I’ve been something of a night owl this week. I feel like I’m an undergraduate again belting out pages upon pages into the early morning fueled by coffee and cigarettes. Last night, or rather earlier this morning, after 18 hours of writing and revising and researching, I closed the MacBook. It was 3am. I really wanted a beer to settle my mind. I was too keyed up to go to bed. A quiet beer and a short walk on a crisp night would do me some good. I knew of only one bar in walking distance that was open: The Oasis, a nosedive on Sheridan, just a few blocks up from Loyola.
So I went. I settled into a bar stool a few down from a group of Ethiopian guys who were ostensibly new to the neighborhood as they made numerous, non-drunken overtures to meet other patrons, asked for tips and recommendations of places to go, and earnestly chatted up the bartender. I kept to myself, as is my wont. Across the bar a small group of rowdy Loyola students were winding down their evening, including one young woman with striking features but an utterly terrible haircut. I want to be generous and think it was a wig she had to wear because she was on chemo or had a disorder of some kind but I really don’t think it was. Her hair was out of control. I don’t know the lingo for women’s hairstyles, please bear with me, but I think she had a bob on one side but the other was partially shaved about halfway up and the rest of it was slicked over to the other side. She looked like my barber had razored one side of her head with a number 2 and squared the sideburns. I know the look she was probably going for but it was just not working out for her tonight. Or perhaps her hairdresser is blind. Anyway, not to belabor the point, her hair was conspicuously odd, very odd, but I suppose that’s to be expected at 3am in a dive bar in Rogers Park, unica en su estilo!
Last call. I was finishing up my beer and readying to leave. The Loyola students were on their way out when one of the Ethiopian lads walked over and introduced himself to an African-American woman in their group. I didn’t catch all of it, tired and pensive as I was, but apparently she blew him off and he swiftly returned to his seat. Seemed harmless enough. All the Loyola students left except haircut girl. She stayed to chug the rest of her beer. Then she injected herself into the conversation the Ethiopian guys were having, crudely asking them, “Where are you from?” and “How long have you been here?” The guys took it very well, answered politely, and fired back similar questions at her. Being exhausted and fearing where this exchange might be headed, I expedited work on my beer.
“Italy.” She was Italian, probably Italian-American, but she definitely had the accent and she began busting out some rejoinders to them in flawless Italian (having dated an girl from Milan for a considerable stretch I know it when I hear it–Hi, Martina, Hi!). She downed the rest of her beer and then turned towards the door. Sensing the banter was over and she was on her way out, two of the Ethiopians jokingly shouted, “arrivederci.” The possibility of her leaving gracefully thus came and went.
She turned on her heels and walked back to the bar. She didn’t cut into them, as I thought she might, but instead casually brought up the matter between her friend and the Ethiopian guy who approached her. That guy magnanimously apologized for “being so foolish” and made light of how clumsy he is around women. His friends chimed in and I thought the whole scene would laugh itself out of existence. But this did not fly with haircut. Probably the rest of that beer just went to her head. She began lecturing them on how you do and do not approach American women, how it is different “over here” rather than “over there,” and a litany of other bullshit social norms dimwitted Americans—or drunken would-be dimwitted Americans from Italy—claim authority over when in the company of people just off the boat.
Haircut would not let up. She became increasingly belligerent and bombastic, and I feared she was on the verge of letting fly a racial epithet. The oldest of the three Ethiopians interjected. He reminded her, rather sternly, that they had already said “arrivederci,” asked her to go off and have a good evening, and in an effort to ameliorate the situation, he ventured an apology for the sour end to her evening in Italian. But even this was not appeasing enough. She grabbed her empty glass, told the guys to go fuck themselves, and then slammed the glass down on the bar sending suds flying into the air. I rolled my eyes and peered down into my beer. I had one gulp left. Just as I was drinking it the elder Ethiopian finally threw down:
“You are from where, Italy?”
“Yeah. I’m Italian. Thats right. Eat it. Fucking Italian, fuckers!”
“Yeah, well, we kicked your ass in ‘36! Your tanks, planes, worthless when facing our mighty bows and arrows! Ethiopia! Ha ha! You even had Hitler with you but couldn’t get the job done in poor little Ethiopia!”
“Fuck you asshole.”
“1936! 1936! 1936!”
She stormed off, tail between legs, much like Il Duce himself when he faced the Ethiopians 73 years ago. I damn near had beer coming out of my nose. Hilarious! As I left I stopped by the Ethiopians to say that I really appreciated their reference to 1936—I am such a nerd—and that I felt they diffused the situation admirably. Handshakes and smiles all around. Before going off into that good night, or this good morning, I shouted back arrivederci, sending everyone into stitches. It was 4am and The Oasis was closed.
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