Rossi’s is my favorite downtown bar. Location, price, and jukebox are just a few of the reasons for my dedicated patronism over the years. The weird smell, the women’s bathroom with a hit or miss toilet seat, the cash only policy, the receipts on post-it notes, the onsite liquor store and the free hot dogs at lunch time are all just icing on my cake of strange and wonderful alcoholics that come together every afternoon at 412 North State Street.
Rossi’s open’s at 7AM which is great and I can honestly say that I have been the first person served on many occasions but the 3PM crowd is where it is at and is when my love affair with Rossi’s began.
One particularly hard afternoon in the fall of 2008, I lied to my boss and said I had an offsite meeting. I guess, technically it wasn’t a lie since I was meeting – just with a pint glass and not a client. I wandered into the open door of what looked like a dark cave. The soft glow of Jeopardy playing on the 1985 rabbit ear televisions drew me in like a mosquito to a flame on a warm summer’s night. “Sacagawea” was bartending. I call him Sacagawea because, well, honestly, he looks just like Sacagawea. Tan skin, long black braid down to his moccasins, hates the white man… well… not that last one, but you get the idea. Its funny because he’s not actually Native American.
I place my cash on the bar. This is a place holder for all of you cash only establishment virgins. I order my draft beer. I take out my crossword puzzle and proceed to mind my own business. As I took my rightful place at the bar, I bellied up next to an elderly white wrinkly woman, a black man in a mailman outfit, a hippie at the end of bar, and an over weight middle aged white man in a suit and tie. As I sit and listen to the conversation around me, I realize that they are doing the exact same crossword puzzle as me – but together- and faster – and in pen. I knew I was home.
The first person I speak to is the lady. She is safe, smells like liquor and Noxzema, and reminds me of a crazy cat person. As it turns out, she is the “Gym Teacher”. She hates kids. She hates those fuckers. So bad in fact, that she after work, every day, she comes to Rossi’s and gets ripped right after school lets out. Once she gets up to use the restroom, the African American gentleman strikes up a conversation. First he warns me about the Gym Teacher. He wants to make sure that I don’t become friends with her because she is a tramp. His words, not mine- just in case she is reading this. He wants to know where I work. I lie. He wants to know where I live. I lie. I offer to buy him a drink and declines because he isn’t quite done with him mail route. That’s right ladies and gentlemen- he isn’t done delivering mail yet. He wants to get nice a toasty before having to brave the mean Chicago Streets of River North. This immediately makes me think of my handsome Hispanic mail man with the thin mustache and I quietly and quickly wonder if he is ever drunk when he is dropping off my fifth New York & Company coupon for the month. I am quickly brought back to reality when a thin crack head looking white woman storms into the bar screaming at Sacagawea. “My car was towed. My car was towed.” I think to myself- sheesh, this girl is pretty ticked. I wonder if her car was towed. Sac apologizes through his gap tooth smile and un-native American laughter. He offers to take her to the tow lot. With one crucial pocket dig, he places a set of keys on the bar and asks the middle age white man to watch the bar. He leaves.
By this time, Gym Teacher is already back from the bathroom and demands to know why she can’t watch the bar. I fight the urge to tell her that she can’t even watch teenagers for a few hours a day- how is she going to be able to handle to responsibility of a cash only dive. The middle age gentleman says that he is a lawyer (sounds made up) and this qualifies him to be in charge of the bar. He states that if he can get people off for murder, he can pour beer. I disagree but my name was Clemit and I wasn’t in it. Mailman verbally disagrees with Lawyer and now thinks that HE should be running the show. Hippie is in the corner still watching Jeopardy and saying the answers about a ½ a second after the answer is already announced an TV. I excuse myself to use the restroom.
While hovering over the toilet seat – not out of cleanliness, but because there really wasn’t any actual seat- I start to become concerned. Not about the children that are misguided by the drunk teacher. Not about all of the mail that isn’t going to get delivered. Not about the fact that “alleged” murderers are “allegedly” running free. While I do my final shake, I can’t help but think- “Now how the fuck am I going to finish this cross word puzzle?” What can I say? It was Thursday and those are the toughest.
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