It was winter, about a decade ago. Chicago was within hours of getting hit by a massive snowstorm, and I needed provisions—namely, beer. I had hurriedly run a few errands after work, making sure to leave some room in my tight budget for one last stop at Peacock Liquors.
The Peacock is a taproom, but not like the kind you’re picturing. It is a bar-slash-liquor-store—also known as a slashie. Because of Chicago liquor laws, slashies have to sell booze from the bar from one cash register and package booze from a separate register. At least that's what some older drunk guy told me when I first moved here. So it is at The Peacock. When you enter the front door, bottles of well liquor (up to slightly higher-quality bottles) line the wall to your left, leading to the package cash register. To your right, you pass stacks of room-temperature beer, beer in soda-branded coolers, old tube TVs, and a rack of Jay's Chips before finally making your way to the bar in the back.
The Peacock is a block from my house, and I often pop in for a sixer of cheap domestic beer, an Old Style after work, or maybe a dollar’s worth of quarters for laundry—if they can spare it.
On the night in question, after buying a six-pack, to my surprise I realized I had some extra money. Not quite ready to go home, I sidled up to the bar for a drink and patiently waited for the Old Man to make his way down the bar to take my order.
The Peacock is run by two gentlemen: the Old Man and his son. I'm embarrassed to say that even after going into The Peacock for almost two decades, I still don't know their names. To me, my friends, and my old roommates, they are always "the Old Man" and "the Son." I feel like the Old Man's been the same age since I started dropping by, which is to say, old. He always wears a sweater vest, despite how hot Chicago summers get. He speaks in a thick European accent, and starts our transactions with a focused "Ooookay." The Son can be counted on for a friendly attitude and is ready with pleasant small talk whenever I visit. When he asks how things are going, I genuinely believe he is interested. He recently started refurbishing record players. He seems excited about it.
"Ooookay, what are you having?"
By the time the Old Man made it down the bar to me, I knew I was going to make this easy. In the mood for a whiskey and soda, but well aware of my surroundings, I replied, "Bourbon and water."
"What kind of bourbon?" he asked, a tad concerned.
Spying a bottle of Jim Beam, and sticking to the modus operandi of low goddamn maintenance, I asked for Jim Beam. He grabbed a glass, poured in some Beam, but then something stopped him.
"Do you want ice?" he prodded.
"If you don't mind."
He set down the glass and opened up a hidden compartment. He pulled out a giant orb of ice composed of smaller pieces of ice, fused by frozen condensation. I don't remember what he whacked this orb with, but I do remember him smashing some blunt item into it to break free a few smaller pieces of ice for my glass.
After adding the ice shards to my whiskey, the Old Man was about ready to set the glass down in front of me before he remembered the finer points of my order.
"Do you want water?"
"If that isn't a problem."
He looked to his left, then his right, still holding my drink an inch or so over the bar. I could see the gears in his mind trying to solve this latest quandary.
Finally, he firmly smacked the glass down in front of me.
"You'll get your water when the ice melts," he said, and as if his tone hadn’t sufficiently communicated that there would be no room for appeals, he immediately turned and walked back to his stool at the edge of the bar.
"Yes, sir," I said, while drinking my bourbon on the rocks.
I haven't seen the Old Man in a while. Last time I was there I asked the Son about him and learned that the Old Man had to get his leg removed due to complications from diabetes. I asked the Son to pass along my wishes for a quick recovery. The Son said he would, and thanked me sincerely for asking. That was mid-March, and I haven't been into The Peacock since.
I don't get out of my apartment much these days, except on early-morning walks. Despite my backlog of beers and wines, I plan to stop by The Peacock for an update on the Old Man’s health. I’ll grab a sixer for good measure, and maybe see if I can get a bourbon and "water" to go.
Words by Mark Spence