Page 11 of Jealous of the Clouds
“You’ve done your homework.”
“I always do. One o’clock? Meet at the Billy Goat? The original one, on lower Michigan? It’s just up the street from you.”
So he knew I worked at Michigan and Wacker. What else, I wondered, did he already know about me?
“I’m aware of it. Who in Chicago isn’t?” I debated for a few seconds. What could it hurt? And maybe the meeting would actually somehow be helpful to Josh’s reputation. Despite my doubts, I could wind up being a good character witness. And, as I had this thought, I saw the image of the scar on his arm. “Okay. I’ll see you there.” And I hung up, uncertain if I was going down a path that would soon find me single again.
Was this a betrayal?
Or was I protecting myself?
*
The Billy Goat Tavern and Grill is a Chicago legend. At least the original one was. Located on lower Michigan Avenue, it existed in a kind of perpetual semi-darkness, below street level. It was a hole in the wall, but one with history. It had opened in the 1930s by a Greek immigrant and, almost ever since, had been the stuff of legend. Because of its proximity at one time to both the Tribune Tower and the Chicago Sun Times building on the river, it was renowned for being a hangout for local journalists.Saturday Night Live, though, was what really put the Billy Goat on the map, in terms of its fame extending beyond Windy City borders. John Belushi built a whole series of sketches around the divey joint, with the catchphrase “Cheezborger. Cheezborger. Cheezborger. No fries! Cheeps! No Pepsi, Coke!”
Now, as I made my way down the stairs from the completely different world of upper Michigan Avenue with its skyscrapers, upscale shopping and restaurants, I had the feeling I was entering a different world—sort of a demimonde.
This lunch with a stranger could change my life.
The restaurant, lit brightly with neon even though, above, the sun beamed golden, beckoned.
Bailey Anderson waited for me at one of the laminate tables. In front of him, I could see two meals already waiting. How did I know it was him? Well, as soon as I pulled open the heavy red metal door, his head swiveled toward me. He smiled with a kind of recognition. If that wasn’t enough, he also waved, smiling.
He was younger than I imagined. Probably mid- to late-thirties. His looks didn’t match his voice. I was expecting a kind of studious, bespectacled older man, one who might affect youthful clothing like distressed jeans, ironic T-shirts, and Chuck Taylors.
But Bailey Anderson was, in a word, adorable. He reminded me of the actor Christopher Atkins, back in hisBlue Lagoondays with Brooke Shields—a mop of nearly platinum curly hair that covered the tops of his ears and brushed his shirt collar. Even from where I stood, his blue eyes stood out—as pale and icy as a December sky. The youthful appearance was belied by those eyes, though. I noticed the crow’s feet and the laugh lines. He was slight, probably only around five-eight. I’d put him at one-forty or one-fifty in weight. He wore a red and white checked shirt and dark jeans. I couldn’t see his feet.
I approached. “Bailey?” I wanted to be sure.
“Guilty.” He half stood and leaned forward to shake my hand. “Sit down. Sit down. I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered the classic ‘cheezborger’ with ‘cheeps’ and Pepsi for us both.”
I chuckled and sat. “I can’t imagine having anything else.” I eyed him and decided intuitively that this was a man with whom I could feel at ease. He radiated a calmness, a comfort in his own skin that I found appealing.
“Of course, if you want anything else, I’m more than happy to get it for you. Just say the word. The grilled cheese isn’t half bad. Oh, and I actually love the salami sandwich.”
I waved the offer away. “This is fine.” I repeated my earlier thought, using different words. “Wouldn’t it be sacrilege to order anything else?”
Why does this feel like a first date?
Bailey nodded and smiled. “Is Pepsi okay? If you want something stronger, they have their own brand of IPA now.”
I shook my head. “Sell outs. What would Belushi think?”
“I think he’d have six. With a few lines of coke. Poor guy.”
That brought our cheery conversation down a notch. I opened my bag of Vitners and popped a chip into my mouth, chewed, and reminded him, “I’m here. How do you want to do this? I don’t have the luxury of a long lunch hour.” I glanced at my phone, which I’d set on the table. “I got about forty minutes.”
“And…go?” He laughed and then bit into his burger. A bit of grease dribbled down his chin and I had to stop myself from reaching across the table and wiping it off. He took care of it with a paper napkin. “Okay. You’re right. This isn’t two pals having lunch.” He leaned over to take out his own phone from a voluminous black leather backpack on the seat next to him. He fiddled with the screen for a minute. “Okay if I record?”
I froze. I hadn’t considered our conversation might be recorded. I got a little chill, a vague sense of foreboding.
What if Josh finds out? Will he see it as me turning against him?
I stared at Bailey’s phone as though it were a snake, even veered back a little from it. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s not such a good idea.”
“I haven’t begun recording yet. I want you to know that you can trust me. I won’t share your name or even anything you say without your permission. I’ll be upfront—I wish I wasn’t that ethical, but I am. So you can relax and rest assured I won’t use anything you don’t want me to. This can just be background, worst case. You have my word.”
I blurted, “Why should I believe you? I don’t know you from Adam.” In a world where a journalist’s word had become as valuable as the greasy napkin on the table in front of us, I wasn’t really put at ease by his promise.
