Silence and the Barstool

October is a good month to live in downtown Chicago. Many people visit Chicago in October to attend sporting events, conventions, and music events, to shop, to drink, to cheat on their spouses by engaging in one night liaisons with a stranger, and to leave their children for a weekend and have some adult fun.

My local bar is a great place to meet some of these people. The bar is located one block away from the north end of Michigan Avenue. The bar is small and a little seedy. The TV's lining the walls and corners are always tuned to sporting events. A new jukebox connected to the Internet with 150,000 downloadable songs always plays loudly. People have to shout to be heard which adds to the noise and the chaos. Out-of-towners wander the downtown Chicago streets and happen upon the bar. I suppose it reminds them of some of the bars in their local towns and cities.

Strangers sitting at the next barstool always strike up a conversation. They like to talk, but everyone does. I am not a good listener, but I am perceived that way because I know how to remain silent even when I have something to say. That's me. People see through me. They know they can talk about anything at any length and I'll sit still and nod politely. It's better to be a silent, yet a poor listener since people often wake the next day wishing they had not said the things they said the day before. People know their secrets and betrayals are safe with me because I wasn't listening anyway.

We are all happy. The strangers enjoy their talk. I enjoy my idle thoughts about whatever while maintaining the pretence of being a good listener. And we all enjoy our beer and whiskey.

Of course, I overstate my case. It is impossible not to look and listen. That's how people enter my diary. I don't think there is a person in my diary I didn't like even if I met them for only a few minutes. Everyone has something to talk about that they care about. Why not write it down if only to preserve the faint memory of its momentary glimmer?