![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
just_cyd[with apologies to Jim Butcher, Karrin and Harry]
Being new to town is hard enough, not knowing how to get around or what intersections suck, or which bars to avoid should you have the misfortune of sporting a Yankees ballcap (or so I have heard). Trying to find a place to decompress, to not feel like any more of a freak than is visibly obvious takes time and a LOT of trial and error. Luckily, it's the late aughts, and the internet is a beautiful thing.
I passed Mac's place twice before I realized it was not at street level. They said it'd be hard to spot, but sheesh. It's down half a flight of steps, below the raised first floor of this unassuming brick city structure. The sign was simple, like it only meant to be seen by those who needed to see it. I was one of those people.
The subreddit mentioned the 13 tables arranged in a haphazard way while 13 ceiling fans spun above, while (you guessed it) 13 columns broke up sight lines, but my order-craving brain still cried a little. There were only a couple other patrons in the place, and if they looked at me as i descended the stairs, they didn't do it with their eyes. Normally, that'd freak me right the fuck out, but oddly enough, I felt myself starting to un-clench. just as I was about to hit the bottom step, the guy behind the counter catches my eye and stares for just a second, then looks pointedly at the brass plaque on the wall to my right: warning, not greeting.
"Accorded Neutral Ground"
I gave the man a small nod of acknowledgement and moved on to a table along the wall. That must be Mac, owner, brewer, cook, and man of no words, according to the redditors. I don't remember anything else they said, just that this was the place to go when the brain weasels got feisty. My brain weasels were ramping up for a rave, so this could be a long night.
I flopped into a chair and shrugged my messenger bag into the chair next to me; if people started coming in, I'd move it, but with three other people here, I did not feel guilty about claiming a purse chair. Back to the wall, entrance to my right, Mac to my left, I took a few long, deep breaths to try to calm the fuck down. There was definitely a vibe here, but not like anything else I'd ever experienced. The room I was renting gave off a forlorn, transient vibe, just enough to keep me seeking other places to be. Back home, even on a ridiculous cocktail of pharmaceuticals, I was going mad trying to find ways to slow down my brain and cosplay as a normie for even an hour at a time; a full 8-hour work day had become impossible. It took two full breaths to shake off that memory enough to register anything else. I'm still tempted to wonder what unprescribed pharmaceuticals could have done, then shake off that thought. At 7, two more people came in, and I perked up at the opportunity to see how things worked here. Whatever Mac was cooking up smelled amazing, but I'd rather die of starvation than do things wrong, so I rummaged through my bag as a cover for watching this Mutt and Jeff surreptitiously show me the ropes.
"Hey Mac," the tall, lanky dude said.
"Mrf," Mac replied with a nod less threatening than the one I'd received.
"Two steak sandwiches and two homebr--"
"I'm on duty," called the other, a compact woman who looked like she would kick your ass before she ever went shoe shopping with you.
"make that two steak sandwiches, a homebrew and a diet Coke," the guy corrected.
"Mrf," Mac acknowledged with a slightly different inflection, and the guy sat down with the woman. It didn't register how tall he was until he had to fold himself up like an umbrella just to sit down; his friend's feet barely touched the ground. I had to stifle the knee-jerk laugh reaction with coughing, but I think it was actually convincing this time.
Notebook and pen rescued from my bag, I began scribbling while also playing that game of "are they or aren't they?" with the new arrivals. I've learned to brain dump out my hands via writing, while partitioning my brain to allow a small part to engage in a little bit of harmless fun. Better out than in, I have to tell myself again and again. Thank Maude for dollar store composition books, because I'm burning through them at an alarming rate. While the output to notebook went on autopilot, I took another glance at this oddest of couples: He was nearly 7 feet, lanky AF, and wearing a leather duster in August. She was five foot nothing, solid but not bulky, definitely not a girly girl.
The arrival of their ordered food coincided with the growling of my stomach, and I tried to make my way to the counter to order without making a fool of myself in every possible way. There wasn't a direct route due to the table placement, and when I got to the counter, I realized there was no menu, no pricing, nothing. I could feel the bile rise up as a did my best to squash down the building panic.
"uh, hi. That smells really good. what they got," I gestured over my shoulder to Mutt & Jeff. "Can I get one?" Mac gave me a chin jut of acknowledgement, and my eyes shifted everywhere trying to figure out the next step in this. "Drinks!" I exclaimed a bit too loudly. "What do you have to drink? that isn't beer?" I asked a bit softer, apologetically. "Or caffeine, or ..." I trailed off, embarrassed. Fight or flight was entering the chat, and flight was going to take over. When I could focus my eyes again, Mac was looking at a cooler lit up with a small selection of commercially-available beverages. "Water," I said, at last. "I'll take a water," and grabbed one from the cooler.
I was so engrossed in the brain dumping that I never heard my food come up, so I was completely startled when Mutt brought it to my table. "It's all self-service; Mac is the only staff here. You'll need to bus your table when you're done," she said kindly, pointing to where they'd put their plates and the empty glasses. "oh, and you dropped this," she said as she handed me a folded piece of paper and turned to join Jeff at the door to exit into the night.
*****
I must've been hungry, because that sandwich vanished at an alarming rate. I'd say I ate it so fast I didn't taste it, but I can't taste things to begin with, so it's only a joke if you know the joke. *sigh* bombed another one. For the senses I did have operational, and partially engaged, the sandwich was amazing. The bun was fresh but not doughy, grilled on the inside and not so tough that biting through it was impossible. the steak itself nearly melted away, as did the onions fried with it. French onion soup in sandwich form? yes, please. I finally slowed down when there were two bites left, mostly to give everything a chance to hit bottom and then bounce back to my brain and (hopefully! please?!) register that I'd eaten. Sipping on my water, the note caught my eye and I finally thought to look at it.
"Thought you could use a break, so we got your dinner. Pay it forward. Call if you need to talk"
folded up with it was a business card for one Lt Karrin Murphy, Special Investigations, Chicago Police Department.
So she WAS a cop. score one for me.
But why would she want to talk to me? Or why would she want ME to talk to HER?
and before I could stop it, the brain weasels were off and running, disco balls and glow sticks and Red Bull, and everything I ever knew about breathing and sitting upright and passing for normal went out the window, and then everything went dark.
Being new to town is hard enough, not knowing how to get around or what intersections suck, or which bars to avoid should you have the misfortune of sporting a Yankees ballcap (or so I have heard). Trying to find a place to decompress, to not feel like any more of a freak than is visibly obvious takes time and a LOT of trial and error. Luckily, it's the late aughts, and the internet is a beautiful thing.
I passed Mac's place twice before I realized it was not at street level. They said it'd be hard to spot, but sheesh. It's down half a flight of steps, below the raised first floor of this unassuming brick city structure. The sign was simple, like it only meant to be seen by those who needed to see it. I was one of those people.
The subreddit mentioned the 13 tables arranged in a haphazard way while 13 ceiling fans spun above, while (you guessed it) 13 columns broke up sight lines, but my order-craving brain still cried a little. There were only a couple other patrons in the place, and if they looked at me as i descended the stairs, they didn't do it with their eyes. Normally, that'd freak me right the fuck out, but oddly enough, I felt myself starting to un-clench. just as I was about to hit the bottom step, the guy behind the counter catches my eye and stares for just a second, then looks pointedly at the brass plaque on the wall to my right: warning, not greeting.
"Accorded Neutral Ground"
I gave the man a small nod of acknowledgement and moved on to a table along the wall. That must be Mac, owner, brewer, cook, and man of no words, according to the redditors. I don't remember anything else they said, just that this was the place to go when the brain weasels got feisty. My brain weasels were ramping up for a rave, so this could be a long night.
I flopped into a chair and shrugged my messenger bag into the chair next to me; if people started coming in, I'd move it, but with three other people here, I did not feel guilty about claiming a purse chair. Back to the wall, entrance to my right, Mac to my left, I took a few long, deep breaths to try to calm the fuck down. There was definitely a vibe here, but not like anything else I'd ever experienced. The room I was renting gave off a forlorn, transient vibe, just enough to keep me seeking other places to be. Back home, even on a ridiculous cocktail of pharmaceuticals, I was going mad trying to find ways to slow down my brain and cosplay as a normie for even an hour at a time; a full 8-hour work day had become impossible. It took two full breaths to shake off that memory enough to register anything else. I'm still tempted to wonder what unprescribed pharmaceuticals could have done, then shake off that thought. At 7, two more people came in, and I perked up at the opportunity to see how things worked here. Whatever Mac was cooking up smelled amazing, but I'd rather die of starvation than do things wrong, so I rummaged through my bag as a cover for watching this Mutt and Jeff surreptitiously show me the ropes.
"Hey Mac," the tall, lanky dude said.
"Mrf," Mac replied with a nod less threatening than the one I'd received.
"Two steak sandwiches and two homebr--"
"I'm on duty," called the other, a compact woman who looked like she would kick your ass before she ever went shoe shopping with you.
"make that two steak sandwiches, a homebrew and a diet Coke," the guy corrected.
"Mrf," Mac acknowledged with a slightly different inflection, and the guy sat down with the woman. It didn't register how tall he was until he had to fold himself up like an umbrella just to sit down; his friend's feet barely touched the ground. I had to stifle the knee-jerk laugh reaction with coughing, but I think it was actually convincing this time.
Notebook and pen rescued from my bag, I began scribbling while also playing that game of "are they or aren't they?" with the new arrivals. I've learned to brain dump out my hands via writing, while partitioning my brain to allow a small part to engage in a little bit of harmless fun. Better out than in, I have to tell myself again and again. Thank Maude for dollar store composition books, because I'm burning through them at an alarming rate. While the output to notebook went on autopilot, I took another glance at this oddest of couples: He was nearly 7 feet, lanky AF, and wearing a leather duster in August. She was five foot nothing, solid but not bulky, definitely not a girly girl.
The arrival of their ordered food coincided with the growling of my stomach, and I tried to make my way to the counter to order without making a fool of myself in every possible way. There wasn't a direct route due to the table placement, and when I got to the counter, I realized there was no menu, no pricing, nothing. I could feel the bile rise up as a did my best to squash down the building panic.
"uh, hi. That smells really good. what they got," I gestured over my shoulder to Mutt & Jeff. "Can I get one?" Mac gave me a chin jut of acknowledgement, and my eyes shifted everywhere trying to figure out the next step in this. "Drinks!" I exclaimed a bit too loudly. "What do you have to drink? that isn't beer?" I asked a bit softer, apologetically. "Or caffeine, or ..." I trailed off, embarrassed. Fight or flight was entering the chat, and flight was going to take over. When I could focus my eyes again, Mac was looking at a cooler lit up with a small selection of commercially-available beverages. "Water," I said, at last. "I'll take a water," and grabbed one from the cooler.
I was so engrossed in the brain dumping that I never heard my food come up, so I was completely startled when Mutt brought it to my table. "It's all self-service; Mac is the only staff here. You'll need to bus your table when you're done," she said kindly, pointing to where they'd put their plates and the empty glasses. "oh, and you dropped this," she said as she handed me a folded piece of paper and turned to join Jeff at the door to exit into the night.
*****
I must've been hungry, because that sandwich vanished at an alarming rate. I'd say I ate it so fast I didn't taste it, but I can't taste things to begin with, so it's only a joke if you know the joke. *sigh* bombed another one. For the senses I did have operational, and partially engaged, the sandwich was amazing. The bun was fresh but not doughy, grilled on the inside and not so tough that biting through it was impossible. the steak itself nearly melted away, as did the onions fried with it. French onion soup in sandwich form? yes, please. I finally slowed down when there were two bites left, mostly to give everything a chance to hit bottom and then bounce back to my brain and (hopefully! please?!) register that I'd eaten. Sipping on my water, the note caught my eye and I finally thought to look at it.
"Thought you could use a break, so we got your dinner. Pay it forward. Call if you need to talk"
folded up with it was a business card for one Lt Karrin Murphy, Special Investigations, Chicago Police Department.
So she WAS a cop. score one for me.
But why would she want to talk to me? Or why would she want ME to talk to HER?
and before I could stop it, the brain weasels were off and running, disco balls and glow sticks and Red Bull, and everything I ever knew about breathing and sitting upright and passing for normal went out the window, and then everything went dark.
