Nothing could be beat out of Fire she’d just fight through. “It’s called safety,” she says.įire peeking through the windows. Did that make sense? I’m having a hard time articulating myself, I can’t find the words. When I was here, I felt like a citizen, of the city and of the bar. Did she know what I meant? I felt calmer there, and maybe a little hopeful-like Chicago, a city that could be so backward, could be as good as I thought it was. Now I’m telling her how I used to feel those nights at Big Chicks, how I wanted to become part of the place, to be bolted to the wall like the photographs. I tried to look tough, like I owned the place, like the floor was mine. I philosophized, drunkenly, that nobody gets to live with art like this nobody gets to flirt and make out and spill beer in a museum. I sucked on a cigarette (this was back when people still smoked inside) I exhaled on the Diane Arbus photograph above me. But at Big Chicks-and only at Big Chicks-a bear could not intimidate me. Sometimes it seemed like it was only bears in the place-muscle bears, cubby bears, ginger bears, otters.
Cruising the trans boys, the black girls, the grizzly raising eyebrows at me from the bar. I’ve been that boy leaning against the wall, lightheaded, cheap gin in my glass.
She trails off, but I spent ten years of the aughts going to Big Chicks-I can fill in the rest.
