on the stony side. Even her compulsory nod was scanty.

Emmett’s intuition led him to believe she was hiding something, a concern of a dour nature. In point of fact, she hadn’t been in good spirits for a few days now, at least not to the level he was accustomed to. Undoubtedly, there would be burdensome regret to grapple with later, if he didn’t make a sincere attempt to gauge her wellbeing. But she was never eager to vent so easily, readily. It was challenging to come up with a moment when she did vent, complain, or solicit sympathy. Fearing a direct inquiry would be futile, he banked on the notion that small talk was the best course of action to get her to slip up and disclose her quandary.

Have you looked into the schools yet? Emmett asked.

Every so often, Emmett. And the bastards are still demanding that I pay this thing called a tuition. It was imperative not to give off any indication something was troubling her. The slightest suggestion would incite Emmett to conduct a thorough inquiry; his concern for her trumped his tendency to keep his nose out of her affairs.

There are ways to attend school even if you don’t have the means yourself.

Yeah, but I don’t want pole dancer on my resume, she replied, dryly. Emmett smirked and shook his head. A big fan of Audrey’s wit, he didn’t mind when on occasion she would manage to dupe even him. It’s just not in the cards right now, Emmett, she explained, pensively, slightly cryptic. Deep down, she appreciated Emmett’s sincere concern for her future, especially regarding her passion for art. But it was a topic that was difficult to broach, particularly these trying days. Well, I have to go. Happy birthday and I hope you have a wonderful evening at that bar of yours.

Oh, didn’t you hear? I’m having dinner at the White House, then it’s off to California to judge a swimsuit contest.

Audrey had already begun her departure when she turned back to give Emmett a smile. That meant a lot to him. He was hard-pressed to remember a time when she had left so prematurely during an exchange. Something was definitely amiss, but at the same time, it didn’t appear as if she would let on about it. No surprise there. There was always tomorrow, or the next day.

The bus ride home was satisfyingly abbreviated, due in large part to Audrey’s thoughtful gift; an original copy of The Wizard Of Oz, only its condition was anything but pristine. The cover was worn and threatening to detach itself from the equally worn and water-damaged pages. But the condition was inconsequential, as far as Emmett was concerned. It was a magnificent book—a veritable treasure. It was one of his favorite stories and favorite films. Audrey was fully aware of his fondness for the story, only wasn’t privy to the deep-seated basis for it.

His fascination with The Wizard Of Oz commenced long before his elementary days. It was the first and only book his older brother, Thomas, had purchased for him, a contemporary reproduction but still a gem. Among a deluge of kindhearted gestures his older brother bestowed on him, one of Emmett’s most cherished was the time Thomas took him to the theater to witness the film adaptation. The enchanting experience provoked a creative surge within Emmett, greatly influencing his perception of the world as he grew older.

The visual of the book inspired a gentle smile, his sense of touch appeased with a thumb slide across the first page. But he wouldn’t dare begin reading it; it was neither the time nor the place to risk embarking on an emotional episode. Unfortunately, inadvertently, a series of recollections, featuring him and his brother during childhood, assembled in his head. Following a sigh, he snapped the book shut. The last thing he wanted during a sentimental trip down memory lane was an audience, especially one comprised of strangers. His smile would return following the opening of his birthday card. It featured a thoughtful passage about wisdom, age, and the honor of being wise, and absolutely no mention of any number, indicating his actual age. But it was Audrey’s cordial words that helped to preserve his smile. She thanked him for being a friend to her and expressed how meaningful it meant to have a friend of his caliber. Her paragraph-long sentimental message culminated with a comical anecdote regarding her gift:

I wanted to get you a pristine copy of The Wizard of Oz, but I felt this copy had more charm, and they wouldn’t accept a personal check for over a hundred thousand dollars!

Audrey

Audrey was a refreshing distraction, among an army of less than joyful worker ants Bennett’s employed. Then again, Emmett wasn’t exactly a goodwill ambassador toward his co-workers, nor was he eager to change his ways anytime soon. He just wasn’t out to make additional friends in the workplace, especially considering the age disparity between himself and all the others. With Audrey, there was a dynamic to her that was lost on his co-workers. He was clueless as to why they couldn’t recognize it. She was caring, compassionate, sentimental, selfless and mature—well beyond her years. And she possessed an incredibly infectious smile.

His friendship with her did come with a price, a substantial sum of guilt. Deep down, he thought he could do much more to help her out, to set her on the path she should have been on. She didn’t belong in Bennett’s any more than he did, even less in fact. She was young, talented, witty, charming, and bursting with valid potential; far too many commendable traits to be a cashier at a wholesale retailer. At least that was Emmett’s judgment.

Undeniably, the two of them were kindred spirits, regardless of the disparity in age. Both were born and raised on the Northside of Chicago, where they continued to reside. In the workplace, they were proficient and overqualified. Their senses of humor were almost indistinguishable. Although the sources were unrelated, they both carried chips on their shoulders. And, despite their numerous conversations, neither party was wise to each other’s resentments, or to the sources behind their repressed bitterness.

2

Traditions

Revered as a landmark by its loyal patrons, neighbors, and by those who had regularly frequented it in the past, O’Doul’s moniker of being a neighborhood bar didn’t do it justice. It was quite substantial in size— its décor was a harmonious blend of modern elegance and old-world charm, likened to the speakeasies of the prohibition era. Among its copious highlights, four features stood out upon entry; the colossal, mahogany bar and its intricate paneling, the polished copper ceiling, four antique Hunter ceiling fans, and nostalgic framed portraits of iconic Chicago landmarks and Chicago natives, spread generously along the plaster walls, above the original beaded mahogany wainscoting.

Three generations of the O’Doul’s clan had built up a clientele list rivaling any of the other iconic Chicago taverns. Besides excelling at his craft, its current owner, Mickey, a stocky, clean-cut, old-school gentleman was remarkably devoted to his loyal customers.

Emmett and Gilly were buried at their favorite table, a small round top nestled against the wall in the center of the establishment; enough of a distance from the front entrance and its periodic commotions, but not too far from the coveted bar itself.

Remnants of a birthday cake lingered on the tiered, glass cake plate as well as on the cake server resting on the tray. Gilly’s dessert plate contained evidence of chocolate frosting. Emmett had barely left a crumb on his. The celebration had passed, and it had been a wonderful one. His brethren had imparted their congratulations, partook in numerous toasts, and knocked back their share of hard liquor shots. Drink buttons laid peppered along the surface of the table. The gestures made all-the-more thoughtful, considering Mickey would never allow one of his loyal patrons and close friends to pay for drinks on their birthday.

Adhering to custom, Gilly was doing most of the talking, having commenced with the conventional itinerary; reviewing the business of friends who weren’t present. But as he rambled on, he eventually turned the direction of the conversation on the Asian family that lived in his building, specifically the grandfather and grandmother, harping on how they were wasting all their effort on the abundance of plants and flowers dominating the backyard. It was typical Gilly, carping over trivial issues. He and Emmett had been close friends since childhood. It was that longstanding loyalty that sustained Emmett’s tolerance toward his dear friend and his silly, superfluous tirades. Already contending with feelings of guilt and self-disappointment, tonight’s rant was far more challenging for Emmett to endure than most others. To his credit, he periodically reintroduced himself to the conversation.

I mean, think about it. It’s obvious they know what they’re doing. The flowers they plant are healthy and beautiful. So why wouldn’t you grow some vegetables? Something you can eat—something useful. Vegetables ain’t cheap, you know, Gilly said. Damn grocers think they’re made outta gold.

There’s nothing like garden-fresh tomatoes, Emmett added. Cucumbers and peppers too. It was a relief to find an opening to contribute to the conversation. Prior to this donation, he hadn’t uttered a single word in nearly ten minutes.

Absolutely! That’s what I’m talking about! Gilly cried out.

Hovering near his tolerance level, Emmett felt an end to the pointless conversation was in order. Why don’t you just ask them why they don’t grow vegetables? Wouldn’t it save you time? You’ve wasted too much of your time worrying about this . . . debacle. They’re your neighbors for crying out loud, he said.

I should ask them, shouldn’t I? If nothing else, I bet I get a dumb but entertaining response, Gilly replied, just before surrendering to a chuckle. Emmett didn’t give off the slightest indication he was amused. It suddenly occurred to Gilly that his rants usually didn’t end so abruptly. Customarily, Emmett contributed to the conversations far more than he currently was, thus enabling the rants to persist. It was quite uncharacteristic of him, enough to warrant some prodding. You OK? Gilly asked Emmett.

Typically, when presented with that particular inquiry, Emmett would brush it off and apply very little effort while doing so. But he was anxious to get something off his chest, and, like it or not, Gilly was about the only person he could do so with. A fretful expression riding his face, Emmett took dead aim at Gilly. I’ve become the thing I hate the most, Gilly. I’ve become bitter. A bitter old man with a hardened heart, and with no filters to boot. It’s something I dreaded my whole life. That’s what the old man was—bitter and hardened and with absolutely no filters, Emmett woefully revealed, offering up a restrained smirk, in hopes of cutting into the solemnity.

It was a sight Gilly hadn’t witnessed from his friend in a long time. Emmett seemed defeated, crestfallen. Naturally, Gilly felt compelled to come to his aid. "Fuck it—be bitter!