The morning after found us in the Art Institute of Chicago. Towards the end of our time, I caught the woman who had brought me standing before a portrait. It was a portrait everyone looked at, and I was trying to find some hidden gem, among works that were all gems who had mostly lost part of their luster and most of the appreciation of their rarity since they were all gathered here under one place.

“I suppose you’ve seen this one too.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You’re kidding me? American Gothic, Nighthawks, the picture on the shore with the little girl that stares at you, and you never taken the time to look at this? This one is amazing.”

It was amazing. The paint was layered so thick it hung like flesh on the bone. There was a texture, a human texture to it, and it stood out from the stair-stepped frame that had brought you down to its surface. His cheek alone looked to rise half an inch from the canvass.

“I’m not even sure how long I’ve been looking at it. It’s got this background of colors that contradict one another, but somehow his image ties them all together. You can pick a hue from the background and look at him and find it every time. I can’t decide what it means.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I thought it meant we are all made up of all kinds of contradictions, but I wonder if he wasn’t trying to say that in our bringing them together we make some sort of sense of them.

Standing here, it’s like he’s going to come out of that wall or something. I think that’s the quality I most admire. I like the ones that make you forget it’s a painting.”

The past is present. People say you should “move on” or “let the past be the past,” but the past is present. Maybe all “moving on” is, is getting to a place where you can look at ourselves with nothing more than curiosity with which we look at them, divorced from all the intensity that was then.

We think forever is a series of nows without end; the present followed by an endless supply of the present. It’s so linear. What if forever is simply viewing past, present, and future, all at once?

Vincent van Gogh painted over 30 self-portraits. The Art Institute of Chicago lays claim to a self-portrait he did in the spring of 1887. Penniless, he could not afford to hire anyone to pose. Struggling, there was no one who would pay him to paint their own. To perfect his technique he scraped up enough to buy a mirror and use himself as a model.

He painted the image as he saw it, his right is actually his left. Surely he knew what he was looking at, but he did not seem to correct for it. Most of us stumble out of the shower, face the mirror, and never even consider that the right of our reflection is our left. Even in that most perfect reflection, we are not who we seem, and those around us stake a claim to seeing us better than we can see ourselves.

In his self-portraits, we see the artist as the artist sees himself and as he sees us.

“I strongly urge you to study portrait painting, do as many portraits as you can… We must win the public over later on by means of the portrait; in my opinion it is the thing of the future.”

-Vincent van Gogh to Emile Bernard

“I tell you, this road is an awful partner
Got me so strung out
I know you think that it’s just one big party
But that’s not what it’s all about.”

Earlier that night, inside Park West, the lights were hiply dim. Looming blue curtains against the far wall gave the anticipation that something big was about to be revealed. Nothing would come from behind them, however. Instead the show would take place in front of them. On the cusp of my 41st birthday, I had been a few years coming into the realization that was how life worked. It takes place right in front of you while you, mostly while you’re waiting for something else.
The top tier of the venue hosted a swanky bar, adorned with mirrors and cut glass that served to play with the limited light that did abide. A multitude of liquor bottles with their clear glass tops exposed looked more for decoration than they did for sale. The bartender and his dapper hair looked for show also, though they worked in unison to complete an order.
The middle tier held a series of trendy booths where the patrons could sit cozily, as though around a small, invisible fire which boasted just enough visible light to dab a little on the face of your companions. One more tier down and closest to the stage, were long tables which ran perpendicular to the stage’s curved front like spokes from an axis. We chose to sit at one of them.

The interior of a dome sat above it all and absorbed any renegade light which made it that high. A mirror ball hung unemployed in its center, though the top of it, due simply to it’s proximity, gleaned a little light with which to play. It sat above like a thought attempting to rise from the anxiety of the day. It seemed uncertain as to whether it would go on and break free or simply burst in effervescence.
In this city of 2.7 million people, a scant 500 might have been in the place. Most were probably there for the headliner, the son of a well-known country music star. We weren’t.
Neither was the man across from us. He too was here for the opening act, a female artist named Nikki Lane. His cuff was unbuttoned on his shirt and pulled up above his forearm, exposing the American muscle that fixed things and made them work. His brown hair spilled onto his denim blue shoulders, and deep creases marked his high cheek bones. His palm cupped a Coors Light bottle, his fingers wrapped around it, and his thumbnail traced the edge of the label it wore around its neck.
As Nikki took the stage with the rest of her band, she saw him and offered something of a girlish, southern grin and wave. He swallowed hard and nodded to acknowledge it, almost embarrassed, as though he was unaccustomed to something so gentle.

“Do you think that’s her Dad across from us?”

“It might be.” He seemed to beam with a certain look of pride.
It was as though the two of them, there in the semi-darkness in front of the blue, knew some secret everyone else in the place was merely guessing at. Quickly she turned and brought a hand up to furiously rub the side of her nose. The band settled into their places and she spoke to them only to fidget with her nose again.

When she sang, he sang too, in a voice so soft it was inaudible, which knew every word to come, as though he knew them long before she had wrote them down. On the streets outside, the same 2.7 million would give me the man little notice, but we did. We thought he was cool as fuck.

I come from Greenville, South Carolina. Not sure if you all know where that is or not. My father works road construction. I was a flag girl once, but I graduated to that machine that packs the asphalt in. My Dad always thought he was a song writer. In fact sometimes when I get in, he’s called me and left a message of him singing a new song he’s convinced will someday be a hit. Mostly I suspect he’s drunk.
When I was in ninth grade a teacher wrote on the board, “Complacency Kills,” and I guess those words just kind of bored their way into me and I sort of got carried away with that.
The voice she spoke with was a departure from the southern voice with which she sang and carried something of that southern sadness that has a tone just deep enough to know your secrets. The voice she spoke with was higher, sweeter, and bore a bit of pride in having come all the way from South Carolina. I don’t not know who the guy across from us was, but we decided it doubtful that it was actually her Dad.
My grandfather had promised me the car of my dreams when I got out of high school, but I dropped out early, and that car of my dreams went to his girlfriend instead, which left me with her old, busted-down Chevy Lumina. So I took it, put a trailer hitch on it, got a U Haul trailer, and drove the damn thing to California to make it big as a fashion designer. I’m still not sure who got the better end of that deal.
It’s all right. I don’t have the best luck with cars anyway. A matter of fact, I just wrecked my boyfriend’s, so he’s driving mine. Which, it turns out, really is the car of my dreams. It’s a beautiful, black Dodge Charger, and I think he’d really enjoy driving it except that I opted for the personalized plates and they say HWYQUEEN, and you know I think it’s really starting to piss him off.

When her set had ended, the headliner eventually came out to claim the stage. Nikki had previously sang a refrain about how, “forever last forever, until forever becomes never again.” With his bass player jumping around like Steven Van Zandt, the headliner condensed it to a refrain of his own “forever is just a four-letter word.” After a few songs we had all had enough. The mysterious stranger left, we left, and the dome above decided to fizzle after all.

On the way out, we passed the man in blue at the merchandise table, waiting to say “Hi,” looking as if he would patiently wait forever.

I had been trying to figure out just where that soft light was coming from. I suppose it was coming from a South Carolina girl who had grown up and had the courage to go out in front of a different crowd each night and lay her life on the line about the way things are instead of the charade of how we want them to be. Mostly it was for little more than the entertainment of strangers. Yet for some, for a brief while, Nikki Lane brought the sun.

https://youtu.be/b-m4N84clZU

The Uber driver ducked his car beneath the track of the El, which ran one block off Grant Park and right above South Wabash Avenue in downtown Chicago.  It was midnight when we stepped out into a light and cold November rain and tucked ourselves into the warm confines of Miller’s Pub.

She had never been, so I retraced my footsteps to a place I had been before.  I used to think places haunted us.  It was a silly thought.  They can’t.  We haunt them.

The long bar against the back wall was full.  Those who sat were interlaced with those that stood, all bound together in celebrating the accomplishments of the day, or the simple fact that the day was over, or simply because they knew not where else to go on a night that needed a little warmth.

“Can I find you a seat?” asked the hostess.

“Sure.”

“Two?”

“Yes.”

The next aisle back from the bar, which bowed around those it adjoined, hosted a series of booths.  “Will these work for you?”

“These will work fine.”

On one side of the aisle, closest to the bar, were a series of booths which sat two.  Across from them were ones that sat four.  She seated us in the latter.  Above our booth and those across the way rose a short partition decorated with stained glass in something of an argyle pattern that hemmed them in.

All the four person booths on our side were populated by couples, and each two person booths on the other side contained but a sole occupant.  On our side the couples drank.  On the other the individuals slowly ate the meals that had come from the late night kitchen, and sipped whatever the waitress brang them.  On our side was fast-paced chattering, loud laughter, or the quiet spoken words of concern.  On the other they took their time eating and seemed content.

“Oh my God, I love this place.  Have you been here before?” she asked.

“Once.  I wrote about it in an old blog post, ‘A Face in the Crowd.'”

“Was it a good one?”

“I don’t remember.  Parts might have been, and parts were probably shit.”

“It’s got such a warm feel about it.  It’s like it gives you a sense of…I don’t know…”

“Belonging?”

“Yeah.  Belonging,” she smiled.  Then she laughed.  “Look at this cocktail menu.”

“What do you think you’ll have?”

The excited eyes which scanned the menu came to a quick conclusion.  “I think I’ll try the P&P Daiquiri.  You?”

“The Blood and Sand.”

“Why?”

“It sounds both romantic and doomed at the same time.”

“Well, you’re certainly full of it tonight.  Should we get something to eat?”

The man across from us enjoyed his meal one bite at a time.  He had no phone he was looking at.  There were no televisions.  The meal and the noise around him was stimulation enough.

“I’m fine if you are.  I enjoyed the concert tonight and the trip here today.  I don’t know if anyone had ever done something like that for me on my birthday.  I do have a question though…”

“Shoot.”

“I didn’t think you cared for her when we heard her at Hinterland.  What made you get these tickets?”

She laughed.  “I knew you liked her, and we’ve talked for awhile about coming here.  It seems you enjoy this town.  It’s been twenty years since I’ve been here.”

“What did you think of the show?”

“I really liked it.  I think I understand why you like her.  She really is a good writer, isn’t she?  Between her and the act that headlined, there’s just no comparison.”

At Hinterland she had led right out with Highway Queen.  I thought it was a song about how she didn’t need anybody.  I just don’t buy that.  Everybody needs somebody, don’t they?”

“I think so, but people find that in all types of ways.  Sometimes just proximity will do, and sometimes, I guess, people find a having in the not having.”

“I realized tonight that so many of her songs are about trying to make a relationship work, that maybe I was hard on her.  Still, I’m not sure of what to make about Highway Queen.  What do you think it is about?”

“I don’t know.  Perhaps it’s about how we wind up taking too much credit for chosing the life we’ve been mostly left with by default.

I knew a gal in college, and she was in a BMG Music Club.  Remember that?  You bought once CD, and then you got ten more for a penny each.  They messed her order up, and she got a CD ‘The Very Best of Elvis Costello and the Attractions.’  She didn’t want it.  She didn’t want to send it back.  So I gave her a penny and I took it.

I fell in love with it.  He kind of had his own sound, like Nikki does.  On the album he had this song, ‘Alison.'”

“You played it for me once, remember?  It’s the song about the guy that is going to kill the woman he loves.”

I laughed.  “That’s right.  You picked up on it right off the bat.  I listened to that song a hundred times before I ever realized what he was singing about.  He sings, ‘My aim is true’ in a sort of sweet way, and I just thought he meant he had good intentions.

So you go on for awhile, thinking you’ve discovered the big secret behind the song.  Funny thing is twenty years pass, and you realize the song isn’t about that guy who is going to kill the woman he loves either.  It’s about how sometimes, if we aren’t careful, our pursuit of our best intentions kill what we love.

That’s good writing to me.  Hiding what it is about in plain sight, and rewarding us for sticking with it.”

“Well, you know what they say about the road to Hell…”

“That it’s a highway.”