The Chicago Handshake (and other portents of doom)

Des insists I am cursed. 

When I saw Wozni last night at Nisei, I told her Des’s diagnosis. Wozni, ever the optimist, suggested an alternative from behind bar. Fuck that, she said. You’re not cursed, Vic, you just have shit for luck. I asked her, what’s the difference? Wozni pondered the question, lifting her blue eyes skywards, past a strand of curled hair, finding inspiration in an overhead air-vent. She responded, saying, curses can be reversed, but yeah, there’s no fixing shit for luck. Relax dude, she said, you’re in for the ride. 

Wozni’s bar advice, if nothing else, is worth the trip to Wrigleyville. Last night, I did have rivals for her attention. She would leave my side to tend to other philosophically-thirsty souls upbar. but was never gone long. From afar, I could admire how deftly her tanned summer shoulders would backswing her arms’ reach to rear jean pockets for a bottle opener. Wozni could pluck the tops off an entire case of beer quicker than I could unfasten a bra. Not that everything need be a competition. 

What’s this?, I asked on one of her returns. A cure, Wozni said. For what?, I asked. For everything, she said. On the house. 

This cure was a Chicago Handshake: a drink combo comprising a beer & a shot. Technically, the pairing qualifies as a “boiler-maker” (1 shot, 1 beer), but not a “depth-charge” (1 shot dropped into 1 beer). The beer is Old Style, an ancient Chicago-brewed pilsner which tastes like a sweaty rag was left in the refrigerator overnight before being squeezed-out into rusty tin. It’s partnered with a shot of Malört, a Swedish liquor beloved by the most-unhinged Chicagoans for its bitterness and the resulting “Malört-face” seen in new initiates freshly arrived on the Chicago bar scene. Malört’s brand marketing leans-in with the diabolical legends of this pungent elixir: “These pants aren’t going to shit themselves”, one ad reads; “Tonight’s the night you fight your demons”, reads another. 

Wozni did not know I had been training for this moment for 7 months. Every day, building my immunity through incremental dosages of poison. Malört is not a taste you can acquire. No palette should ever be molded to accept this extreme bitterness as anything other than unpleasant. I believe drinking Malört is less about appreciation or pain tolerance than it is about embracing intensity. I drank the Malört casually. With ease. Without having to douse my head with Old Style sweaty pils. In doing so, I earned the respect of Wozni. 

See, Vic!, she said with her Midwestern smile, you belong in Chicago! She then added, you just don’t belong on a sailboat. 

The curse is reversed, though, right?, I said. Wozni asked, would you like more Malört to be sure? 

Nah.

So Vic…, she said, gotta ask, if Des thinks you’re cursed on sailboats, why would she invite you to go sailing? Good question, I admitted. Des is nervous about the social setting. It is her boss’s boat, which is why she is desperate enough to invite me along. I am to charm the crowd on her behalf. Naturally.

As Wozni checked the IDs of newcomers and poured a couple highballs, she nodded along to my explanation. She waited for me to finish before asking, but why do you feel obligated to go? You’re not trying to win her back, are you? Oh shit!, I said with startle, hell no! Because…, Wozni ignored the other patrons to focus on me. Because, if you are, you are going about it all wrong, Vic. How so?, I asked. You’re from Florida right?, she asked. Here in real America we have seasons. More than tourist season and hurricane hunker time. When did Des dump you?, Wozni asked. She didn’t…, I attempted to say. Fine…, Wozni shrugged, she didn’t dump you, she just really threw her bones into Cross-Fit. But when did she dump you, Vic? Wozni then answered her own question, saying while pointing at me, with Spring and the rising of the tulips. That is a classic post-hibernation move. Spring is Splittsville in the Midwest. In Spring, everyone is crawling out of their cave looking for a new scent, anything other than the familiar bear farts we’ve been holed-up with all Winter.

Speaking of, uh, how’s, your uh…?, I asked Wozni. How’s Grabowski? How’s who?, she asked. Chad, I said. Chad Grabowski, or, uh, whatever the hell his name is. Your fella. Wozni wasn’t amused. She opened a few beers to slide towards reaching hands and said, he’s good, he’s looking for seasonal work. I nodded at the thought. I hear Alaskan crab season is good money, I suggested. Isn’t that dangerous?, Wozni asked. Nah!, I said, no more than delivering pizza. If you’re delivering pizza in the Bering Straits. Wozni laughed. I will tell him that, she said. I will tell him: Vic – who he knows as the wiffle-ball strike-out chump of Ravenswood – says he should get fucked in Alaska. Yeah!, I said, definitely give him my regards.

After closing out someone else’s tab, Wozni returned to me with her point. What I am saying about the seasons, Vic: Spring is when couples break-up ahead of Summer Fling & Festival season. Then comes the Fall Harvest ahead of the Winter Hibernation. If you want to win Des back, you need to wait until the harvest season. That’s when ladies get most desperate for warm bodies. 

I am not trying to win Des back, I said.

Then why the fuck are you going sailing tomorrow?, she asked. 

mmm…

To prove I am not cursed, I said. Prove the Neverman name is not cursed at sea. Wozni shook her head, saying, I dunno, pretty courageous, bro. I laughed. My dad…, I said to Wozni, told me the only difference between courage and stupidity is with stupidity you don’t realize the consequence of your actions will be bad. With courage you do and still go forward. Don’t be a fucking hero was his message. Wozni smiled, I like your dad’s style. Anyway, pretty courageous, bro. But at least your curse is reversed. 

Right. My curse is reversed. Thanks to Wozni. Thanks to the Chicago Handshake. Nothing disinfects like Malört.

Curse is reversed is my mantra this morning as I stand on the docks of Belmont Marina. Des has me dressed for the part: polo shirt, chino pants, sockless boat shoes. I feel like a total twat. I am introduced to her boss. Harvey. Stone jaw, frosty hair, strong shake, nice golf handicap. His golden wife is indistinguishable from his golden daughter, both present in their matching bikini tops held aloft with supplemental perkiness. Harvey’s boat is named Tip of the Sandberg. It is a reference to the great Chicago poet, or… maybe the great Chicago second baseman*. I am not sure which. And, of course, the boat’s name is a play on words bringing to mind the Titanic. What could go wrong?

Dressed in their country club swim attire, a few of Des’s dreaded coworkers are already on deck. Walking the gangplank, Des & I are directed to where we can sit on the boat with our cooler of cold Modelo cerveza. We are both surprised to see Nicki onboard. Des releases a chirp of joy atypical of her. Over the last two years, Des & I have been regular patrons of Gio’s in Ravenswood: a bar kept by Nicki & Wozni. It is a pleasant surprise for Des to see a friendly face on this networking cruise. In Nicki, she has an ally. 

I heard you were at Nisei last night, Vic, Nicki says. I must have just missed you! Oh…, I say. Des overhears and is quick to ask me, since when do you hang-out in Wrigleyville? Des is expecting an answer as I search my mind for plausible reasons. Nicki, quite matter-of-factly, answers for me, saying, oh y’know Wozni is working there now… Des forces a grin and says, of course… Wozni is working there now. These are the last words I will hear from Des for a while. Her discovery I’ve followed Wozni around the Northside is enough to resurrect long-dead arguments and reinvigorate dormant suspicions. 

Do I give a shit? Not really. But the tension is dense enough to tilt this boat. Des’s orthodontist would not like the look of this face. She only loosens her jaw to subconsciously chew her freshly manicured nails. 

The Tip of the Sandberg leaves the marina and heads east into the heart of Lake Michigan. It is a gorgeous day. The sky mimics the deep blue of the water. Winds are favorable. Des is glowering. For the first 30 minutes of the cruise, we are no more than two silent observers to the dull meandering conversation of West Chicago Suburbanite Yuppies. Des has only taken one sip of her Modelo and trades with me when mine goes empty. Say something, she urges with clenched teeth. How’ve you been?, I ask her. Not to me, jagoff, Des hisses. Talk to them. Get drunk. Not full Harry Cary, but drink faster. Be personable. Say something to Harvey. That’s why you are here, she says to remind me.

I turn to my other neighbor on the port side, saying, y’know what?, on second thought, I will take you up on that shot of Malört. 

Freshly Malörted, I look towards the captain. We make eye contact. He lifts his bottle of Goose Island IPA towards me. I raise my can of beer back at him. Tell me, Vince, Harvey says. How did you meet Des? “Vic”, I say to correct him. Ahh, yes…, I smile and turn on the charm, how’d we meet? I joke, saying, I saw her at a pool hall where she was ducking my stick. No one laughs. It’s okay. I joke, saying, as a man who studies horology, I took one look at Des and decided to ask her what time it is. No one laughs. It’s okay. I joke, saying, when I learned her name was Desdemona, I asked if she was named after the third moon of Uranus. No one laughs. It’s okay. I joke, saying, it turns out, the third moon of Uranus was named after her! Harvey cracks a smile. No… Harvey is just picking a bug out of his teeth.

What is it you do for work, Vince? Harvey asks. “Vic”, I say to correct him. I tell Harvey, I am a freelance systems analyst. But my real passions are my academic studies. I happen to be Chicago’s foremost expert in 4th Crusade pornographic apocrypha, I say. I’m kinda joking. No one laughs. I explain the joke, saying, “apocrypha” is the marginalia monks draw on the edges of bible pages. Drawings of mostly bishops with boners. I’m traveling to Istanbul soon for research and will later publish my findings as a coffee table book, I say. Nicki gives a slight chuckle. Or maybe she coughed. Pollen is high today. 

Desdemona pinches the back of my arm and whispers, stop talking. 

Which is fine. The four Modelos I’ve drank this hour have bloated my bladder and it is difficult for me to continue being so goddamn charming. Well, I say, nature calls… I stand and wobble my sea legs towards the sailboat cabin where other passengers have entered to use the lavatory. I’m going to hit the head, I announce while thinking Captain Harvey must be impressed I can speak in nautical terms. 

Oh, Vince, no…, the captain says. The toilet is broken. Only the ladies should use it. Fellas piss off the stern, Harvey says. Off the stern?, I ask. Confused. Harvey nods and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. The stern is the back of the boat, he explains. I fucking know where the stern of the boat is!, not that I say this. Instead, I nod. Sure. Fellas piss off the stern. Naturally. I am from Florida. I grew-up on boats. I know how to piss off the back of a boat. I’ve been lost at sea. The Coast Guard had to rescue me & my dad in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico after a sailing trip gone awry. I’ve seen some shit. I understand the hydraulics of marine urination. This is all natural to me.

Okay, is all I say as I take a big step up onto the edge of the stern. There is a horizontal steel cable I can grab for balance. Hold tight, Harvey says as I find my footing on the ledge. If you fall, he says, it will be a while before we can turn around and pick you up. Yeah. Okay, I say. I don’t dare ask for the safety of a life vest, but the temptation is there.  

I remind myself: I am not cursed! Nope. Shit for luck, yeah. Malörted, for sure. But not cursed. 

Maybe jinxed.

The sailboat, Tip of the Sandberg, is currently headed northeast on a southwesterly wind, attacking the massive lake waves directly. With each wave the bow of the sailboat rises before falling into the deep troughs between crests. This pitching motion leaves my stern position rising & falling like a see-saw. I am gripping onto the steel cable with my left-hand, knuckles white with pressure. My right hand is responsible for fidgeting with the fly of my chinos. Behind me… immediately behind me, their seat-backs near the stern, their blonde pony-tails brushing against the back of my calves, are Harvey’s wife & daughter drinking mimosas as Harvey waxes philosophical about golf course etiquette, which he calls “fairway morality”. I could lean back and sit on Mrs. Harvey’s head, she’s so close to where I stand. 

I may not cursed, but my bladder is shy. Stage fright. Despite the pulsating internal pressure mounting, I cannot release. The piss has nowhere to go but up and I think I can smell it in my nostrils. This thought brings me a chuckle and thankfully, just enough distraction for me to release a brief stream. Left hand on the steel cable, my right positioning the line of fire in the direction of the city as I bob up & down & up again, I laugh at the thought… here’s another definition of a Chicago Handshake: me wagging around my manhood in the direction of skyscrapers. Ha. The chuckle relaxes my bladder and as the stern sinks into the passing trough, I let loose another stream. In trying to ignore the party behind me, my mind cannot think of anything but the party behind me. What a surprise to see Nicki here. I wonder if she will tell Wozni she saw me. Tell Wozni my charming jokes. I hope Nicki understands how to convey the nuance of my humor. Too bad it wasn’t Chad Grabowski who made an appearance. I could have handed him the anchor and pushed him overboard. Say hi to Edmund Fitzgerald, I’d say to Grabowski. I laugh at the thought. Haha. Fucker. The relief allows me to release another stream as the stern descends & lifts, continuously pitching through my indecisive pissing. 

At this point, my bladder is half full. Or, if you are as optimistic as Wozni, my bladder is half empty. I’ve done enough. This is taking too long. I can save the remainder for pissing on dry land. Left hand still gripping the steel cable, my right hand begins repackaging my package and reverse fidgeting the fly back towards the sky. I look down to confirm everything is in its right place and… oh shit. Oh my god. Oh shit. I’ve pissed all over myself. My left trouser leg is a Jackson Pollock splatter. The fabric of the chinos holds the moisture unrelentingly and the contrast between dry leg & wet leg is profound. I am fucking cursed. 

Issue resolution is clear to me. I have to pretend to fall overboard. Harvey has already set the expectations. The stern is slippery. The seas are rough. I can’t forget the lake water is frigid and the phone in my pocket would be drowned, but so goes the consequence of my actions. They say pride comes before the fall. And whelp: I am too damn proud to be outed as a pant-pisser. Time to take a dive. If & when they pull me back aboard, my chinos will be thoroughly drenched. No sign of my crime. No one need ever know. 

The necessary decision to be made is clear. What is unclear is how I should best fake my fall from grace. And in the chaos of this faux-slip, ensure I do fall off the boat and do not fall back into the middle of the party. It’s one thing to look like a douchebag falling overboard, another thing to look like a douchebag who falls onto center deck with pissed-on chinos. 

A quick ballerina pirouette is in order I think. I will say, whoa! and just go for it. It is the courageous thing to do. Save Des’s reputation by risking my life, taking a dive into the drink. I’ll end up kicking off these fucking boat shoes. Dumb shoes. And if I get too heavy, I will slip out of these piss-stained chinos too. 

My decision is made. Until I think of my old man. The spectral voice of my father is in my head. Don’t be a knucklehead, he says. Don’t be a hero. What would a hero not do, dad?, I ask. 

Damn it. 

Holy shit!, I yell as I turn around to the crowd. My feet are sturdy. My yell is profound enough to draw everyone’s attention over the speakers blasting yacht rock. Their eyes on me, I announce, I have pissed all over myself!

Laughter ensues. It is brief. Everyone laughs at my piss-stained trousers before returning to their mimosas and side conversations. Very quickly, everyone forgets my ordeal. Everyone except Des. She is mortified. 

But, you know what? Sometimes it takes courage to not be the hero. 

Harvey calls over his son. Take the wheel, Harvey tells junior, nature calls. And Harvey goes into the cabin to piss in the head. As every fella onboard will do this afternoon. Every fella except me. Because I’m from Florida. Where we know how to piss off of the back of a boat.