The Book Read Free Page B

the single neon image of an open book hanging unsteadily over the doorway. Holden shook the water from his coat, scraped it over the rough fuzz of hair on his cold head and ran for the door. He reached the wide, curling handle and saw the thick carving at the center of the rotting wood. His eyes traced the remnants of two words, once engraved in ornate script and framed in baroque molding. It was difficult to discern, but Holden had frequented the bar often enough to know that it read, The Library. He tugged the handle and the door gave way, blasting him with a puff of warm, stale air and muffled voices.
    Throughout Chicago, boutique bars blinked the corners of many elite intersections while a multitude of sports bars lingered nearby like cockroaches. The Library was one of the oldest bars in the once trendy neighborhood of Uptown that wouldn’t fit into a singular category. Decades before the neighborhood was overrun with musicians and artists, the bar had established its presence. Which meant that the crowd was always an older one. That began to change once the owner retired and left the business to his daughter. Marion Tabor, commonly known by regulars as the librarian , began hosting music acts and themed sports nights every week until she eventually drew a younger crowd. That group included Holden and Shane, who would have normally avoided such an eccentric venue for controlled inebriation.
    The Library got its name from its peculiar and controversial interior design. The windowless walls of the bar were clothed with pages from hundreds of recycled books. The building had broken ground during a vital junction in the history of the world, when the selfish ways of our forefathers were recognized and recycling was evolving into a powerful tool for allowing mother earth to thrive. Laws were being passed and using paper for recreational means was frowned upon, to say the least. Like the few creative minds of that decade, Marion’s grandfather searched for an innovative solution to the problem and chose to line the walls of his new bar with pages from recognizable books before recycling them for the sake of the planet. At a time when the words Reduce , Reuse and Recycle were fast becoming the mantra of the intellectual world, such innovative design made The Library a custodian for progress and environmentalism. But sadly, like most novelties, the bar was forgotten and its crumbling, fragile façade soon joined the landscape of deserted, but historically protected, buildings along Wilson Avenue.
    Tonight, Holden entered the bar like the rest of those before him. He ignored the yellowing book pages that crusted the walls like rotting fish scales, hung his jacket on one of the tarnished brass hooks near the warm wood bar and searched for his best friend.
    “There he is.”
    The graveled voice came from the thick stone fireplace at the center of the large seating area. Shane was standing on a shelf of stone that circled the base of the column, half obscured by the flat screen television. He adjusted the volume, hopped down and threw an arm around Holden as if they hadn’t just spent every moment of the work week together.
    “Glad you could make it out, bro!” he barked, tugging his old friend toward their usual booth. His brash attitude lit up the tiny eyes that were ever shadowed under his tattered baseball cap. The Blackhawks jersey he wore hung from his sloping, definitionless shoulders like a red garbage bag. Unlike Holden’s sturdy frame, Shane Dagget was as thin as they came and not the least bit aware of his shortcomings. “Thanks for getting all dolled up.”
    Holden looked down at his raggedy work clothes. He had left the house so quickly, so agitated, that he had forgotten to change. “Didn’t realize this was a date,” he replied, squeezing into the varnished oak booth.
    Shane took the cigarette from behind his ear and sparked his butane lighter. “Sweetheart, I thought Friday was date night.”
    Holden