THE DEADLINE CAFÉ EPISODE #10

Hank didn’t remember a lot about the party—that night when 29 people were snowed in at the Café. All he knew was, in the words of the salesman from Peoria, who (and Hank remembered this much) could play the blues harmonica like Junior Wells, God rest his soul, that it was “the best goddamned party any place, anywhere, anytime, man.” 

Near as Hank could tell, that one line told most of the story. But not all of it.  Stories come out in pieces, especially the best ones. Although Hank couldn’t remember much at first, he was told that he had danced with Lissa; hugged the Professor; sung with everyone as Mrs. Worthley sang the Marseilles, just like in Casablanca; shared a smoke with the blues guitarist who’d just finished a gig at the Omni; and saved Sherman from some Aussie bloke, who wanted to put the cat “on the barbie.”

He seemed to remember telling someone, “I love you.”  Was it that hottie from the Reference Desk at the Evanston Public Library?  Could it possibly have been that sylph from the Blossom 4 flower shop?  Or was it Lissa?

He could tell by the way Lissa was looking at him when they were waking up in the Café that morning after, slowly and groggily, that he must have said something to her, that warm glow in her eyes and the way she touched his forearm and asked him, “Honey, are you feeling better?” That was it. It was the “Honey” part. Something must have happened. But what the hell was it? On the other hand, Sherman was also looking at him quite fondly.

Hank surveyed the scene with a slow sweep of his eyes, like a general after a great battle. Some folks like the Whittler were still sleeping; others like Sergei, were putting their coats on, getting ready to brave the now waist-deep snow drifts—and then he noticed it: the tip jar was empty.  That’s just great, he thought. Real nice. Now we’ve got a thief, too.

Lissa, seeing Hank standing there, with that look on his face and knowing just what he was thinking, tapped him on the shoulder wordlessly, the slow way folks do if they’re hung over, and pointed to the wastebasket brimming over with dollar bills and Euros and heavy with coins. (Some guy from Winnetka even tossed in a Rolex during the party, but his wife made him come back for it. Hey, man, that was some party… Then he left a crisp Benjamin in its place and drove off in his Land Rover.)

**

So they made coffee and handed out cups with the “New Brew,” as they’d dubbed it the night before (that was another thing he remembered) to folks as they rose slowly from their blankets and cots, like zombies in one of those old 3-D horror movies.

Oakey toasted bread and warmed up some muffins and put out their best jams and preserves.  Lissa opened up the lox and cut them into small strips, some of which Sherman promptly appropriated.

As Sergei exited, an Evanston police officer entered.  Seeing him at the door, Jimmy Donut, who had just risen and was still in his long johns, ducked behind the counter.  No need to be seen by the officer whose job he coveted.

Hank skimmed the citation: “….reports of loud music and dancing in a Café near the corner of Sherman and Clark…serving alcohol without a license…drunk and disorderly…huge anatomically correct aroused snow-man with snow-woman, inappropriate, etc.,etc. …arrested elderly professor …lewd behavior…observed stripper on table top…wagering….cigarette smoking in a restaurant…harboring pets (cat) in a restaurant…and keeping a restaurant open past required city closing time, as per Evanston Ordinance….”

Hank signed the citation, the officer left, and Lissa smiled. 

“Look on the bright side,” she said.

“And what might that be?” asked Hank.

“We’ll, we’ve gone two days without getting one of those deadline notes.”