The days are getting shorter.
I’m a little over a week into a self-imposed quarantine. I feel fine, but I am leaving for my annual hunting trip with my brother and father later this week. Quarantining beforehand seems like the best way to mitigate the risk.
This past Halloween, I knew I was running out of time to have a few drinks with friends. Several of us met in the beer garden of my preferred “third place,” the Montrose Saloon. (With the current economic climate facing bars and restaurants, I can’t help but wonder if I’m running out of time to enjoy a beer at that bar, too.)
We laughed through masks and talked about nothing at all. I forgot about the comfort of bullshit. We ambushed the bartender's punk rock iPad mix by taking over the jukebox with touch-tone treats like Robyn, The Meters, and Pointer Sisters (I always play the Pointer Sisters). At times it almost felt like those halcyon days of 2019. Then the sun would dip behind a cloud. We hadn’t prepared for that kind of cold.
During my current quarantine, the weather has been unseasonably warm. Recently, I watched Chicago celebrate election results from my living room window. Change is on my mind. What will be left standing when all of “this” is done?
On Halloween at least, cold be damned, we were resolute. Our stubbornness warmed us when our coats stopped. Fernet was poured, beers were bought, and we silently agreed we would leave on our own goddamn terms.
