I’d tell you where he did it; but you’d never find the bar.

In Chicago, we change the flow of rivers. So the feeling of a location changing is not all that strange. Oh the joint has been there forever. But new buildings go up, alley’s get re-routed, sidewalks get closed.

Then there’s the fact that there is a whole set of pedways, tunnels, underground passageways below the streets and sidewalks at the center of the city, the “Loop.” 

And it’s not just the levels of the streets and the buildings rising and then crumbling to dust in the back of a wreckers heaving dump truck. Take the place, the bar where Lester anchors the corner stool, his back against the wall. It’s routed off an alley that runs in back of what once was a vaudeville palace where one bitter cold December in 1903 some six hundred souls perished in a fire basically because most of the doors had been locked shut from the outside. The entire city ripped into a numbing shock as neighboring stores were turned into makeshift morgues. Tourism stopped, pretty much all downtown business stopped. People did their best to get out. But there were few survivors. It was at the back of the theater. Only on the upper floors, 3, 4, 5, 6 stories up that all the panicked throngs found open doors. Leading out to open air. So they jumped. From all the floors they jumped. And the bodies piled up in that alley right around the corner from Chicago’s oldest standing building (now a McDonalds on the first floor) and down the block and a flight of stairs from where Lester the Lip explained to me late this afternoon how he would fix health care.

He told me that there’d been enough talk. He knew about back rooms and closed doors and he understood that’s where the real decisions would be made. But he had the answer. And he asked if I could get it out.

I told him that the best I could do was the Back Page of Open Salon. And he said “What the fuck is that?” I explained that it was like a newspaper on the computer. He chuckled and said, “I know what the fucking internet is, Roger. What I’m asking is this back page open salon crap. What is that code for something? I remember when we put sports on the back page of any kind of real newspaper. You think health care is a sport? You think it’s funny? You think it’s a game?”

I told him of course not. The back page thing was a long story. And really not that important.

He picked up his ginger ale. Lester didn’t drink anymore. “Jesus Roger, nobody drinks anymore. Anybody who drinks at my age, they’d be dead so they wouldn’t be drinking. You understand?”

He took a sip. This was kind of an event in itself. A bulbous lower lip that stuck out at least an inch and a half. So,  no sip went without a slurping sucking sound that echoed in every dark smoky corner of the tiny dark  bar.  Lester’s real last name was Lapczynski. So the leap to Lester the Lip was not a stretch.

There was a time when he knew every butcher, engineer, taxi driver, numbers guy and baker on North Milwaukee Avenue. But these days he held down the last stool of this deserted dark hole in the loop. “I like it downtown,” he once told me. “This is where the power is.”

“So Lester, what’s the answer? You know I don’t know nothing about health care. I mean I have a good friend. Both her boys had something at the same time. And she tells me that she and her husband laugh because every time a health care bill comes to their house, it’s for “$12,000”

“That’s not funny Roger. That’s a crime. That’s a fucking crime.”

“Oh I know, I was just talking. She doesn’t really think it’s funny either. It’s just sometimes all you can do is laugh. I mean I just got a notice because my Cobra is ending and if I want to continue it, they want five thousand bucks a month.”

“Yeah. I know. See,” he paused for another slurp.” This is serious. This is serious as it gets.”

“So what’s the answer Lester? What do we do?”

“Wait a minute,” he says. “I’ll get to that. But I gotta question for you first. A really simple one. Think you can handle it?”

“Yeah Lester, I can handle it.”

“It’s 3 fucking thirty in the afternoon. Why aren’t you at work somewhere? Didn’t I hear you were some corporate chump? Last I heard you even had a little money? What the fuck, you didn’t start playing ponies at Sportsman, or phoning in the Vegas line  or get married again or anything like that did you? “

“No, I. . . .”

“Oh geez. You finally find somebody to pay you for writing? I always kinda figured that would happen to you.”

“No, nothing like that, nothing like that.”

“So it’s gotta be some kinda woman involved right? Not the girl from the old neighborhood? She’s gone, right? Nice girl. Shame that didn’t work out.”

“No Lester, that was a really long time ago. Remember you came to the next wedding. The one where I got married in the church and I. . .. . .”

“Hell yeah. Course I remember! That was one hell of a party in that basement room there. And you married that Sicilian girl with the big ah. . .eyes. Hell yeah! She’s some kinda dancer or something. Hell yeah! That is some kinda looker there! So tell me again why you’re here?”

“I came downtown to take the test. The one to get the permit and license to be a security guard. That’s why I’m downtown. And I thought I’d come by and see if you were . . .”

“Wait a fucking minute. Somebody is thinking of letting YOU carry a GUN!”

“Well, Lester, I gotta do something. No money. And I can’t be living on what I made in the 90’s forever.”

“90’s huh? Well let me tell you something kid. I am 91 fucking years old. And I known you for how long?”

“Long time”

“And you want to know what one of the single worst fucking ideas I ever in all those days heard was?”

“YOU CARRYING A FUCKING GUN! Ya little pissant, snot nose writer boy!!! You carrying a GUN is about the dumbest, stupidest thing I ever heard!!!!

“Lester, these are tough times! I gotta take whatever I can find. But you don’t have to worry. I flunked the test.”

“Whattya fucking mean you flunked the test. You are one of the smartest dummies I ever known. I always known that. I remember when you worked for that. . .what was it called. . .”

“Trollope Consulting?”

“Something like that. But you came up with all the ways to make sure that bosses know how to keep people working and happy.Then you wrote that book about the ghost and now you wanna fucking carry a fucking GUN???? You been drinking boy?”

“It wasn’t about a ghost, it was ghost writing. And Trollope just paid me to write it. Then they didn't publish it."

Who the fuck cares! I don't know what the fuck that means. Stick to the subject! You with a gun. That is just wrong, wrong, wrong!”

‘Well I flunked the test, so it doesn’t matter. I’m really not sure why. I think I pressed the wrong buttons on the computer because when I went back to look at all the wrong answers I got, I saw there was no way I ever could of said that. Or maybe the computer was bad. Or maybe I spaced out thinking about something else. Hell, I don’t know. I just know I flunked it.”

“Well, hell. Now they decide who will carry a gun by a computer huh? I guess they won. I guess it’s over. They won.”

“Who won Lester?”

“Who the fuck do you think won kid? The NRA. That’s who. The National Rifle Association. The national fucking rifle association.”

“Lester, what are you talking about? That’s a group for hunters. For protecting the second amendment. That’s all. What does that have top do with the price of tea in Chinatown?”

And that’s when he started laughing. His shoulders started first, he threw back his wizened, grey beard head, scratched the top of his brown fellt hat, his whole body started in on the laughter. I was starting to get kinda nervous. There was nobody in the place except me, the old man and the shadow of a bartender polishing glasses at the far end of the darkness. I loved the old guy. Didn’t want something I said to make him laugh himself to death. But the laughter just wouldn’t stop.

“Lester! Hey Lester! What is it? What’s so funny?” Lester, can I get you another ginger ale?  Lester!”

“Kid, he said, recovering his breath, finally, “Kid, the NRA got nothing to do with hunting. Or second amendments or 6,032 amendments. Hell, nobody I know got any quarrel with guys or gals who like to hunt. The NRA, it ain’t about any of that.”

“”Well then what’s it about Lester?”

“It’s about POWER, kid. It’s about pure and simple Power. And they won. They are in charge. The made it so you can take guns into state parks. Now what is that other than power? Doesn’t matter if you can hunt or not hunt. It’s all about POWER. You heard about the trains didn’t you?”

“Amtrak?”

“Yeah. That’s what they call it now. Yeah. Well, turns out that the NRA said OK all you Congressman and Senators, ALL OF YOU, listen up. Here’s how it’s going to go down. Here’s what we want. We want it so anybody can take guns on trains.”

“That’s crazy!” I said “Nobody needs guns on trains, and terrorism and all. . .”

“Wait a minute Kid. I ain’t done.”

“Sorry.”

“So the NRA says, here’s the way it’s gonna go down. You let people have guns on trains or ALL the congressman and senators are gonna take ALL the money away from the . . .what did you call it?”

“Amtrak.”

“Yeah. Amtrak. The NRA said we want guns on trains or lse Amtrak is shit out of luck. No money. Dead. A whole lotta dead trains. Just sitting there on the tracks. Because we say there has GOT to be guns on trains! And you know what happened kid? You know what ALL those congressman and senators said, didn’t matter if they was republican or democrat, you know what they said to the NRA? They said OK. They said to the NRA, how high you want me to jump SIR?”

“Really?”

“Yeah kid. Really. And you know what that is kid? That is raw, unfiltered, jackhammer pounding power. There is nobody more powerful than that group of boys in the NRA. They have won. Even smart ass kids like YOU can carry guns. Guns for everyone! Gins in the schools! Guns in the streets! Hell even old Moses down there at the end of the bar---he can have one too. The NRA has won!”

“So Lester, I got a question for you then. If the NRA has won, if they do what they do better than anyone, if they are Power, does that mean they are done? Maybe move on to something else?”

And that’s when Lester trained his wise and watery green eyes of age on me. Straight on me. Boring straight down into my very soul. And he said, “You figured it out, huh kid? You know, don’t you? You know what will STOP all this bullshit talk and lay it out there where we can all see how to fix this thing we have about not letting sick people get well.

Lester, you’re talking about what they call the “public option” aren’t you? You’re talking about a government that will make sure the people who get stepped on the hardest, hell---a place where ALL OF US—can get medical care. Even when we’re sick.”

“That’s all there is kid. Taking care of everyone when they are sick. There ain’t nothing else.”

“And the way we get this done? The way we make sure it happens?” I asked, already having figured out the the answer from our talk, but still wanting to hear Lester say it. And he did.”

“The way we get the real deal. The public choice or option. The way we get it done? We PAY the NRA TO GET IT DONE!  They already won the war on guns. They're for hire. They're not busy anymore. Pay um enough and they can win this war too.”

Hire the NRA, I thought.  What else they have to do? Hmm. Lots I could say. Crazy idea. I could start with the people in NRA probably not being first in line to raise their little fists and cheer for a public option. But the war was being fought by lobbyists. Paid for by business. The government just a middle man. And the NRA did show power like no one else. . . . I was quiet for a moment. Then I heard Lester give voice to my next thought:

“Kid,” he said to me, “These are crazy times. Maybe crazy answers would work best in crazy times.”

I nodded.

He said “It was good to see you again kid. Always liked you. But you can’t be carrying no gun. You got to find some other way to make some money.

Instead of carrying a gun today, why don’t you go tell all those back page folks in that internet newspaper what we talked about. Spread around old Lester’s solution. Go write this down somewhere. Even if nobody reads it. Just write it down.

“Ok Lester. I'll go write it down and then I’ll worry about finding work tomorrow. It’s dark out. Nothing I can do now.”

“Fuck work kid. You’re thinking about the wrong thing. Think about POWER  kid. And think about taking care of sick people. Even if the only way you know how to do it is with your words.”

“Ok Lester. I’ll remember.” And as I turned and waved and opened the door into the unrelenting rain that has marked this dark long October as a month that felt like one continous day,  I heard him say from the corner stool of the shadow bar:

“Power, kid. Power. Find it. Rent it. Buy it. Do what you can to get it. Put it to work. Put it to work for people who are hurting.

That’s all there is.”