Written by Dave Rowe – To pay the unreasonably high rent and put food on his bachelor table he’s at it seven days a week, some evenings, too. Tom Wilkes, tall, thin and ponytailed, is a barista at Effingham’s Starbucks; “barista” being a high-fluting term for server behind the counter. A break in the routine, however, is on its way – Tom is taking three days off.
“Three days off, man, what are you gonna do with that time?” inquires Mike Smathers, fellow latte mixer.
“I’m going up to Chicago; gonna see a concert.”
“Oh yeah, who’re going to see?”
“The Grateful Dead.”
“The Grateful Dead, you old hippie you. I thought their main guy Gersen or whatever kicked off a long time ago.”
“Yeah, you mean Jerry Garcia. He died around 15 years ago but the others, with the aid of a fabulous guitar player; still keep it going on occasion. This is part of a series of shows to mark their 50th anniversary.”
“Huh, well, to each his own. If I had three days off I’d go up to Champagne to see Shelia, she’s this sexy babe from college I keep up with. So when you go are you gonna take a guitar?”
“No, I’m not that much of an old hippie. What I’m gonna take is my Walkman – it’s a seven-hour bus ride.”
“A Walkman, huh? – somebody’s got to tell you this is the 21st century. You gotta get yourself an MP3.”
“I don’t know; music is music and I’m gonna take some good traveling stuff with me.”
In his apartment later that evening Tom is fussing through his box of cassettes. “Huh,” he says aloud to no one. “Jerry was in a bluegrass band before the Dead formed; why not this Flatt and Scruggs, then some Allman Brothers – along with the Dead, they‘re the original jam band.”
Tapes and everything else inside his battered suitcase, Tom is in bed by eleven but finds himself tossing and turning in anticipation. Finally it’s close to four so he gets up, fixes a cup of instant coffee and goes on his guitar. He knows several Dead tunes -”Friend of the Devil,” “New Minglewood Blues,” “Deal,” “Ripple” – and they all get thorough workouts. Before he knows it, it’s time to call a cab.
“So buddy,” asks the cabdriver in raspy tones, “where you headed out to on a hound this early in the morning?”
“Chicago.”
“So what’s in Chicago?”
“A concert – the Grateful Dead.”
“The Grateful Dead – I got a cousin that used to be one of the Deadheads – saw them something like 75 times. Christ.”
“For me it’s the third time – so what does your cousin do now?”
“He sells life insurance – he cut his hair and no one could recognize him.”
Tom lays out a five dollar tip and walks inside the Greyhound terminal, deserted except for an elderly black man sitting with his face buried behind a newspaper. The bus departs on schedule and in no time Tom is watching Effingham roll by, “Statesboro Blues” emanating inside his head.
Except for a longer-than-announced layover in a town up 57 known as Newton and a soggy microwave sandwich in Kankakee, the trip goes smoothly enough. Inside the bustling Chicago terminal Tom locates a line of pay phones and walks up to one. In his pocket is the scrawled number 647-9835, the number of Bill Flesco, a college friend. He places the call and gets an unfamiliar voice
“Bill – no Bill live here.”
“This is 647-9835 isn’t it?”
“Yes, but no Bill live here.”
Puzzled, Tom says, “Sorry to have bothered you,” then hangs up. He calls a cab and this driver, quiet, drops him off at his destination, the South Side Arms. It’s the cheapest place near Soldier Field Tom could find on the Internet and for $65 a night he isn’t expecting much. Instead of crumbling plaster and musty odors, however, he finds a well-appointed lobby and a distinguished-looking silver-haired gentlemen sitting behind the front desk. “Ah Mr. Wilkes,” comes the greeting, “we’ve been expecting you.”
Somewhat taken aback, Tom says, “Uh huh, I’m, uh, Mr. Wilkes. I’ve got a reservation.”
“Indeed you do – room 317, we have it ready for you.”
On his way to the elevator Tom is struck by something strange – an off-the-floor ashtray half-filled with cigarette butts, all of them unfiltered. “Huh,” he says, “a place where they let people smoke indoors; you don’t see that much anymore.”
Inside 317, he finds an ashtray, matches, and a pack of Lucky Strikes, plus more surprises. There’s no TV, instead there’s a large dome-shaped object, a radio. Also, there’s a short black pole with a handle topped off with a silver ring, a telephone. A phone book sits next to it and Tom is somewhat relieved to find numbers for Pizza Huts listed. He dials one and gets a gruff voice.
“No, this ain’t no piece of house or whatever.”
Tom apologizes, tries the number again carefully and gets a, “Look pal, you’re getting the wrong number. There’s two men on and Pavko’s up. Now don’t bother me again.”
“Pavko,” Tom mutters again, apologizing then hanging up. “If my baseball trivia serves me right, there was a guy by the name of Andy Pavko who played for the Cubs in the forties. I think he was a power hitter. Huh, this is getting kind of strange.”
Still hungry, Tom goes downstairs and asks the gentleman behind the front desk if there’s an IHOP in the neighborhood.
“An IHOP – an International House of Pancakes, open 24 hours.”
“I’m afraid there’s not. We do have a dining room here, but unfortunately it’s closed. We do, however, have music in our ballroom tonight, an orchestra.”
“An orchestra, huh – I’m in town to see a band called The Grateful Dead.”
“The Grateful Dead. I don’t believe I’m familiar with them. Do they swing?”
“Well, sort of. Guess I’ll go check out what’s going on here.”
Inside the ballroom Tom finds a stage with about 20 big band-type musicians on it, each behind a parapet displaying the initials GM. They’re doing an infectious swing tune Tom recognizes from an old record of his uncle’s – “In the Mood.” On a dance floor several couples are swirling happily – the jitterbug. Several more recognizable numbers – “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” “Little Brown Jug” – follow, then one of the trombone players stands up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “we’re going to take a brief intermission. Thank you for being here. We’re the Glenn Miller Band and I’m Glenn Miller.”
“Glenn Miller, yeah right,” says Tom. “He died at the end of World War II when his plane went down over the English Channel. I’ve seen the Jimmy Stewart movie. This must be some kind of Glenn Miller tribute band or something but I better ask somebody. This is getting REAL strange.”
A statuesque young lady, tight sweater, bright red lipstick, stands nearby, so Tom walks up.
“Excuse me, ma’am, this might sound like a dumb question, but could you tell me what year it is?”
The young lady bats her eyes. “It’s 1943, silly. So why aren’t you overseas?”
“It’s, huh, hard to explain. So are a LOT of things. I’ve got to go check on something. I’m uh, Tom by the way.”
“OK, Tom. I’m Lana, hurry back.”
Tom goes back to the lobby and gingerly approaches the front desk. “Sir,” he says, “do you think we’ll be able to beat Hitler?”
“We can only pray, son. We can only pray.”
Back up in his room, with shaky hands, Tom opens the pack of Luckies, put’s one in his mouth, lights it, then coughs. It’s been six months since Tom has smoked one of his Marlboro Lights, but by the fifth draw on the Lucky, he’s inhaling and exhaling smoothly. Cigarette smoked and extinguished with a steady hand, Tom walks into the bathroom. “2015,” he says to the mirror, slicking back his hair. “1943. I like the sound of that better.”
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Dave is a native Clevelander who moved here about 12 years ago, taken by the scenic beauty and the eclectic lifestyle. He’s worked as a journalist and as part owner of a janitorial business and now concentrates on music and once again, writing.
