Dad Got Mill

With his wife’s urging, a middle-aged man musters the courage to open a luxury men’s store on the brink of the pandemic.

Dad Got Mill

a short story
by Andrew B. Hurvitz

Soundtrack: Dad Got Mill on Spotify

DGM

Kathy Fessenden and I were on our daily walk around the Silver Lake Reservoir to exercise and throw out ideas.

Raised in a small North Dakota town, founded by her family, my wife worked as a Senior Financial Analyst at Disney, her only employer for the last 25 years. Kathy was the reason we could afford a house, a private academy for Nikolas, and last year’s trip to Sardinia. She was frugal. And we were well off from that.

By contrast, I stayed at home, listening to my large collection of jazz records, trading mutual funds, auditioning for voice acting jobs, researching out-of-state houses for sale.

Decades earlier, in New York, I was a junior analyst at Goldman Sachs, then a trader at Morgan Stanley, then a portfolio manager at Fidelity. At no point did I progress at those jobs.

My secret dream was to own a men’s clothing shop.
My reality was pursuing imaginary creative endeavors past 50.

Yet Kathy Fessenden loved me no matter what.
We had a strange, but successful marriage.


Go Forth!

That morning, we stopped on the west side of the lake, near a stark, flat-roofed Gregory Ain house. It was perched on a hill with a row of tall windows overlooking the reservoir.

As she spoke, I looked up at that house, floating back down to her words.

“Listen to me! You love Las Colinas Rojas and Winchester Arcade. You said if you had one place to make a store it would be there. It has all your requirements: glass roofed, English, charming.

“Am I foolish? Am I dreaming? Can we afford it?” I asked.

“We’ve had this discussion so many times. Go forth and manifest what you want in life!” she said.

“Bottom line. I’m a failure. I can’t earn a living. I’m torn up because I’m too afraid to sign a lease and open a little men’s store. I’m a wimp,” I said.

“You have my support and resources. Make 2018 your year of action. Sign the lease. Buy the goods, and get on it,” she said.

We walked, the sun came out, my mood lifted.

“Do you like the name August? I read a novel by that name when I was young, about the month when the therapists go out of town, and since I’m always in therapy with Myra Rubin, it fits,” I said.

“I like it. Nik goes back to school in late August. He can help you set up the store,” she said.

“Maybe I should discuss it with Myra first,” I said.

“She won’t give you an answer. She’ll just ask you what you think,” she said.

“I think I’ll paint the shelves Farrow and Ball Green Smoke. I’ll have perfumes from DS & Durga and dad’s favorite, St. John’s Bay Rum. And handmade socks from Japan, great khakis, nice oxfords, Irish woolen caps, Italian silk neckties, crested navy blazers, and rugby shirts. A traditional men’s store with whiskey, tweed jackets and jazz music,” I said.

“I love it. There’s your answer. You came up with it yourself, without your therapist’s help,” she said.

We hugged and then continued up the steep hill to our dark green 1938 ranch house on Kenilworth Avenue.

It stretched along the sidewalk, garage near the street, stub driveway, no front lawn.

In the back, on our enormous wooden deck, we spent many hours enjoying our expansive views over Silverlake.


Lease

I signed the lease!

Move in date was three months away, August 1, 2018. I spent the summer buying stock for the store, nervous, but excited.

$70,000 on Kathy’s credit card.

Boxes came to Kenilworth Avenue: Trucker’s English brogues, Scottish cashmeres, J Press oxfords, Ralph Lauren neckties; perfumes, wool scarves, tweed jackets, tennis sweaters, university sweatshirts, lambswool caps, brushed cotton flannels.

Nik watched me open a box of Norwegian wool sweater vests.

“Who’s going to wear that in LA?” he laughed.

“People with money go places, they don’t stay in one place. They ski in Switzerland, or they have a winter lodge in Vermont. Those are the customers who will shop at August,” I said.

He chuckled at my Farrow and Ball paint samples, picked up two cans, read the labels.

“Duck Green and Lake Red. Sounds like your new customers. Nobody buys clothes in stores anymore,” he said.


Shad Mill/ Dad Got Mill

The only thing I didn’t have were old style rugbies.

One of my 57 followers was Shad Mill of Dad Got Mill clothing, made in Los Angeles.

He had fine hashtags: #Slow fashion, #handmade, #traditional, #organic, #heirlooms, #rugby.

Shad was a former New Yorker, about my age, now living here in Los Angeles.

Blond models in striped rugby shirts populated his page.

He had a long resume in fashion, most recently as head designer at Chuck Fagan. And he made high end rugby shirts, precisely tailored khakis with old Hollywood names (“Spencer” and “Montgomery”), and unconstructed wool blazers.

He had a vaguely preposterous persona, quite pretentious, but characteristic of his age and profession. I invited him to the opening party at the store.


Colin

Again, on Instagram, I found Colin Chu, a 27-year-old vintage menswear dealer who lived with his parents in Alhambra.

We met for coffee at a little cafe in the Winchester Arcade, weeks before the store opened.

He wore high waisted jodhpurs, tucked in ivory cashmere sweater and cordovan lace up boots. Thin, smooth faced, articulate, he spoke fluently and easily in grosgrain, merino, foulard, lapel, angora and alpaca.

He talked about his eBay store, selling vintage neckties, tweed jackets, oxford shirts, wool caps, and rowing blazers. I liked his positive energy, boyish and eager.

He was active in influencer walks in Los Angeles, groups of guys who walked around men’s stores trying on expensive clothes they never purchased and photographing themselves wearing luxury goods.

I told Colin about my life: growing up in Suffolk County, New York, my love of traditional clothing, my unhappy years commuting to jobs on Wall Street, and my eventual rescue by Kathy, who convinced me to go west to get married, escape finance, and pursue voice acting.

After I spoke, I felt letdown by my autobiography.

My abridged life story was like wood floating down a river: pulled by the current, past landmarks beyond reach, moving along with no direction.

“You gave up voice acting? Why not keep working to achieve your dream?” he asked.

“Good question. No answer. I ended up as a day trader, which was more lucrative, and then I invested in real estate,” I said.

“Owning property is always a good move. One day I’ll own a house, or two,” he said.

I felt old. I referenced the golden age of Hollywood: Fred Astaire, Cary Grant, Steve McQueen, The Thomas Crown Affair, Sabrina, The Philadelphia Story, Holiday, The Birds.

All elicited a blank stare.

Bewildered, he looked at me like a father. We had nothing in common, but love, for clothes.

But he had youth and I had none. I needed him.

He would pull in young clientele, beef up social media, sell online.

He seemed ethical, honest, and trustworthy. He wouldn’t steal or lie. I could leave him in the store, go on vacation, no worries.

“I would be into working with you. I live not too far from here. Commuting is fine. I can borrow my mom’s car. How much can you pay?” he asked.

“$20 bucks an hour. 30 hours a week,” I said.
“Ok. I’ll take it,” he said.

As a placeholder I offered him a bottle of 18-year-old Scotch.

“No, thank you. My parents don’t allow liquor in the house. Our church prohibits it,” he said.


Opening

Kathy, Nik and I drove to Las Colinas Rojas early Sunday morning on the day of the store’s opening party.

The queen city of the San Gabriel Valley was in a mist. We came up through a mansion lined road of sprawling lawns and mature oaks, clouds hiding the sun, and emerged into the shopping district as the fog receeded.

We parked in back, stood in the glass ceilinged arcade, outside the store entrance, viewing it like tourists.

August was painted in Old English Monotype on the window. Behind the sign, a body form wore a double-breasted blue blazer. Spread below it were my jazz albums from the 1950s and 60s: Miles Davis, Art Blakely, John Coltrane, Charles Mingus, Thelonious Monk.

Colin was inside, holding a small paint can and brush, finishing off a cabinet shelf.

He had meticulously hung the Japanese tailored Ring Jackets in the back room, alternating the coats with rigidly ironed dress shirts, grouped by colors, in a rhythm of light blue, navy, and white.

He had steamed, iron and folded.

“Have a donut,” he said, pointing to an open box.

On a round, dark wood table were an assortment of tartan scarves. A chrome liquor cart on wheels held various spirits, wine and highball glasses.

A feather duster rested against a bottle of Dewar’s.

Vintage watches were arrayed under glass at checkout. On the wall behind the register hung framed and matted black and white photographs of defunct New York jazz clubs.

“How did you learn to do all this?” Kathy asked.

“Ralph Lauren. I worked in the Beverly Hills store for two years when I was at UCLA,” he said.

Kathy leafed through a colorful assortment of rugby shirts on wooden hangers.

“Hey, these are nice. Very heavy, weighty cotton,” she said.

I walked over, concerned.

“I don’t know those rugbies. Where did these come from?” I asked Colin.

“Some man dropped a box off yesterday. I thought you ordered them,” Colin answered.

I looked at the labels: Dad Got Mill.

Kathy checked Disney Visa on her phone.

“Yep. Here’s $4,320 on the card by Dad Got Mill,” Kathy said.

“Oh, so I did. My mistake,” I said.


The Party

Trumpeter Kenny Dorham played on LP. Guests drank scotch and craft beer. They looked through the wares, admired the clothes, took photos.

They were Asian-American friends of Colin, young guys, in collared shirts, knit beanies, selvedge jean jackets, expensive rolled up denim, and dark leather shoes.

A good-looking Black man rode up on a Harley-Davidson, parked along the curb, came inside.

I sipped my iced whiskey and walked around.
Kathy and Nik smiled. The party was going well.
I met Shad.

He was a white middle-aged male, possibly fat or thin, 5’10, covered in orange turtleneck, blue and gray flannel shirt, houndstooth tweed jacket, striped university scarf, horn rimmed glasses, and green tweed driving cap, the quintessence of eastern seaboard docked at the liquor cart in Las Colinas Rojas, California.

“Dad Got Mill! Wonderful clothes. Welcome to August. I’m so delighted to have you here,” I said.

“Yes, yes. I’m still getting used to LA. Finding my way. Almost got lost coming here,” he said, toasting with his gin and tonic.

“Delighted you came. You worked for some great designers in New York,” I said.

“Yes, yes. I was the head designer for Chuck Fagan and I also worked ten years for Ralph Lauren. Things change in fashion. When I was hired at Polo in 1999, people there still looked like me. When I left they were already into diversity. Dad Got Mill is my salute to our family mill that once stood on the Merrimac River in Massachusetts,” he said.

“Oh, lovely. You take your family heritage and create a brand out of that,” I said.

“I’m the real article. So many pretend to have my heritage. I mean Ralph is an example of that,” he said.

“Well, my family worked in fishing, trucking, farming, and I was the first to go to college,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” he answered, seemingly bored, sipping his drink.

“Are you relocating to California permanently?” I asked.

“I think so. But the problem is nowhere do I really feel at home. I moved to a gorgeous 1929 Spanish duplex apartment near Sycamore and 2nd. I would have killed for something like it in New York. It’s tree lined, quaint, charming. My place has French doors, balcony, wood floors, perfect for my watercolors,” he said.

“Like the West Village,” I said.

“A few days after I moved in, I sat down with my nightly Negroni. I was jolted by loud noise. Upstairs moved an Orthodox Jewish family, The Moskowitz Bunch. They are horrendous. Three brats in yarmulkes, pounding on the floors. The noise is insane. I went up to knock on their door when they got loud, and they wouldn’t open it. They pray all the time. They won’t answer the phone on Friday or Saturday! I hear Hebrew melodies until midnight. They boil everything and the smell comes into my apartment. It’s repulsive,” Shad said.

“Maybe you should look for a place in Las Colinas Rojas,” I said.

“I don’t think I’d like it here either. Las Colinas Rojas is way too Asian, like Flushing, Queens. I’m a normal American guy. I want to live in a normal American place. Every place in LA is infested with Armenians, Asians, Mexicans, Jews. Can you advise me on where not to go?” Shad asked.

I looked around to see if anyone else could hear.

His openly expressed hatreds were startling. That he considered me an empathetic ear was unsettling.

“Please excuse me. Look in your email for the agreement on Monday,” I said.

I watched from a distance as Chad inspected his rugbies.

Colin came over, beaming.

“We have our first sale! Two Dad Got Mill rugbies. $400. And they bought a Drake’s scarf for $375, and Orslow khakis for $225!” he said.

“That’s great news! I just had a talk with Shad Mill. I like his shirts. I like his style. I like his business acumen. But I really don’t like him,” I said.

“Why?” Colin asked.

“He’s an old-style bigot, in the exact mode of his 1940s clothing,” I whispered.

“Ok. Gotcha. Let’s talk later. I see someone at the register,” Colin said, patting my shoulder reassuringly.

Shad was across the room. He sipped his drink, put it down on the tie table, left the store. I wondered how sloshed he was and if he was driving home.

The athletic, good-looking Black man came over.
“Hey, I’m Joshua. I want to shake your hand. I absolutely adore your store. This Dad Got Mill rugby is the best quality I’ve come across. How come it took so long for a shop like this to open in LA?” he asked.

His teeth glistened. His handshake was iron.

“It’s my fault. I procrastinated for twenty years until my wife told me to get my ass in gear,” I joked.

“I’m glad you did. Seriously, this is so pristinely elegant and well-merchandized. And very welcoming and diverse. I feel the love you have for all people, all the glorious rainbows in this city. You have my blessings. I’m going to post myself in this shirt tonight. I only have 43,000 followers but my wife has over 100,000,” he said.


Christmas Season

Kathy and I had planned a three weeklong, family trip to Scotland in December.

I went ahead with our vacation plans and decided to close up the store for nearly 8 weeks, from Thanksgiving to the middle of January.

A working trip.

That was my official line.

Colin was surprised.

“I can’t imagine closing down before Christmas. That’s the prime shopping season. I really need the income. I’m helping my folks with their property taxes,” Colin said.

“I’m going to source goods. I have a trip planned to visit Inis Meáin Knitting Company in the Aran Islands,” I said, half truthfully.

“It’s like throwing money away. This is your first Christmas. What are you thinking? What about all those potential customers who wander in a few days before Christmas looking for gifts?” he asked.

I had no answer.

“Enjoy your time off and come back in mid- January, refreshed,” I said.

“Refreshed? If I am not working here, I’m working at my mom’s dry cleaners. If she doesn’t need me, I’m selling clothes on eBay. And if I don’t sell on eBay, I’ll work at my father’s hardware store. I told them I’ll be working with you for the holidays,” he said.

“Ok, I’ll let you keep the store open. I trust you. Keys will be in your hands and you’ll do it all,” I said.

“Yes! That’s a good plan. We are bursting with inventory now. I counted five dozen cashmeres,” he said.


Elation

We went to Scotland. And we had a grand time. I was calm and relaxed with honest, hard-working Colin minding the store.

We spent a week in Edinburgh. We went to festive Christmas markets, Jenners department store, and the Scottish market in St. Andrew’s Square.

I purchased a $450 oil cloth, corduroy collared, tartan lined coat at Barbour Edinburgh. And a matching one for Nik.

Kathy abstained.

“I don’t want one. We’ll all look ridiculous walking around in the same jacket,” she said.

We traveled to Braemar and spent Christmas at the Fife Arms, a 19th-century inn. We ate smoked salmon, venison burgers, drank scotch and local ale. We drove further and ended up in Glencoe, along the steep sided mountains, with waterfalls and trails, red deer and golden eagles, and spent New Years at the Isle of Mull Hotel along the sound.

We visited the Isle of Iona with her Benedictine abbey and St Oran’s Cemetery, burial grounds for many Scottish kings.

We never made it to the Aran Islands. We went back to Edinburgh, and stayed our last two nights at The Balmoral, a palatial Victorian hotel.

It was a long, tiring trip back to Los Angeles.

After a day and night of insomnia and napping, still high on Scotland, I went to see Colin at August.

The store looked perfect, as usual. The soundtrack was Ahmad Jamal’s Happy Moods.

A Diptyque fig candle burned.

The pressed shirts hung in formation, the sweaters were precisely stacked, the antique wristwatches were laid diagonally across purple velvet under clear glass.

Gone was all holiday décor. Soon the spring shirts would arrive, linen and madras would replace wool and flannel.

“How was business?” I asked.

“We had some good numbers. I sent you daily updates by email. Didn’t you see them?” he asked.

“I didn’t open my email. I apologize,” I said.

“Really? You didn’t look at any of the sales figures for your store for the last two months?” he asked.


s-l1600

Valentine’s Day

I was working alone, one Friday in early February, when model man Joshua Fuhrman came in, smiling, ebullient.

At no angle was he ever imperfect.

“A little Valentine’s present since you weren’t here for Christmas,” he said as he handed me a 1956 collector’s LP: Jazz at Cal Tech, Bud Shank Quartet in Concert.

“My gosh! This is wonderful. Can I hug you?” I asked, throwing myself around his knotty physique and sea green cashmere.

“This record belonged to my dad. I honestly have no reason to keep it, as I have nothing to play it on,” he said.

I admired his outfit.

“Lovely sweater. 6 ply? One of ours?” I asked.

“Oh man you caught me. I saw the Johnston’s label here. I actually got it on eBay. Brother, I’m looking for a tweed coat,” he said.

“Come right this way, sir,” I said.

I showed him a $1,300 jacket, gray Donegal tweed, two button, notch lapel, black buttons. The way he slipped into it was graceful, though a bit tight in the shoulders.

“I work out too much. That’s why I can’t get hired. You have something less pricey?” he asked.

“Dad Got Mill has a less expensive, unconstructed jacket in blue worsted,” I said.

“Absolutely not. Don’t mention Dad Got Mill. Hate that fucker,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“He blocked me on Instagram. Did the same to your boy Colin. Maybe he’s a white supremacist. Why block me? I’m a god damned Ford Model. Wouldn’t you want me wearing your clothes? For free?” he asked.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“You have bigots out there who want to keep Ivy Trad for their own kind,” he said.

“I hope you feel welcome here. I don’t countenance any bigotry,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll be back. Probably this weekend,” he said.

I thanked him again for the jazz album as he left empty handed.


Numbers

I began to fear my association with Shad Mill. Maybe Joshua was right. I thought of removing Dad Got Mill.

Colin objected. He brought up our Shopify dashboard. A multi-colored circle was divided into percentages pertaining to each vendor.

“Dad Got Mill is 14% of our sales. That’s the largest of any brand we carry. And when the clients buy rugby shirts, they usually get khakis or denim, or both. Dad Got Mill pulls in other labels. It’s not good business to stop selling it,” Colin said.

“How many DGM pieces do we have?” I asked.

“You have 40 rugby shirts, 19 pairs of khakis, 12 sport coats. See your net costs here, and your retail here. If you remove Dad Got Mill that potentially is nearly $20,000 in sales. Keep it. Don’t pull it. You will thank me for this,” he said.


Social Media

On days we worked together Colin was like a therapist. He listened carefully to all my gripes, personal and business. He always had logical advice for my childlike mind.

Colin was also my salesman, my accountant, my merchandiser, my stylist, my social media guru. He brought in new customers. And August got some fame for reviving traditional men’s clothing stores in Los Angeles.

Nowhere in the Southland was anyone else selling handmade velvet slippers with embroidered bulldogs for $550. I fantasized that tweed suits, angora turtlenecks and camel hair coats belonged on men who lived year-round on sunny, palm lined streets.

Even with the hype and Colin’s industriousness, most days we sold nothing.

I cut back store hours. That gave me more time to audition for voice work and browse vintage record stores in Hollywood.

Now Colin came in only two days a week.

I needed him most on Saturdays and Sundays, for the weekends brought social media stragglers, crowds and chaos, nothing but mess. And Colin was highly skilled at clean-up and containment.

They arrived in packs, an obnoxious, unprofitable procession of juvenile influencer pilgrims who never spent a dime. They photographed themselves in everything. They pulled items off hangars and shelves, tried on shirts, sweaters, hats, jackets. They drank my Japanese scotch. They hung out for hours, often congregating in the arcade smoking pot. I had to make sure nobody shoplifted.

Their presence was an ordeal.

What could keep the vicarious pigs out? Something expensive, exclusionary and custom.

I proceeded with posh plans for a made-to-measure clothing event with Mr. Ian Humphries of Bosworth Woolens. I fortified our bar with a few bottles of Balvenie 21 Year Scotch at $249 each.

He flew in from London and brought his famed two button jackets with the trademark CelticCross© lapel buttonhole, and several thick books of Irish, Scottish and English fabrics. We invited everyone on our mailing list to a custom fitted weekend of woolens.

It was a dud. We made not a single sale.

It was humiliating to watch Ian run into the parking lot chasing after a young customer, begging him, unsuccessfully, to try on a $1,400 tartan wool jacket.

“You can have it for $1,300,” Ian shouted as the buyer drove off.


The Pandemic

I first heard of Covid-19 on Friday, January 24, 2020 when Nik read aloud a tweet from epidemiologist Dr. Eric Feigl-Ding.

“We are now faced with the most virulent virus epidemic the world has ever seen,” Nik quoted.

“Don’t believe everything you read on Twitter,” I said.

“Dad they’re closing down cities in China and people can’t leave their houses,” he said.

“It’s in Asia. They sound like they have it under control. Relax,” I said, never imagining the war to come.


Discovery

Colin had asked for the weekend off to attend a family reunion in Big Bear. Nik came to work with me.

I was happy, for I had a foreboding about the last days of August.

Late morning at the store, Laura F., a petite young tourist with close-cropped blond hair, tried on a medium Viyella tartan button down. She came from Chicago, followed us on Instagram and was excited to shop here.

“I only wear small,” she said.

“We have six different colored small ones in in back,” I answered and asked Nik to retrieve.

He came out empty handed.
“I couldn’t find any,” he said.
“What? We have them in stock. Look at our Shopify,” I said.

Laura picked up a $275 Harley of Scotland wheat-colored Shetland sweater.

“I love this. Do you have it in small?” she asked.

I checked our online inventory.

“Yes, you’re lucky. We have red, navy, forest green and rust, all in small,” I said.

Nik went to get them.
He came out with nothing.

“Sorry, Laura. Missing those too,” he said.

I apologized to the customer.

“This is disappointing. I thought for sure I would be walking out with a few items,” she said.

Nik sat at the laptop, concentrating, jotting down items on paper. He went in back, spent a half hour there, and came out with his verdict.

“Dad you have a theft problem. There are many jackets, shirts, and sweaters that are supposed to be unsold, in stock, but are not in storage,” he said.

“That’s impossible. Colin knows everything. He’s on top of sales to the last penny,” I said.

“Maybe he’s your problem,” Nik said.

I looked onscreen at our inventory.

“Have you checked Dad Got Mill’s khakis? We should have twenty pairs,” I asked.

“I checked that too. You have six pairs in back. What’s your boy’s eBay store?” he asked.

“I can’t remember,” I said.

“Your only employee and you don’t know?” Nik asked, as he pushed me aside to look up Colin’s eBay.

Within thirty seconds, Nik found Colin Chu Superb Vintage Menswear.

IMG_7773

There were many items from August: tweed jackets, khakis, socks, t-shirts, neckties, flannel shirts, dress shoes.

Our $600 cashmeres for $450 each.

My trusted employee was stealing and selling stolen goods.

I was diminished, degraded, betrayed.

“Please don’t tell your mother,” I begged.

“Mom should know. She’s your wife and co-investor,” he said.

“Let me handle it. Say nothing to her. I never thought that respectful, churchgoing young man would steal,” I said.

“He has half your inventory. Mom’s credit card is paying for his eBay,” he said.

“Just shut-up! Show some sensitivity. You don’t have to utter every dumb thing that comes into your head!” I shouted.

“Fuck you,” he said.

He stormed out into the arcade, passing by Joshua, the male model arriving for his weekly no buy visit.

“Hey there. Did I come at an awkward time?” Joshua asked.

“No, no. Just teenage hormones. You know how that works,” I said.

“Indeed, I do. I was there 20 years ago,” he said.

He went straight to the Italian motorcycle jacket, a $1,400 black lambskin number with an asymmetric zipper. He put it on, walked to the mirror to admire.

“Damn, I look good,” he said.
“Last one,” I said.

“I’ll think about it. It looks great over these Dad Got Mill khakis,” he said as he left.

It was always the same routine with him. Never a sale.

Next thing I heard was his motor revving. I looked out the window as he sped off on his Harley.

Nik came back with two cappuccinos.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that earlier. I didn’t mean it dad. I was wrong. I mouthed off,” he said.

“Ok. Apology accepted,” I said.

“Did he buy anything?” he asked.

I took a sip of coffee.

“Nope. He comes in every weekend. Never a sale,” I said.

“He probably sees what he likes, and buys it from Colin on eBay,” Nik said.

“I’ve got bad news. I’m afraid today will be it,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I have half my inventory stolen, my buyers are gone from the pandemic, what reason is there to keep this store open?” I asked.

“I wonder what Mom will say,” Nik said.

“Use Covid as the excuse. She doesn’t need to know about my ignorance concerning Colin and the stealing,” I said.


Covid

The world collapsed and we went to hide in our house, to order groceries online and wash them outside under the garden hose, to wear masks on our morning walk, to conduct work and school online, to look out the window and observe streets without cars and skies without planes.

A month had passed since I found out about the theft. I fired Colin. He left the store keys in our home mailbox.

Kathy commandeered the dining room table for her home office. Nik stayed in bed attending school.

I was going out of my mind, unable to escape them, or myself. I had nowhere to go. Everything was shut down.

While I languished Kathy still had a job. Our entire prosperity rested upon her diligence and hard work.

She was colder, distant, bothered by something she never uttered. I probably knew exactly what that something was. But I had no guts to say it.

While she worked, I slithered out to the deck to work on the New York Times crossword puzzles and browse houses on Zillow and Redfin. Anything to distract.

After 5, I drank bourbon, whiskey or wine. I sat in self-pity, staring across the lake. That was my routine. How long could this go on?

One day I heard the floorboards shake.

Kathy marched out of the house, onto the deck, and stood over me, looming.

“You’ve been lying to me. Colin stole from you. Nik said that he found out the day he went to work with you. That’s why you fired Colin. Yet you came home and said nothing. All these weeks have passed. I knew the whole story. I waited for you to tell me. Nik is worried, terrified of you, and I’m god damned furious,” she said.

“If I had paid attention to inventory and sales, this wouldn’t have happened. My ego has been destroyed by this. It confirms every rotten thing I’ve thought about my own ineptitude. I couldn’t face you. I made an appointment to discuss this on Zoom with Myra Rubin,” I said, referring to my old therapist.

“Myra? Were you going to tell her before me? I don’t care about your oblivious mismanagement. I care about the cover-up. You lied and told our son to lie. What about Nik? When I asked him to be honest, he thought he was snitching. I trusted you. I supported you in every sense. How could you lie to me? How could you recruit him to lie?” she asked.

“I know, I know,” I said.

“How much did Colin steal?” she asked.

“Maybe $20,000 or $30,000,” I answered.

“Did you file a police report?” she asked.

“Of course not. I’m not putting him jail,” I said.

“Then how are we supposed to file a claim? Nik can’t go to college next year. We don’t have the money,” she said.

“Another calamity I brought on us,” I said.

“Do you think of anyone but yourself? All I hear is how bad this makes you feel. What about me? And our son?” she asked.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“I don’t know. You told Nik to keep a secret. It put him in pain. It put our family in jeopardy. And a crime you didn’t report to me or law enforcement. You had to know that eventually the truth would come out. You had no right, no right at all,” she said, as she broke down sobbing.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said.

“You took all my love and trust and destroyed it. I despise you. I wish I could leave you. But we can’t go anywhere now. The pandemic took that away. The world is shut down. We are trapped. We must muddle through our pain and heartbreak here under one roof, day by day. Tonight, go sleep in the guest room,” she said.


Blue Star

Thrown out of our bed, I felt, in some way, homeless, tortured by my own histrionics.

Those who had no home, the ones who lived in the Griffith Park, set it afire. Around the city, people moved into RVs, they slept under bridges, pitched tents on the sidewalk, turned the public lands into their private campsites.

I slept in the guest room, fearful and alone, imagining home invaders. Lost was sound sleep and the old reassurances of work and wife.

There was no happiness or peace. Everywhere was catastrophe: mind, marriage and country.

People recorded a man murdered by cop in Minneapolis and every city in the United States rioted. The police were attacked, stores were looted, the President walked through smoke cleared crowds and held a Bible aloft.

There were sick and dying people around the world. The days and nights got hotter.

And everything true was a lie.


Clearance

Nik and I cleared out the store and brought the stock into the garage on Kenilworth Avenue to lay in its crypt on steel shelves behind my Lexus.

Our daily walk was conducted in silence, a masked march around the lake, timed at 45 minutes on the Nike App which always ecstatically cheered:

“This is Coach Sally! Congratulations on another amazing run, you are killing it!”


Alhambra

In August, the month, not the store, Colin texted me.

“I have money to pay you, along with some clothes in the garage. Would you consider coming by my house so I can make good to set things right?”

I drove to Alhambra, to South Monterey off Valley Boulevard, a straight street of Spanish cottages and two bed ranches, steel guarded windows, workaday shrubs, bright annuals, white sedans and garden gnomes.

I parked in front of the Chu Home, a little, yellow, stucco house with metal awnings, red tile roof, and detached garage in back, probably built for some returning veteran of WWII.

Colin, masked, in blue Dodgers cap, black t-shirt, black basketball shorts and sock footed rubber sandals, came out to the curb.

How young he was, how fresh and clean, washed and dried in Tide and Downy.

“Hi,” he said, head down, contrite.

I kept my hands in my pockets and grunted behind sunglasses and N-95 mask.

“You have something of mine?” I asked, coldly.

“Stay here and I’ll bring the clothes to your car. I have four containers. My parents are inside. I told them you were coming. They don’t know nothing, so please just wave if you feel like it. My dad is sick, my mom too,” he said.

“Covid?” I asked.
“Yes. Thank God they are not worse,” he said.
“And you?” I asked.
“Nothing. Only God knows why,” he said, scurrying up the driveway to retrieve the illegal goods.

Mr. and Mrs. Chu came to wave at the picture window. I waved back to the old parents, born in Taiwan, the father and the mother in face masks, pajamas and bathrobes.

I was heartbroken. Seeing them I lost pity for my own life of inherited advantage.

They were sick but alive, their faith and their son keeping them going.

I lost my anger too.

I thought my judgment was sound in not going to the police.

Sometimes, for the sake of justice, silence is the superior testimony.

I opened the car trunk, and Colin came down the driveway with a hand truck and boxes. He loaded in the garments, fitting the containers in neatly, the remaining inventory of August.

“Can you come over to the other side of the car?” he asked.

We stepped to the driver’s side, to hide from the watchful eyes of the parents, as Colin opened a large manila envelope thick with banded cash.

“This is all the money I made selling on eBay. I won’t keep none of it. $15,000. I pay you everything. I’m taking down my store for now. I’m applying to business school at UCLA.” he said.

“How are you able to afford graduate school?” I asked.

“I have a Jack Kent Cooke scholarship. Undergrad and grad school. Fully paid,” he said.

“You must make your parents proud,” I said.

“They think well of me. If you can find it in your heart to also forgive me, that would be the biggest gift,” he said.

“I do forgive you, Colin. You and I are settled. Good luck with your future. I think you will do very well. Please give your parents my best wishes. When times are normal again, maybe we can all meet for dim sum,” I said.

“Goodbye boss. Thank you for the wonderful opportunity you gave me, truly, you believed in me,” he said.

His mother and father remained at the window. I was the big V.I.P. who had employed their son. Perhaps they stood there to honor me, another elder, like attendees at a parade.

If they looked upon me with admiration, surely, I was undeserving of their respect.

I got into my car, opened the windows, and waved good-bye to Colin on the lawn, and to his mother and father behind the glass, all of us in our masks, all making life in pandemic time.


Home

I drove back to my street, my house at the end came into view.

Kathy was outside, dressed in a cotton top and yoga pants, leaning against the garage, cold and shivering. From a distance she was again a young woman.

I parked along the curb and got out.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” I asked.

“No. I locked myself out of the house. Nik rode off somewhere on his bike. I don’t have my phone. Where were you?” she asked.

“Colin’s house, Alhambra. He gave me back what he has. Clothes and 15 grand. Let me get a sweater out of the car for you,” I said.

“You’re kidding? Cash and clothes? I guess that’s good news,” she said.

I pulled out a white woolen cardigan, brought it over and placed it across her shoulders. Her teeth were chattering.

“Thank you. I was so dumb. I closed the garage, because I wasn’t thinking, and then you were out somewhere, and Nik was gone, and I was alone and freezing and had nowhere to go. I couldn’t break into our house you know,” she said, and then she cracked a smile.

“No, that wouldn’t work,” I said.

Nik rode up on his bike.

“What the hell? My parents have to come outside to wait for me! What am I like 7-years-old? So fuckin’ embarrassing,” he said.

“It’s not what you think. We are just here, quite accidentally,” I said.

“You didn’t know the code?” I asked Kathy.

“I always use the car opener to drive in. I never needed to enter it,” she said.

Nik opened the garage with the key code and rode his bike in.

We parents stayed out front.

“He made a virtual August store on eBay for you. I think he’s already had some sales,” she said.

“That’s a hopeful development,” I said.

“I think he feels some responsibility. And he knows how expensive college is,” she said.

“Colin has a full scholarship to UCLA business school,” I said.

“No kidding. Business school. That figures,” she said.

“I thought he was an angel. Then he was the devil. Now he’s redeemed. He was only trying to help his parents,” I said.

“Everyone has a motive,” she said.


Unpacked

I was happy to see a yellow and black striped Dad Got Mill rugby with white collar and the DGM monogram.

It was the last one. I made it mine.

I looked at Dad Got Mill’s webpage on Instagram.

There were black squares to honor Black people, and a Black person in every post of Dad Got Mill. All the blond men were gone, now replaced by Black men, and texts decrying racism, standing for justice, saluting tolerance, promising inclusion, remembering George Floyd.

It was the new dawn of civil rights for rugby shirts.


Epilogue

The store has been closed for over a year now.

Sometimes I’ll go into the garage and unpack the dwindling supply of sweaters and shirts and colognes and debate whether I should keep any as souvenirs.

Every so often I make a sale on eBay. Nik showed me how to use it.

I have time on my hands. We all got vaccinated. Kathy went back to work at Disney in Burbank.

Nik moved to Riverside and is in his sophomore year of college.

I am wary of going out, but tired of staying in, my life is in lived in limbo. Perhaps that is all I can ask for.

END

Wrigley McCormick

Wrigley McCormick

Wrigley McCormick

by Andrew B. Hurvitz

In a tense time of academic purges and social media bullying, a newly fired, nearly retired professor from Northwestern University is befriended and taken in by a wealthy young benefactor hungry for a father figure and style muse.


Note: This story contains a racial term which is considering insulting but is necessary in the telling of this fictional tale. There are also documented historical events which may be painful for some readers.


Sunday, weekend of Labor Day, Professor Steven Goodman walked at dawn down the driveway alongside his small ranch house in West Evanston, IL. He pushed a metal clothes rack, hung with garments, and a “$10” sign, taped on end.

It was the third day of his four-day estate sale.

Items included a cherry wood glass cabinet and six dining room chairs arranged around a Queen Anne table covered in stacked piles of folded towels and linens.

Down near the curb, on a large Oriental rug, was a seating arrangement from the 1960s, a rust-colored tweed couch, brown vinyl recliner, and three Giotto Stoppino orange stackable plastic tables.

Board games of Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land, Monopoly, Lost in Space and The Game of Life sat on a scuffed, steel-legged card table.

There were LPs of Sinatra, Dinah Shore, Patti Page, Nat King Cole, Stan Getz, Henry Mancini, and Bill Evans (“What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?”).

Parked on the back end of the driveway, headlights facing out, was a gold ‘75 Buick LeSabre with a $1,900 or Best Offer sign taped to the windshield. Doris and Gene had driven it for 25 years.

An ebony wood Baldwin Grand Piano sat on the asphalt, its closed keyboard lined with caps from Chicago sports teams: Cubs, Sox, Black Hawks, Bulls.

“A boy who plays the piano also has to play sports,” his German born father had instructed him.

He watched the sky, crowded with fast-moving clouds, traveling with their shadows east to the lake.

His father liked to watch the skies, observing light.

Gene Goodman, born in Nuremberg in 1933, had once dreamed of becoming an artist, but, more practically, sold restaurant supplies for 50 years.

Gene’s surviving paintings were out here, framed in gold, surveys of locations never visited: Yellowstone, Eiffel Tower, Fiji, and Jerusalem.

The oils were copied from torn out National Geographics, subjects chosen for his Oakton Community College night classes, homework painted in the basement under bare bulb, near the washer and dryer.

Painting was a hobby to his late father the way acting had been for Steven.

Professor Goodman took some photos and posted on Instagram with the hashtags: #garagesale, #vintage, #clothes, #estate, #Evanston, #Skokie.

Then he went down to the curb to survey.

The yellow brick house was homely, pitiful and plain: squared hedges, straight walk, and scallop edged shades in the front window. Gene and Doris bought it in 1958 for $14,000. A steel fence in the backyard neatly divided the property from the alley in back where the garbage cans lived.

He was 61, alone, orphaned, nearly as old as his house, wounded and demoralized since his firing last year from Northwestern, his alma mater and lifetime employer.

On Redfin he found his new house, a 950 square foot stucco ranch in Tuscon near the Catalina Foothills. He would join all the other old Chicagoans, retired exiles in the desert, kept cool, fresh and alive on air-conditioning and prescription pharmaceuticals.

Farewell to snow, winter coats, ice, chapped hands, rain, fog, and overcast weather.

Home had always been Lincolnwood Drive. He thought of Doris, dish towel in hand, shouting from the side door to come in for dinner. Meat loaf, spaghetti and meatballs, lemon bars, ice cream sundaes, Hi-C.

“Lincolnwood Drive is wonderful because it dead ends before Church St. You boys can play ball in the street and no cars will come down here. That’s why we moved here. It’s safe and closed off.”


People trickled in, perused, browsed, left.

In late afternoon, an older Black woman, cardigan and denim, banded gray hair, librarianlike, walked up the driveway.

She stopped at a table to inspect the Kodak projector and boxes of slide carousels. Some were labelled in magic marker: Miami, 1967, Door County, WISC. 1971, Michigan, 1973.

“Don’t sell these. This is your family history,” she said.

That night, he pushed the piano back into the garage and dragged the furniture and dry goods behind the gate.

He went inside, made a bologna sandwich, poured a glass of milk, sat down, and opened his phone.

There was an email from Erica McCarthy, a colleague at Northwestern, an eminent and esteemed professor of English.

Her NY Times bestseller, “Our Eternal Debt”, about white culpability in the failure of Black contentment, was the talk of the nation last year.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t buy it. You didn’t say that disgusting word. A student in your class said it, a word used so often by Twain. The student who said the word was not expelled. And you were. I know it was unjust. You are too honest. This is no time to defend great authors or freedom of speech. You should have gone public to say you would stop teaching that book. That would have calmed it,” she said.

Her words were safe, curated, bullet proof.

She was still employed, she still had her salary and her title, her agent, her royalties, her fellowships. Her husband, Hubbard Woods III, was an investment banker. They had a large house in Lake Forest. She was good until death, and beyond.

One time he Googled her address and saw her 2018 property taxes: $92,000. She was rich and beloved, privileged and adored.

By contrast, he was a pariah; condemned, rejected and reviled. The haters had come after him for many months. Nobody defended him. All the administration joined in the phony piety, alliances of parents, students, faculty and strangers online standing up for social justice.

Exhausting

Thirty years teaching. Once loved and respected, honored, tenured. Now an old, white, male oppressor.

Twain, James, Wharton, Hemingway, Stein, Pound, Hughes, Katherine Anne Porter, Elizabeth Spencer. Some of the authors he loved and assigned, now enemies of the university, purged from the curriculum.

It seemed the happiest people lived in white rooms without books, sparkling empty ones, ones with the most likes on Instagram.

Labor Day he awoke for work before the sun.

He made coffee at 5am, went out, unlocked the gate, and opened the garage. For two hours he wheeled, carried, and pushed all the merchandise back onto the driveway.

Today was selling.
Tomorrow was the reinvention of life.

No more school, no more semesters, no more students, no more talks with young and open minds, no debates, discussions or stimulating talks.

His commute had been a leisurely, dreamy, leafy way east, biking for fifteen minutes on East Prairie Rd and Emerson, across the Sanitary Canal, under the El, over Green Bay Road, into University Hall.

No more.

One word, spoken by one student, one day in class, ended his life.

Serena Chan, Lululemon influencer, biking instructor, owner of a popular yoga studio, Chanfit on Dempster, jaunted up the driveway with her infant girl and $900 UPPA baby stroller. She lived in the fiberboard house with solar roof, orange door and electric charging station.

He had seen her on morning power walks many times. She wore high waisted seaweed yoga pants and a midriff top.

She took off her sunglasses, exposing a thin, strained face.

He smiled back.

“Good morning, nice day, huh” he said, wincing a look at one-year-old Pela, wrapped in a baby blanket.

Pela Chan, Pela Chan. Like an exercise bike.

“I haven’t seen you in years. Hardly recognize you,” she said.

“I’m old. Now I regret never having a child. Your daughter is gorgeous,” he said, wistfully.

“Maybe you are childless for a good reason,” she said.

“Huh?”

She broke into malice and anger.

“You are a low piece of shit. I came down here to tell you that to your face. I know your story professor! I grieve for your wounded students. You’ll do all right. You inherited this little house. You won’t be out on the streets. I’m happy you’re suffering! Happy you’re leaving this neighborhood. In our community we don’t tolerate intolerance! I say that as an ally of all who are oppressed,” she said.

Then she turned around, mission finished. Her confidently sculpted ass, muscular legs and toned arms strode back onto Lincolnwood Drive pushing the stroller in workout.

She had blackened his day.

After she left, the afternoon lasted a long time.

He distracted himself on Instagram and posted his 1984 acting headshot, longish hair gelled and combed back when he was 21, taking classes at Second City, having fun, meeting people, joking, and creating.

His parents advised against his “hobby” and had refused to come to any of his performances.

“Nobody makes money in that,” his father said.

“You’ll be poor and struggling,” his mother said.

“Working at night in a smoky room and begging for applause in Old Town? Miserable. Where will you be at 35?” his father asked.

“And where will we be when you’re 35?” his mother asked.

He followed their fears and gave up. He went back to Northwestern and earned a master’s degree in English Literature.

Decades flew past. The ones who urged practicality were dead.

Now he was the white-haired man on the driveway selling their old junk.


Near sunset the air was thick with barbecue smells, chicken, ribs, burgers, music, laughter and the thumping of speakers. People walked from cars into houses and yards.

It was time to wrap up.
An Uber arrived.

A white man, model handsome, got out, holding a rattan picnic basket. He had close cropped brown hair, athletic body. He wore purple shorts and a pink t-shirt, striped knee socks, and unlaced high tops.

He stumbled and seemed intoxicated with a goofy, funny, lost expression, headlight wide eyes, angled, thick eyebrows two or three inches long.

He walked up the driveway, bewitched, staring all around, entranced.

He said nothing.

Then he grabbed two blankets off the table, a sheet and a pillow, and he walked over to the grass and made himself a bed on the front lawn, shaking out the sheets, taking a nap.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing?” Steven asked, rushing over to apprehend the miscreant.

“Hey Pro! I’m Wrigley McCormick and I’m fucking exhausted. Let me nap. Please? I’m so tired. I know you were about to close up, just let me rest,” he said.

“I follow your gram. I want to buy everything. Everything. I have cash. I love your style too. Just let me chill out here and sleep. I’ll get to you in like 30,” he said, closing his eyes, curling up under the blanket, on the grass.

A bottle of Sauvignon Blanc rolled out of his rattan basket.

Steven watched, thought to call the police, and decided not to. He moved the sale items off the driveway, back into the garage, working deliberately, continually, as if his last customer asleep on the grass were not there.

Now it was dark. The lawn lights went on. Wrigley dozed. Steven went over, bent down, gently jarred and awakened him.

Groggily, innocently, he sat up like a child, blanket clenched under his chin.

“Are you OK? Should I call your parents?” Steven asked.

He laughed.

“Parents? Father lives overseas with his wife. Mother killed herself,” Wrigley said.

“Can I get you water or coffee?” Steven asked.

“I need to use your bathroom,” he said, standing up, grabbing his wine, insouciant.

Steven guided him into the side door near the kitchen. He slipped into the bathroom like a lumber board, enviably thin, hard, lean.

He came back out, face washed, shaking his wet hands.

“I had to shit. Sorry. I opened the window, though, and sprayed Lysol. Here’s a couple thousand,” Wrigley said, pulling a wad of bills out of his shorts and slapping his rubber-banded money on the counter.

“I’m buying everything Prof. I’m summoning an Uber now. I’ll see you mañana with my crew and our U-Hauls,” he said.

He had come here, slept, woke up in the dark, said he was buying everything. It didn’t make sense.

“Do you want to take a second look?” Steven asked.

“I had my eye on your posts, Professor. Didn’t you see all my likes? I want it all. Aren’t you delighted I showed up here?” Wrigley asked.

“You work? Go to school?” Steven asked.

“I work from home. I’m not going to college. You don’t learn anything there,” he said.

“Perhaps you’re correct,” Steven said.

“All of my friends love you, love your hair, your vintage sweaters. And those light blue poplin pants, green Izod shirt and red whale belt. Stunning. Your 1980s are what we aspire to: your jackets and your smile, your boat shoes,” Wrigley said.

He had made a study of the professor.

“That picture of you in August 1986 with your hair blowing in the wind on the dock at Montrose Harbor. And the photos Suzanne took of you at Lighthouse Beach that fall. We all wish we lived back then. I’m buying your whole life and putting you and your looks online, that’s my plan,” Wrigley exclaimed.

Wrigley had learned the historical dates, memorized the places, devoured the throwaway snapshots, curated the images, like an archaeologist discovering and cataloguing the treasures of a long-buried Etruscan tomb.

“My crew is Dylan Wieboldt, Carson Field, and Saira Pirie. And the Nelson Brothers, Tyler and Brandon. We talk about you constantly. And we all adore John Hughes movies: Sixteen Candles, Ferris Bueller and Pretty in Pink. And Tom Cruise in Risky Business! Chicago in the 1980s is our kingdom. And you are our king!” he said.

The professor was made adjacent to trivia and pop culture, connected to John Hughes and Hollywood films set on the North Shore. He was flattered yet befuddled.

“My windblown hair and 1982 Members Only jacket was not how I expected to earn kudos,” Steven said.

“Members Only” was 1983. July 23rd. You and Suzanne were at Comiskey Park at The Police Synchronicity Tour,” Wrigley said.

“Oh man. Stop,” Steven said, laughing.

“Uber is here. I’m outta here. We’ll get some German pancakes at Walker Brothers. I will give you a tour of my house, of what I plan to do with your furniture, your piano, and, of course, all of your clothes. You are going to die when you see it all in my house! Bye,” Wrigley said, running out.

Left behind: an unopened bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.


Next morning, several young men and women arrived with three U-Haul trucks. Under Wrigley’s direction, they went up and down the driveway and moved everything into the vehicles: piano, furniture, books, clothes, kitchenware, textiles, rugs, linens, glassware, LPs and Steven’s clothes. They were strong and fast and packed up quick.

Wrigley knocked at the side door.

“Morning Professor. Here are another three grand. I want to get the car too. Do you have the papers? I’ll go up to the DMV in Waukegan tomorrow and we can transfer ownership. My friends will die to see me driving a 1975 Buick LeSabre,” he said.

“Do you want to come in and see the house? Maybe there is something else in here to buy? Please call me Steven. I’m no longer a professor” Steven said.

“Sure Steven,” Wrigley said.

They walked through the tiny rooms carpeted in beige, stripped of furniture. The scalloped shade in the living room picture window caught Wrigley’s eye. He went and pulled it up. Light came into the empty space and he saw a still functioning white dial telephone on the floor, 312-DA8-3020.

“Know how to use that?” Steven asked.
“I haven’t a fucking clue,” he said.
“You don’t know how to use a rotary telephone?” Steven asked.
“No,” Wrigley said.
Now he felt old.


A week later, Steven sat in the massive dark-paneled library of a mansion off Sheridan Road, a 1911 Tudor pile of stone and brick with seven bedrooms, wine cellar, servants quarters, and a 70-foot-long terrace overlooking Lake Michigan. There was a verdant, green backyard with many native American Basswood trees, a type of Linden with heart shaped leaves, fragrant and shading.

The library with its empty bookshelves was now a studio for Wrigley and his friends, furnished with the Goldman Family couch, dining table, vinyl lounge chair, and racks of 1970s and 80s clothes from Steven’s youth.

This was Juicy Fruit Productions, a filming studio, with muslin backdrop, softbox lights on stands with sandbags, and Fuji GFX camera on tripod wired to a laptop. There was a floor length mirror, a director’s chair for makeup, and grooming products scattered on the floor.

A 10-foot-long, yellow, painted sign of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit Chewing Gum endowed the room in corporate identity.

Howard McCormick, Wrigley’s father, lived in Singapore and ran a property development company there with his second wife Julia.

Goodman met the crew: multi-racial, wealthy, liberal youth who were performers, assistants, gaffers, writers, comedians, influencers, stylists, cooks and cleaners. They drank beer, got high, ate sushi and frozen popsicles, and chuckled at their phones.

Whatever they felt like doing, or not doing, was okay at Juicy Fruit Productions.

All around the room were reminders of Lincolnwood Drive scattered like shabbily dressed interlopers at a black-tie affair: the rust-colored sofa, the Oriental rug, the Queen Anne dining table and chairs, the vinyl recliner, Doris’s floral pillows and macrame blanket.

But high respect was accorded Steven’s old clothes, revered and worshipped by Wrigley and friends. The vintage garments were neatly hung on hangers on metal racks. T-shirts and sweaters were folded and stacked on the mahogany bookshelves. Dress shirts had been pressed and starched. Iron and ironing board were on duty.

It was 90 degrees, humid, torrid, summer. The opulent estate had no air-conditioning. Floor fans blew hot air around the house.

Six French doors in the library were wide open to the terrace and the garden, the sight and sound of Lake Michigan; waves, seagulls, foghorns; accompanied by the scissor-grinder mashing of the dog-day cicadas, an unending drone of faint noise.

Wrigley had asked the Nelson Brothers and Saira Pirie to dress up in Steven’s clothes, and film Steven reacting to their looks.

Wrigley and Steven went out to the terrace under threatening skies. One-by-one, the three kids came out for the video. Sara was in Steven’s sweatpants and madras shirt.

Then the Nelson Brothers, Tyler and Brandon, two handsome, preppy Black twins about 20, came out in Harvard and Yale t-shirts, and 1980s jeans.

“Professor was skinny. These are so tight,” Brandon said, tugging at his waistband, choking his own throat.

Steven sat on a stone bench. He remarked how good the burgundy shirt looked on Brandon.

“Good line Steven. Keep going,” said Wrigley filming and directing.

“You can come on to me, anytime,” Saira Pirie said to Tyler.

Brandon threw his arms around her. Tyler did too. They all fell down on the lawn, laughing and acting for the video.

“Cut. Take a break,” Wrigley directed.

They were hot and sweating, drinking cold bottles of water, wiping their foreheads with paper towels.

Out in the distance there was the rumble of thunder. Leaves blew off the trees. The atmosphere was charged. The yard was cast in greenish light before the impending rain.

The thunder got louder and nearer, but only Steven seemed to notice. For the cast and crew were oblivious to the weather, immersed in their activities, prime age beings supreme.

“We should move inside,” Steven advised as he walked into the house.

The merry makers followed him into the house. Wrigley hurried to shut the doors and push their brass steel floor locks into place. Steven sat back down on his parents’ rust sofa.

Wrigley looked at his phone. He was ecstatic.

“I checked your gram days ago and there was nobody. Now it’s exploding! I think they just love looking at me in your clothes. Okay let’s shoot something else. Nelson Brothers change into Steven’s pajamas! And put on his hunting slippers!” Wrigley said.

Brandon and Tyler stripped down to their underwear and changed into two vintage Brooks Brothers pajamas, one blue, one white.

Saira changed into Steven’s 1982 red flannel men’s nightshirt.

Steven spoke about his first sexual experience in the nightshirt as Wrigley recorded.

He recalled its quick sexual convenience, his first time wearing it, losing his virginity to Suzanne at her uncle’s condo in Northbrook, the easy way he could slip into the nightshirt with no underwear and fuck away on the fur bedspread at the brown-bricked Villas Salceda on Willow Road. He remembered the balcony that looked out to the artificial lake with the fountain, the mowed mounds of lawn, the parking lots sprinkled around, the spindly developers’ trees that never grew up, the lifestyle of the 1980s: malls, office parks, tennis, movies, sex anytime.

As he talked, the Nelson Brothers and Saira Pirie came and sat on the couch, next to him, intimately, suggestively, looking at him as he commented on his 40-year-old carnal milestones.

The young, gathering on the couch, talking sex with the old teacher, it was salacious, exactly what Wrigley wanted.

The rains came, the thunder and lightning exploded, the showers pounded the glass doors. To the English professor pathetic fallacy had joined the party.

Now was that seminal Midwestern moment, that great cleansing glory in the storm’s release, that summer moment when the temperature drops and blood pressure rises through anticipation and fear; fear of hail and lightning; fear of tornadoes knocking over trees, shattering windows, ripping off roofs, hurling cars through the air; storms of decapitation and electrocution, bodily injury and death; storms to hide and cower from, storms like this.

The players watched the weather, went back to their phones. Wrigley shouted to get back to shooting.

He fetched an ancient bottle of English Leather cologne, buried inside its original wooden box. He opened the fragrance and splashed it over the Nelson Brothers to elicit their reaction and revulsion.

“That shit is nasty!” Brandon said.
“Professor, you say you wore this back in the day?” Tyler asked.
“Yep. We thought it was sexy,” Steven said.
“Cheap and trashy, smell like a whore’s bedroom,” Brandon taunted as he stood up and unbuttoned his pajama top and threw it on the floor. Tyler grabbed the English Leather and doused it onto his brother. Wrigley’s phone captured it all.

“No way. Nigger get that off me! You a dumb fucking nigger piece of shit!” Brandon screamed at Tyler.

Saira laughed uproariously.

Steven stood up.

“Don’t you dare put that online with me in it!” he screamed.

He grabbed Brandon by the shoulders and shook him.

“Don’t ever say that word in front of me! Do you hear me? I despise that word, it’s the worst thing you can ever say. It destroys lives. When you speak it you bring calumny onto others!” Steven screamed.

He stormed out of the library.

“What the hell was that?” Brandon asked.
“What you said homie,” Tyler answered.
“The N word,” Saira said.
“What’s calumny? I need to swallow that word,” Brandon said.
“Why does that white ass fool care?” Brandon asked.
“Shut up Brandon,” Wrigley said.


The storm knocked the lights off and on. Wrigley left the room to find Steven.

Steven sat on the carpeted entry hall stairs next to the carved wood banister and newel post lamp.

Face down, hands behind head, all was quiet.

The weakening rains fell against the stained-glass Tiffany window emitting a dreary light onto the staircase.

He was tired and angry, enraged at these ignorant, reckless, careless youth who fired off words like deadly weapons.

This house added to his futility, for he found himself there without direction, recruited by an accident of fate and chance, a participant in juvenile nonsense, performed in his honor, disgracing his honor.

He laughed bitterly. He was played, again.

Wrigley came over and sat on the stairs next to Steven.

“Are you OK?” Wrigley asked, rubbing Steven’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m alright. I guess the Nelson Brothers hate me,” he said.

“No. The Nelson Brothers love me. And they love you too,” he said.

Steven told him about the incident that got him fired. Now Wrigley understood.

“Feel better?” Wrigley asked.

“Take my clothes and everything you bought and do what you want. But please don’t put me on camera. You don’t need to make me an internet star. You bought me out at the estate sale. That should be enough. Perhaps I need to go home now,” Steven said.

He stood up and stretched.

“Looks like the rain stopped. I might even walk home,” Steven said, peering out a front hall window into the clearing light and water dripping from the trees.

“Let’s go outside. This hall is haunted. This is where they carried my dead mother down the stairs for the last time. I never come in here,” Wrigley said.

They opened the front door to the freshness and stood out on the brick stoop between the two pots of drenched geraniums.

“My father and I chatted last night. He is worried about me. He and Julia want me to move to Singapore, to their mansion in Bukit Timah, and work in their property development company,” he said.

“Abandon Juicy Fruit?” Steven asked.

“Yeah. Give up production and become a responsible son. Wear a necktie and marry a rich girl and work for my father. I hate the weather over there. Julia is bossy. They both expect too much. I asked if I could stay here. He said he would consider it if I presented a plan. Father said education is vital. I suggested you as my live-in tutor,” Wrigley said.

“I would work for you? Become your personal tutor? How could I live on that hourly wage?” Steven asked.

“You’d be exceptionally well-paid. We are tragically rich. You could teach literature and writing. Maybe we could have classes outdoors, under the Basswoods, a few days a week. With my crew. I found a photograph. New Trier High School in 1950. Students and teachers studied on the lawn,” Wrigley said. He opened his phone to show it.

“I was planning to move to Tucson,” Steven said.

“Tucson is even hotter than Singapore. And the food isn’t even as good. Let me set up a Facetime with you and father,” Wrigley said.

With a potential job and his home empty, the plan to sell went on hold.

Steven found himself, like a royal, set up in a wing of the McCormick Mansion, in Howard’s bedroom suite with its own adjoining private library and gentleman’s bathroom of monogrammed towels, tartan covered toilet seat, and etchings of Scottish barons and noblemen.

He slept in the master’s bedroom for a night. He woke up and borrowed the master’s robe as he awaited a call from Singapore to discuss matters impending.

Wrigley knocked at 7am. He came in and put a cup of tea on the desk, opened the drapes, turned on the desktop computer in the adjoining library to connect his father and Steven, and left the room.

In the early morning light, the beaming, bald, smiling man in a dark plaid sports jacket and light blue shirt came up in living color.

“Good morning Steve! How are things in Evanston?” Howard asked.

His accent was familiar, like an old friend, flat, nasal, familial, true to Chicago.

“Oh, fine. Very kind of you to be so hospitable,” Steven said.

“My pleasure. My son is ebullient about you. And I am tickled pink. I’m a Northwestern man myself, on the board. I heard about your troubles. And my hearty condolences on your job loss. But I hope you will consider our offer,” he said.

“Go on. I’m open to ideas,” Steven said.

“Wrigley does not want to live in Singapore. I understand. My wife Julia is Straits Chinese, her extended family is here, our development company is here. It’s an adjustment. I can’t even legally chew gum here. Imagine a Wrigley under that law! Our projects take us all over Malaysia, Thailand, Brunei, Hainan Island, Bali and Vietnam. I haven’t been to Chicago in five years. And the goddamned property taxes ensure I’ll never move back. I need a pedagogical and parental rector for my son. I wish to assign his care to you,” he said.

“I am pleased Howard. But for how long? Under what conditions? Who will decide the curriculum? I only teach literature. That’s not a fully rounded college education for your son,” Steven said.

“I don’t want him in college. Ever. He’s not going to invent the grain reaper or start a theological seminary like his great-great grandad. But if he can write well and think logically by studying classic American writing, and he’s not exposed to all these leftist, multicultural, gender ideologies, he will have a free mind and a mind freed,” Howard said.

The proposal was for a year contract, $200,000 to teach Wrigley and his four friends American Classics. And to live, rent free, at the house. And to work three days a week, four days off.

The offer was irresistible, tailored to make it impossible to say no.

“Do you think, without having met me, without references, I have all the necessary qualifications?” Steven asked.

“Come now old sport. You are thoroughly vetted. Last year I told Wrigley about you and the cancel culture that came after your hide. Multiculturalism, leftism, racism, gender, capitalism, colonialism, diversity, patriarchy, heteronormativity, LGBTQ. These crazies only teach victimhood. I’m fine with my son un-polluted by modern radicals who run these schools,” he said.

“I thought your boy followed me on Instagram because he liked my 1980s pictures,” Steven said.

Howard laughed.

“If that’s what he told you, go with it. I’m the one who first heard about you last year. He probably looked you up and got hooked on your fashion. He’s got that influencer business and I think he’s determined to be the next Ralph La Wren or Paris Paltrow.”

“Can I think it over and give you an answer in a few days?” Steven said.

“Of course. My chief concern and my constant worry is my son. I fret that he will turn on, tune in, drop out in that Timothy Leary way. Drugs, moping around, self-destruction. I won’t have it!” Howard railed.

“I can assure you he is not on that path. He’s very industrious and self-directed,” Steven said.

“I will give him freedom only if he obeys my rules. That’s what they do here in Singapore. I’m trying to be a responsible long-distance parent. Please help me, Steve,” he said.

The screen went dark. Only the halo of his words remained.

Howard had supported the Professor because he saw a fellow dissenter, an antagonist fighting political correctness, an insurrectionist whose teaching of old, white, male writers was anathema to the progressive sanctimony of liberals.

Steven never aspired to ideology, he really did not have a side, yet, once again, a faction had chosen him as their representation of their ally or their enemy.

Through Wrigley’s embrace, Steven had gone on a brief hiatus, escaping the debacle and the shame, reappearing as an old version of his young self, a 20-year-old preppy with great hair, in Brooks Brothers clothes, all hope and potential vested in him.

He was a student again, in changed and charged times, embraced by the young for a strange reason: his sartorial style. But his ascension to deity was accidental and artificial, so he pondered leaving, rejecting Howard’s generous offer.

But tethering him to stay, to accept Howard’s proposal, was young Wrigley, another victim of circumstance, manipulated by parent.

Steven recalled how the approval of a parent was the foremost pillar of self-esteem or the foundation for futility, resentment and bitterness.

Here was an opportunity to correct Steven’s mistakes by freeing Wrigley from parental entanglements to pursue his own path.

Wrigley made Steven feel better, wanted, redeemed, that too was inarguable. Not a son, not a friend, not a lover, not anything one could name, yet from the time he walked up the driveway he brought hope and transformation.

Steven was made a hero through an accident of Instagram, put on a pedestal by McCormick, father and son, who built him back up into paternal, pedagogical, and ministering roles.

“Well?” Wrigley asked, biting his lower lip, fists clenched.

He stood in the bedroom doorway, in Steven’s light blue cable knit sweater and gray New Trier sweats.

That was the sweater Steven wore on that day in 1988 when he told his mother he loved acting, wanted to make a career of it and she told him it was killing his father, he had to quit, get a master’s degree or a real job, so he weakly capitulated.

That sweater had shame and surrender in its fibers yet worn by Wrigley it was cleansed in forgiveness.

“I like your dad. I think he’s concerned. But I think you and I should do what we want. And I want to teach, and you want me to teach, and this could be fun,” Steven said.

“Hooray! I’m so happy!” Wrigley shouted and ran into the room and threw his arms around Steven. And then broke into sobs.

The professor found his face buried in the wool sweater, a pounding heart, warmth and gratitude, held in the arms of one who needed love and guidance.

“Oh, thank you. You are saving me. I don’t want to leave Evanston! I have been praying for this. You won’t leave me alone in this house. I need you. And this is the greatest gift. You will stay here, in father’s room, won’t you?” he said.

“Yes. I have to. No furniture at my old house. No clothes either. I have one favor to ask of you,” Steven said.

Wrigley waited.

“Take me off social media. I want to live for myself, without sharing it with the world. I want to walk in the rain, eat warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream, and never post about it on Instagram. I don’t want strangers to comment, condemn or control. Nothing is more precious than privacy and freedom and they go together. When you give up privacy, you give up freedom. In time you will understand,” Steven said.

“Yes, yes. Delete! Delete!” Wrigley said.
“My only hope of escaping death is to get offline,” Steven said.

“Let’s go out and get breakfast. Walker Brothers on Green Bay Road. I’m starved for pancakes. I’ve been so worried. And now it’s just utter relief. Have you had their German Pancakes?” Wrigley asked.


One by one Steven wiped away all presence of his online life. He took down Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and Flickr. It was liberating, walking into enlightenment, freed of ignorance and prejudice and all the harm and stupidity of virtuality.

The morons, who counted their wisdom by counting followers, were all banished to hell.

He paid a service, ClearName, to clean up his reputation, and all the hateful online commentary about Professor Steven Goodman went missing.

He put his house on the market and sold it in a few days to a young Korean American family.

Freed at last, he walked out of the ranch house for the last time and rode his bicycle down Lincolnwood Drive, and pedaled out of the neighborhood forever.

There was now a healthy amount of money in his account from his $476,000 house sale, a $3,800 a week teaching salary, rent-free accommodations, and his retirement investments.

No longer constrained by the rules of school administrators and post-modern censorship he could teach as he wanted.

He chose Elizabeth Spencer’s short story, “The Business Venture”, a tale set in a 1970s small Southern town riveted by racial fears and sexual promiscuity.

In the tale, Eileen, the protagonist and narrator, is a young white woman, recently married, who describes the promiscuity and casual sex of her husband Charlie who sleeps with Nellie Townshend, an unmarried white woman who owns a dry-cleaning business with Robin, a Black man.

But the town scandal is not her promiscuity, or Charlie’s, but the fact that Nellie has a close professional and business relationship with a Black man.

Steven and his students discussed Spencer’s story, as they sat on the grass, under the trees, just like Alfred Eisenstaedt photographs of New Trier High School in 1950.

Photo: Alfred Eisenstaedt, Life Magazine, 1950.

To Wrigley the South was like his father, cordial and polite but full of hate. The Nelson Brothers wondered how Black people like them put up with treatment from white folk, how they kept their rage under control while enduring dehumanization and cruelty. Saira Pirie thought modern day America had progressed even as racism persisted. Others disagreed with her, but everyone spoke their mind respectfully without fear of offending.

They read and quoted that noxious word which described Black human beings, but they did not recoil from that word but understood it as a gruesome part of language that had to be spoken in an honest confrontation with the American experience.

Before enrollment, all had signed a contract with Steven in which they agreed that what they said would stay within their “classroom”. They would not post about Steven’s class, or him, or discuss any of it online.

Their protected, private discourse would open their minds to explore the world in a way that the internet had denied, that social media-controlled schools would never sanction.

Thanksgiving was nearing, they had just finished reading Lorraine Hansberry’s “Raisin in the Sun,” a play about a Black family in segregated Chicago who buys a house in a white neighborhood, igniting family conflict.

Steven Wrigley, Saira, Dylan, Tyler and Brandon went for a drive in the Buick LeSabre on a field trip to the city.

They stopped first at the University of Chicago, near 55th and Drexel, to hear the story of the Manhattan Project, where on December 2, 1942, Enrico Fermi, Harold C. Urey and Leo Szilard built a radioactive pile that yielded the first nuclear chain reaction.

“Do you know what month and year the United States dropped two atom bombs, one on Hiroshima, the other on Nagasaki, effectively ending WWII through the surrender of Japan?” Steven asked.

There was dead silence. Nobody knew.

They went for a walk along historic Greenwood Avenue, past the Obama Family Home, which the future president and his family purchased in 2005.

They walked to Frank Lloyd Wright’s Robie House, a premier example of prairie architecture, and they strolled into the University of Chicago down to the Midway Plaisance, designed by Frederick Law Olmstead in 1871, the year of the great Chicago Fire.

The students were impressed with the Gothic buildings on the campus.

“It feels like England,” Dylan Wieboldt remarked.
“Harry Potter!” Saira said.
“Yes exactly!” Dylan said.

Steven educated them on some ugly history.

In the 1920s and 30s, the school had barred Black students from living on campus, Black fraternities were illegal, even the barbers in Reynolds Hall refused to cut Black hair, and as the Black area expanded, the school furiously bought up private properties around the campus to preserve it as a white enclave.

They finished their walking tour at 6140 S. Rhodes Ave.

Here, in 1938, Carl Augustus Hansberry, father of 8-year-old Lorraine, purchased a house in the white section of town, an act which brought out violent mobs. He fought for his family’s right to live here, to own property in spite of racial covenants, a case which he eventually won in the Supreme Court of the United States.

The fiction class took their history class on location. And, abiding by their agreement with Steven, nobody took photos, nobody posted on Instagram, they just listened and learned.

“This is torturous, having my phone shut down all afternoon,” said Brandon.

“Nice photos all around. But we have to go cold turkey,” Tyler said.

“No exceptions?” Brandon asked.
“Nope. Honor your agreement. Keep your word,” Steven said.
“Harsh!” Brandon said laughing.

They ended their adventure with a walk across the Michigan Avenue Bridge over the Chicago River. The festive season was here. Up and down the boulevard thousands of white lights bedecked the trees in a magnificent display of civic grandeur.

In the cold dark night the electric lights shone all around.

The white terra cotta of the Wrigley Building was illuminated in its ornate, classical glory, shimmering in the sky, across from the Tribune Tower, another lit up landmark erected in the early 1920s by publisher Robert McCormick, Wrigley’s relative, a conservative isolationist who was also a free speech champion and founder of the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern.

The students and the professor huddled on the sidewalk bridge over the Chicago River. Steven told them how engineers had reversed the flow of water so sewage from Lake Michigan would go into the river and keep the drinking water of the lake clean and pure.

Two cops on their beat walked past and the Nelson Brothers moved aside to the railing to let them through, in tandem with fear.

“What are those two awesome buildings?” Wrigley asked, pointing to the two which gave him their names.

“Name them,” Steven said.
“I haven’t a fucking clue,” Wrigley said.

“These are yours! These two crowning structures, erected by your ancestors! The Wrigley Building and McCormick’s Chicago Tribune! Didn’t your father ever bring you here?” Steven asked.

“He was afraid to walk downtown,” Wrigley said.

Emma

“Emma from the Shorefront Legacy Center called me,” Wrigley said.

“Who?” Steven asked.

“They record, document, and archive Black history in the North Shore. She wanted to meet me, and invited me to her home. Weird. She said my family and hers are connected. Can you go with me? Impart your academic credentials?” he asked.

“Do you think it’s about me? My classroom scandal?” Steven asked.

“The n-word meltdown? I don’t know. She sounds old, like she wouldn’t know how to use the internet. She lives in West Evanston near Church St. practically in your old hood but on the Black side of town,” Wrigley said.

Steven seemed worried.

Wrigley looked online.

“It looks like they are involved in that reparations movement. Probably angry about my family. My mom’s grandfather was a bank president. He kicked Blacks off this very street in the 1920s. He built houses for rich whites on land they confiscated from Blacks. Pushed them all over to that area near the sewage canal,” Wrigley said.

“And you inherited a mansion. Funny how events from 100 years ago benefit you today,” Steven remarked.

“I know. I’m kept alive by enterprising, devious, exploitative, bigoted robber barons and their spoils,” Wrigley said.

Steven was lost in thought.

“We once knew an artist, Emma Floyd, who lived nearby. She was a friend of my father’s. Beautiful Black woman, stylish, artsy, painted. She had a little boy I played with a few times. Then we stopped visiting, I don’t know why. I don’t think she could still be alive,” Steven said.

“Let’s set something up. You can borrow one of your tweed jackets to make you look more professorial,” Wrigley said.

They sat in the blue walled living room of the little ranch home on Leland Avenue, like the one Steven grew up in, a yellow brick number with a postage stamp sized lawn.

On every wall hung framed art, Modigliani like portraits of Black men and women, painted 60 or 70 years ago.

Sprightly, trim, 88-years-old, Emma Floyd carried herself like a ballet dancer, serving beers on a silver tray, set out on a spider legged brass coffee table.

On either side of the plastic covered tan sofa were two dark green table lamps on blond wood tables stacked with books.

Wrigley and Steven waited politely as she flurried about. Then she carefully sat down in an armchair.

“For a long time, I wanted to tell someone who made movies about my life. And then I found you, Dear Wrigley,” she said.

“Crazy. How did that happen?” Wrigley asked.

“I was looking online for the mailing address of my friend Millie who lives in an assisted living facility on McCormick. That’s McCormick, the boulevard, not you,” she said.

“I understand,” he said, suppressing laughter.
“I do know how to use a computer,” she said.
“Of course you do,” Wrigley said.

“When I moved back to my hometown with my boy Andy, it was right after King died ‘68 or ‘69. We were down in Hyde Park and I loved it, with the art community, music, university and the creative fervor of that time. But then things got chaotic, burning down, riots, so I moved back here. And I became a quiet, studious mom and librarian in Evanston. Yet I never quite stopped hating this hypocritical town,” she said.

“You grew up here?” Steven asked.

“Yes. My parents came up from Clarksville, Tennessee during the First World War. Papa had a successful plastering business here. You know they built a lot of houses in the 1920s. He built us a house a few blocks from the lake. We were doing well, this was before I was born, so I heard. Then Evanston came and rezoned our land for commercial buildings. Black families were only allowed to live in the 5th Ward. My father paid $130 and they moved our house over here where there were unpaved streets, far from everything, near the sanitary canal. No water, no electricity, that came later. But my father never recovered. The Depression came. No business. He drank. We had no money. We had to take in colored soldiers and students for rent. Excuse my outdated words, I’m just going back in time,” she said.

“This happened to your family, here, in Evanston?” Wrigley asked.

She nodded yes. She put on her glasses and read from a printed document.

“According to my research, Wrigley’s great-grandfather on his mom’s side, John F. Hahn, was Evanston City Clerk from 1899-1925. He was president of Commercial Trust and Savings Bank of Evanston. Not only did he facilitate discriminatory zoning laws but his bank financed many Black homeowners and charged us higher interest rates for inferior housing. He was a man responsible for herding us into a zone. And ripping us off when we could least afford it,” she said.

“What can I do?” Wrigley asked.

“Just listen and learn,” she said.

“I went to Foster, a segregated school. In the 1940s, they wouldn’t let Blacks into theaters, stores, restaurants, even Marshall Fields was off limits. We had our own YMCA. We had our own hospital, our own doctors! Apartheid, here! Can you imagine an intelligent, exploring, curious, questioning child like me coming up against a system of hate like that? After we just won the war against Nazism? Why even Black soldiers and their families were kept out of houses built for all GIs in Evanston,” she said.

“I never knew this,” Steven said.

“I loved painting. Moved to Hyde Park. I exhibited at 57th Street Art Show for 20 years. I was very pretty. I was independent. I did what I wanted. Then I met a man at the art show. He was a German Jew, blue eyed, sensitive. He painted, he was well-read, a pianist. We fell in love. But it had to be secret. He was married. Then I had a child named Andy with him. And I moved back here to be closer to him. Isn’t that a story?” she said.

“Was the man you loved Gene Goodman?” Steven asked.

“Yes. And so here we are. I am Gene’s mistress. Or maybe I’m just forgotten, or perhaps I will die and nobody will care about anything I have accomplished or endured. That’s why I need a movie” she said.

Wrigley clenched tightly Steven’s hand.

“Did you know Gene was my father? Or that I would be coming here today?” Steven asked.

“How would I know that? I saw your car outside and it was just like one Gene drove. I thought it was my old mind playing tricks, because sometimes he would come here on the pretext of fixing my plumbing and we’d be together, Sundays usually. You must have come here too, a couple of times,” she said.

She opened a photo album and showed the men a photograph of teenage Andy, about 16, an athletic boy with blue eyes, curly light brown hair, milk coffee complexion.

“Handsome boy. Where does he live now?” Wrigley asked.

“Live? He was killed. Shot dead after he raked the leaves in the front yard. I had been on him for weeks to tidy up the garden. Halloween 1990. All the fallen leaves were tied up in plastic bags, and he put them up along the curb for trash collection. A car drove by for no reason shot him in cold blood,” she said.

“Did they catch the killers?” Steven asked.

“Yes. It was bad people who hated him for looking white. Andy wasn’t white. Not really. The ache of it. My child was taken. I don’t know how to talk about it. I should have taken my last breath a long time ago. Just to get some peace and rest. Can I get you two more beers?” she asked.

The second round of beers were not refreshment but sedation.

After meeting Emma, Wrigley found another vocation.

Juicy Fruit Productions went into documentary film production.

The subject was the life of Emma Floyd.

Emma came to the mansion with mountains of scrapbooks, photo albums, diaries, family movies. These were added to the already existent Goodman Collection. Connections were established with the Shorefront Legacy Center, and the Evanston History Center.

The Nelson Brothers, Dylan Wieboldt, and Saira Pirie were now $1200 a week segment producers.

They amassed oral transcripts of Black residents, many now deceased, who spoke about their lives in 20th Century Evanston. B-roll was shot, all around Evanston, and once the police were called when the Nelson Brothers walked Sheridan Road shooting video. But they had business cards from Juicy Fruit to show cops so they were left to wander like free people.

The life of Emma coincided with the 1950s jazz scene, she had worked at the Blue Note, knew and befriended Sarah Vaughan, Dave Brubeck, Charlie Parker, Oscar Peterson, George Shearing. She dated singer and bandleader Billy Eckstine.

There was music to license, for surely it also had to be in her film.

Wrigley hired a production accountant and editor.

He set up $500 a month donations to Shorefront to cement goodwill and cooperation.

With money all things are possible.

For Steven, the revelations about his father and Emma were startling, yet strangely comforting.

His father was more human than he knew, less severe and dogmatic, open to vice, pleasure, sensuality, danger. The autocratic and prescriptive Germanness defanged; replaced with tenderness, adventurism, romanticism, repainting Gene into a man of love and nonconformity.

But Steven mourned for Andy, a brother he never knew, a younger sibling who lived only blocks away, who might have lived on the other side of the world, who died before Steven could know or love him.


He and Howard Face Timed, their first meeting in many months.

Howard’s face was even redder, his mood even brighter, his talk more emphatic, garrulous, sparkling, enthusiastic.

“Hello from Taman Plastik! Yes, we are here on an island, on the east coast of Malaysia in the South China Sea, with beautiful coral reefs, beaches and tropical sunshine. Don’t mean to torture you enduring late winter in Chicago!” Howard said.

“Are you there on holiday?” Steven asked.

“Oh no. Our company is building a resort property here. It’s going to be gorgeous: five-stars, gourmet food, three swimming pools, shopping mall, championship golf course, brand new highway from the airport, all on an ecological preserve with indigenous plants and native creatures. As I finish my almond croissant, I’m watching FedEx deliver two handcuffed orangutans,” he said.

“Sounds marvelous. I wanted to ask you about my contract. What is my role now that your son is producing a film? Should I stay on? Do you want to pay me as an advisor or in some capacity?” Steven asked.

“Absolutely! You are the force behind this project. I’ll keep paying you for at least 12 more months. Wrigley must finish what he’s started, and you need to manage or cajole him! It’s going to be quite a story” he said.

“This dynamo was a gorgeous artist, jazz aficionado, painter, sexpot from the 1950s. And your father and Emma, well, that’s quite a story,” he said.

It was jarring to hear a family secret, punctuated by tragedy and loss, aired so glibly.

But that was Howard, a promoter.

Steven was pleasantly surprised at Howard’s reaction to a documentary exploring a Black woman and her life within the prickly confines of race, segregation and Evanston history.

“I think you have to stress the positive changes for the Black people in Evanston. They got a raw deal, that’s for sure. But we live in different times. This movie is going to create a new image for West Evanston, always a shitty part of town. I think you have to get Michelle Obama and Oprah Winfrey and the big money in Chicago involved. Promote the film online,” he said.

“Do you know Michael Sacks, CEO Grosvenor Capital Management? Graduated Niles West, lives in Glencoe, worth billions. I’ve met him socially. He is a kind of force to get developers interested in that area, tear down the shabby houses, put up lofts, live/work spaces, glass towers, Starbucks, yoga and even a film studio. Evanston can work with private developers. Show it off as an example of how enterprise and innovation can transcend racism,” he said.

Steven listened in silence, aghast, then spoke.

“That’s where you’re wrong! It’s a marvelous story of endurance, determination and grit. You can either make it sad and nobody will watch it. Or you can jazz it up, pun intended, and make it a journey of hope and redemption with a happy ending. Because happy endings are the only endings that sell in America,” he said.

END