The More Things Change
The last time I saw Syd was in the back room of Bear’s Place. The occasion: a memorial service for one of the regulars, Jasper, better known to one and all as “Lefty.” So called because he was an unapologetic Marxist who hustled his entire life, working for tips delivering pizza and doing small engine repair on the side.
With his charm and intellect, he could have been a lawyer, or a historian, even a stock broker— you name it. Instead, he made a career chain-smoking Camels and holding down the end of a bar. Lefty ran out of time six weeks earlier when paramedics found him unresponsive in the alley back of what used to be Player’s Pub. His luck ran out years before.
Syd and I were catching up over shots of whiskey when Lefty’s cousin pulled me aside to talk about going through his vinyl collection—Lefty’s vintage surf and punk rock LPs would bring in just enough cash to cover some outstanding bills.
Syd stepped out for a smoke, and I figured we’d catch up before long. We didn’t. That was late November 2019, just before the world changed.
Then, last August, while I was walking the dog along the B-Line trail on my way to the Atlas Ballroom for a pint, I heard a faint, but instantly recognizable laugh. There, outside Bloomingfoods Market, a group of locals were lingering in the cool summer air. Louder now, that delightful laugh rang out a second time.
Scanning the crowd, I recognized Syd’s auburn curls atop her lean, muscular frame. I waved hello, but wasn’t sure if she’d recognized me. I didn’t want to intrude on the impromptu gathering, so we kept walking.
Crossing 6th Street, I heard Syd call out my name. “I want to talk to you,” she said.
Syd looked better than I remembered. Better than ever. Whatever she’d been doing during the pandemic, it was working. I tried to keep cool, but it was thrilling to see her again.
I introduced Syd to Penny, the German Shepherd rescue dog I adopted during the lockdown. Before I knew it, I asked Syd if she wanted to join us for the evening. “We’re off to Atlas for a couple of pints. The night is young and I’m buying.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t drink anymore. But I wouldn’t say no to an espresso.”
With that, we made our way down Kirkwood Avenue, in search of coffee for two and a cool sip of water for the pooch.
Once we’d found a quiet spot on the patio outside Soma Coffee, Syd and I compared notes on surviving the pandemic.
“The PPP made all the difference,” Syd explained. “With the bars and restaurants closed, I wasn’t making a dime. Let’s face it, my pottery isn’t gonna pay the bills.”
“It was scary,” she added. “In the beginning, I was self-medicating.”
“Same here,” I confessed. “But at least I could work from home. I still had a paycheck.”
“It got really bad,” she continued. “I actually thought about moving back to South Bend to live with my mom.”
“You left town?”
“No. I started my own business! After twenty years tending bar, putting up with drunken frat boys and grabby managers, just so I could pay the bills and make pottery, I quit.”
Syd proceeded to tell me how she gave up booze.
How she started a small landscaping company.
How she’s never felt better about her art.
How her life had changed.
No doubt about it, Syd was a changed woman.
There was always something a little wild about her. When we first met, I found Syd a bit meanspirited, dangerous even, and yes, inevitably, oh so exciting. Back then, I was a married man and kept a discrete distance.
But now, the calculus had changed. Her whole demeanor was different. She was lighter, brighter and happier than I’d ever seen her. And I was a free agent.
When the coffee shop closed for the night, I offered to walk Syd home. But she was parked just outside the market, so we headed back toward the B-Line.
Despite my best efforts to conceal it, my heart sank a little when she told me that back in April, just as the vaccines made life a bit more recognizable, she went to visit her mom and ran into an old boyfriend from high school.
They’d kept in touch through social media ever since. Before long, they were a couple again.
“We’re moving in together at the end of the month. Can you believe it? We’re renting a little place on the near West side, not far from Rose Hill.” My heart sank for a second time. And there it remained. Syd could see it plain as day.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a battered pack of American Spirits. Syd fumbled for a lighter—and I tried to come up with something to say.
“Well, we should get back home,” I stammered. “Classes start next week and I’ve been procrastinating all summer.”
“But if you need a hand with the moving, give me a call,” I added lamely. “Thanks,” she said.
Following the all too predictable silence, Syd continued, “It was great seeing you. Penny is adorable. A real chick magnet, I bet.”
With that, she turned toward her car, and the dog and I headed back down the B-Line.
“Hey, Syd” I called after her. “What’s with the cigarettes? I figured you’d given up the cancer sticks along with the booze.”
Looking back over her shoulder, she laughed, and said with a shrug, “You know how it is. The more things change.”
Kevin Howley is a writer and educator based in Bloomington, IN.