Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Biography / Autobiography
- Published: 06/08/2017
A Night in Chicago
Born 1954, M, from Cocoa Beach/FL, United StatesA Night In Chicago
“Come on,” Annie urged. “You’ve been in the conference all day. Now it’s time for me. I got all dressed up for a night out.”
“Yes, you did. You are gorgeous as usual,” I replied. She had replenished her wardrobe on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile while I had been working. “Where do you want to eat?”
“I want to see some mobsters.”
“This is 1997. Do you really think we’ll see gangsters in this day and age?
“Yes. I read about them all the time.”
“How do you suggest we find them?”
“Easy.”
I sat back and wondered what the night would bring.
“Sir, can you help me?” Annie asked the bartender polishing glasses behind me.
“Yes mam?”
“Do you know of a restaurant where we can see mafia guys?”
He paused a second, then shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t help you with that.”
“Here’s the deal. I am a writer doing research on my next novel and I know Chicago would be the place to see some mobsters. Don’t worry, I won’t mention you. Can’t you at least tell me the name of a restaurant we might go to?”
Another pause. “You might try Giordano’s. It’s downtown, not too far from here.”
“Thanks.” She turned to me. “Gordon, let’s get a taxi.”
When I opened the door to Giordano’s Pizzeria, the warm, spicy aroma of garlic and cheeses spilled out into cold winter air. Billed as the home of stuffed deep dish pizza, I looked forward to an authentic treat I had not found in Florida.
“This will be marvelous,” Annie predicted.
“Do you have reservations?” asked the hostess.
“No,” I replied.
“You’ll have to take a table downstairs.”
“That will be fine.”
As the hostess took us to a small table in the rear of the room, I noticed an empty, large circular booth with a Reserved note. I settled into my seat and observed the waiters were older, short, Italian men wearing white shirts, black pants, and long white aprons splotched with tomato stains. At the other tables, the waiters engaged in conversations with apparent regular customers.
Our waiter came to the table, gave a light bow, and asked with a thick Italian accent. “Have you been here before?”
I looked around and realized Annie was way overdressed. “This is our first time.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “Welcome, we have the best Italian food in Chicago.” He took our order for stuffed pizza and left us to savor delicious warm bread and pesto.
Looking around the room, I noted, “I feel like we’re in Italy, but I don’t see any Godfathers.” Based on the pictures on the wall, I picked out a well-dressed man who had to be the owner as he made rounds talking to customers. He did not stop at our table.
“This is real Italian,” Annie said.
“Look at the front door.”
Conversations paused, and heads turned as eight tough men in pinstriped suits with silk handkerchiefs in the pockets and black and white wingtip shoes swaggered into the room. Two waiters bowed, took hats and coats from the group, and led them to the reserved table near the door. Seven of the men waited for their leader with gray hair and a silver suit to sit with his back to the wall. After the underlings had inspected patrons in the room, they took seats in a pre arranged pecking order.
“These are not just hoods,” I whispered to Annie. “I think we found real mobsters.”
“Isn’t this fun?”
“Don’t stare at them.”
Our food arrived and we ate delicious, steaming pizza that was a real Italian pie. I kept a discrete eye on the large table of Italian men. The owner approached them and engaged in a courteous conversation. Gradually other people rose from their seats and paid homage to the mobsters by speaking quietly into the ear of the man furthest from the leader. The first man turned and spoke into the ear of the next Italian. The message was passed around the table until it reached the boss. He replied with a whisper, and the message made its way back to the customer, who smiled and bowed.
We watched in fascination as this ritual continued throughout our meal. At one point the leader turned and smiled at Annie. She smiled back.
“Stop that,” I said. “Now they’re all watching you.”
“Yes, they are,” she replied with a smirk.
The game of eye tag continued until we finished our meal. As we walked toward the front door, the leader rose and walked toward us. I avoided eye contact.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said with a thick Italian accent.
Where was this going?
“Why thank you,” she replied. Every woman loves flattery.
He waved his arm to the table and asked, “Would you like to be my guest for a drink?”
He was not looking at me. A rare dash of fear quivered in my stomach.
Annie paused and looked at me.
“No thank you.” I answered. “We already ate.”
“Please have a drink with us.”
The other men at the table looked expectantly for us to obey. Annie smiled, loving the attention.
No way I could do this. “Come on, we have to go,” I said. I grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door. The Italians laughed as we left. I shouldn’t have been surprised when I opened the door and saw a large man in a white suit standing in front of a limousine. It had to be the Italian group’s car. He stared at us, his breath frosting. I looked back to see if we were being followed. No.
“There’s a cab,” I said.
We laughed at our mafia encounter as scampered across the street and jump in the cab. Inside, I asked Annie, “The night is young. Where to next?”
“Let’s go to Jilly’s. It’s a piano bar that Frank Sinatra used to sing at.”
“Driver. Take us to Jilly’s.”
The taxi pulled to the curb, waiting in line behind two limousines. Doorkeepers from the bar opened the limo doors and escorted patrons inside. Soon we were also led inside to a smoke filled, dark bar room. As we circled the bar, I saw a friend from the conference, Water Stein, at a table.
“Hello, Walt. Can we join you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“This is my wife, Annie.”
We took seats and listened to soft piano music.
“How did you find this place?” I asked Walt.
“Somebody at the hotel recommended it. Why is it so special?”
Annie jumped in to explain the bar’s history.
“This place was named after Frank Sinatra’s best friend and bodyguard, Jilly Rizzo. Frank loved hanging out here and singing at the piano, especially the song Chicago. The tradition became that Frank was the only person allowed to sing that song in this bar.”
“I liking it better now,” responded Walt.
“I haven’t been in a bar this smoky in a long time,” I said.
“All bars used to be like this. Let’s dance.”
I led Annie to the dance floor, and we danced to It Had to be You. How lucky I was to have such a beautiful wife.
When the song ended, she said, “Excuse me. I’m going to powder my nose.”
I went back to our table and talked with Walt. Ten minutes later Annie was still in the restroom.
“Do you think she is okay?” Walt asked.
“I don’t know.”
I sipped my drink and kept an eye on the restroom door. A few minutes later Annie came out following another lady. They went across the room to another table. I couldn’t see much through the smoke, but I did see that Annie was soon dancing with someone.
“Uh, Gordon. Who is Annie dancing with?” Walt asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” He was laughing hard, watching Annie and then looking at my reaction.
I shook my head as he giggled.
After the dance, she came back to the table and sat down with a mischievous smile.
“Do you have a story for us?” I asked without a smile.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“You’re probably right,” Walt said.
“You don’t surprise me anymore,” I told Annie.
“Well surprise me,” Walt responded.
“In the restroom there was a lady crying.”
“Yes,” Walt said. I just listened.
“She wouldn’t stop sobbing, so I asked her what the problem was. She said she was upset about a friend who had recently died. I introduced myself, trying to change the subject. ‘I’m Annie.’ ‘Hello, I’m Nicole.’ ‘I’m from Florida. My husband is here on business, and I’m shopping.’ Nicole broke down again briefly, then said, ‘I’m from Florida, too. Tampa. My sister died there last week, so my boyfriend brought me up here to escape for a while.’ ‘I know what you mean. My son died a few years ago, and it crushed me. I was a hopeless wreck for months. I finally decided I had to get over it or I was going to die. I pulled myself up and went back to work. You know, you never forget, but you have to move on with your life.’ After talking for a while, she calmed down. Then she said, ‘Thank you so much. If you don’t mind, I would like to introduce you to my boyfriend.’ We went to her table, and she said, ‘Annie, this is Patrick Swayze.’ ‘He stood and said hello. Nicole continued, ‘She helped me calm down. Her son died, and she went through the same grief I’m going through.’ ‘Thank you so much, Annie. He then said ‘Would you like to dance?’ Well, I couldn’t say no.” Annie looked at me expectantly.
“You’re right,” Walt said. “I don’t believe you.”
“Really. That’s Patrick Swayze, the movie star.”
I looked at the supposed Patrick’s table, but the smoke was to thick to make him out.
“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” I said.
“I wouldn’t make that up. He was such a gentleman and you know he’s a good dancer.”
“Yeah, a dirty dancer.” Walt giggled.
She stuck with her story as we stayed for a few more songs, but I didn’t buy it for a moment.
When we stood to leave, Annie said, “Let’s go over there. I’ll introduce you to him.”
This was the test. “Sure.”
We left Walt and walked up to her friend’s table.
“I ‘d like to introduce you to my husband,” Annie said. “He was curious who I was dancing with.”
He stood and shook my hand. “Hello. I’m Patrick Swayze.” It really was him. Wow.
“Hi. I’m Gordon England. Good to meet you. Thanks for dancing with my wife.”
“It was my pleasure. And I thank her for talking to Nicole. Enjoy your visit to Chicago.”
As we walked away, Annie had the biggest “I told you so,” smile.
I shook my head in amazement. “I should know better than to doubt you, dear. Your crazy stories always turn out to be real. That movie star cloud stays over your head.”
“Doesn’t it though.” She laughed as went walked into the starry night.
A Night in Chicago(Gordon England)
A Night In Chicago
“Come on,” Annie urged. “You’ve been in the conference all day. Now it’s time for me. I got all dressed up for a night out.”
“Yes, you did. You are gorgeous as usual,” I replied. She had replenished her wardrobe on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile while I had been working. “Where do you want to eat?”
“I want to see some mobsters.”
“This is 1997. Do you really think we’ll see gangsters in this day and age?
“Yes. I read about them all the time.”
“How do you suggest we find them?”
“Easy.”
I sat back and wondered what the night would bring.
“Sir, can you help me?” Annie asked the bartender polishing glasses behind me.
“Yes mam?”
“Do you know of a restaurant where we can see mafia guys?”
He paused a second, then shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t help you with that.”
“Here’s the deal. I am a writer doing research on my next novel and I know Chicago would be the place to see some mobsters. Don’t worry, I won’t mention you. Can’t you at least tell me the name of a restaurant we might go to?”
Another pause. “You might try Giordano’s. It’s downtown, not too far from here.”
“Thanks.” She turned to me. “Gordon, let’s get a taxi.”
When I opened the door to Giordano’s Pizzeria, the warm, spicy aroma of garlic and cheeses spilled out into cold winter air. Billed as the home of stuffed deep dish pizza, I looked forward to an authentic treat I had not found in Florida.
“This will be marvelous,” Annie predicted.
“Do you have reservations?” asked the hostess.
“No,” I replied.
“You’ll have to take a table downstairs.”
“That will be fine.”
As the hostess took us to a small table in the rear of the room, I noticed an empty, large circular booth with a Reserved note. I settled into my seat and observed the waiters were older, short, Italian men wearing white shirts, black pants, and long white aprons splotched with tomato stains. At the other tables, the waiters engaged in conversations with apparent regular customers.
Our waiter came to the table, gave a light bow, and asked with a thick Italian accent. “Have you been here before?”
I looked around and realized Annie was way overdressed. “This is our first time.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “Welcome, we have the best Italian food in Chicago.” He took our order for stuffed pizza and left us to savor delicious warm bread and pesto.
Looking around the room, I noted, “I feel like we’re in Italy, but I don’t see any Godfathers.” Based on the pictures on the wall, I picked out a well-dressed man who had to be the owner as he made rounds talking to customers. He did not stop at our table.
“This is real Italian,” Annie said.
“Look at the front door.”
Conversations paused, and heads turned as eight tough men in pinstriped suits with silk handkerchiefs in the pockets and black and white wingtip shoes swaggered into the room. Two waiters bowed, took hats and coats from the group, and led them to the reserved table near the door. Seven of the men waited for their leader with gray hair and a silver suit to sit with his back to the wall. After the underlings had inspected patrons in the room, they took seats in a pre arranged pecking order.
“These are not just hoods,” I whispered to Annie. “I think we found real mobsters.”
“Isn’t this fun?”
“Don’t stare at them.”
Our food arrived and we ate delicious, steaming pizza that was a real Italian pie. I kept a discrete eye on the large table of Italian men. The owner approached them and engaged in a courteous conversation. Gradually other people rose from their seats and paid homage to the mobsters by speaking quietly into the ear of the man furthest from the leader. The first man turned and spoke into the ear of the next Italian. The message was passed around the table until it reached the boss. He replied with a whisper, and the message made its way back to the customer, who smiled and bowed.
We watched in fascination as this ritual continued throughout our meal. At one point the leader turned and smiled at Annie. She smiled back.
“Stop that,” I said. “Now they’re all watching you.”
“Yes, they are,” she replied with a smirk.
The game of eye tag continued until we finished our meal. As we walked toward the front door, the leader rose and walked toward us. I avoided eye contact.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said with a thick Italian accent.
Where was this going?
“Why thank you,” she replied. Every woman loves flattery.
He waved his arm to the table and asked, “Would you like to be my guest for a drink?”
He was not looking at me. A rare dash of fear quivered in my stomach.
Annie paused and looked at me.
“No thank you.” I answered. “We already ate.”
“Please have a drink with us.”
The other men at the table looked expectantly for us to obey. Annie smiled, loving the attention.
No way I could do this. “Come on, we have to go,” I said. I grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door. The Italians laughed as we left. I shouldn’t have been surprised when I opened the door and saw a large man in a white suit standing in front of a limousine. It had to be the Italian group’s car. He stared at us, his breath frosting. I looked back to see if we were being followed. No.
“There’s a cab,” I said.
We laughed at our mafia encounter as scampered across the street and jump in the cab. Inside, I asked Annie, “The night is young. Where to next?”
“Let’s go to Jilly’s. It’s a piano bar that Frank Sinatra used to sing at.”
“Driver. Take us to Jilly’s.”
The taxi pulled to the curb, waiting in line behind two limousines. Doorkeepers from the bar opened the limo doors and escorted patrons inside. Soon we were also led inside to a smoke filled, dark bar room. As we circled the bar, I saw a friend from the conference, Water Stein, at a table.
“Hello, Walt. Can we join you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“This is my wife, Annie.”
We took seats and listened to soft piano music.
“How did you find this place?” I asked Walt.
“Somebody at the hotel recommended it. Why is it so special?”
Annie jumped in to explain the bar’s history.
“This place was named after Frank Sinatra’s best friend and bodyguard, Jilly Rizzo. Frank loved hanging out here and singing at the piano, especially the song Chicago. The tradition became that Frank was the only person allowed to sing that song in this bar.”
“I liking it better now,” responded Walt.
“I haven’t been in a bar this smoky in a long time,” I said.
“All bars used to be like this. Let’s dance.”
I led Annie to the dance floor, and we danced to It Had to be You. How lucky I was to have such a beautiful wife.
When the song ended, she said, “Excuse me. I’m going to powder my nose.”
I went back to our table and talked with Walt. Ten minutes later Annie was still in the restroom.
“Do you think she is okay?” Walt asked.
“I don’t know.”
I sipped my drink and kept an eye on the restroom door. A few minutes later Annie came out following another lady. They went across the room to another table. I couldn’t see much through the smoke, but I did see that Annie was soon dancing with someone.
“Uh, Gordon. Who is Annie dancing with?” Walt asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” He was laughing hard, watching Annie and then looking at my reaction.
I shook my head as he giggled.
After the dance, she came back to the table and sat down with a mischievous smile.
“Do you have a story for us?” I asked without a smile.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“You’re probably right,” Walt said.
“You don’t surprise me anymore,” I told Annie.
“Well surprise me,” Walt responded.
“In the restroom there was a lady crying.”
“Yes,” Walt said. I just listened.
“She wouldn’t stop sobbing, so I asked her what the problem was. She said she was upset about a friend who had recently died. I introduced myself, trying to change the subject. ‘I’m Annie.’ ‘Hello, I’m Nicole.’ ‘I’m from Florida. My husband is here on business, and I’m shopping.’ Nicole broke down again briefly, then said, ‘I’m from Florida, too. Tampa. My sister died there last week, so my boyfriend brought me up here to escape for a while.’ ‘I know what you mean. My son died a few years ago, and it crushed me. I was a hopeless wreck for months. I finally decided I had to get over it or I was going to die. I pulled myself up and went back to work. You know, you never forget, but you have to move on with your life.’ After talking for a while, she calmed down. Then she said, ‘Thank you so much. If you don’t mind, I would like to introduce you to my boyfriend.’ We went to her table, and she said, ‘Annie, this is Patrick Swayze.’ ‘He stood and said hello. Nicole continued, ‘She helped me calm down. Her son died, and she went through the same grief I’m going through.’ ‘Thank you so much, Annie. He then said ‘Would you like to dance?’ Well, I couldn’t say no.” Annie looked at me expectantly.
“You’re right,” Walt said. “I don’t believe you.”
“Really. That’s Patrick Swayze, the movie star.”
I looked at the supposed Patrick’s table, but the smoke was to thick to make him out.
“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” I said.
“I wouldn’t make that up. He was such a gentleman and you know he’s a good dancer.”
“Yeah, a dirty dancer.” Walt giggled.
She stuck with her story as we stayed for a few more songs, but I didn’t buy it for a moment.
When we stood to leave, Annie said, “Let’s go over there. I’ll introduce you to him.”
This was the test. “Sure.”
We left Walt and walked up to her friend’s table.
“I ‘d like to introduce you to my husband,” Annie said. “He was curious who I was dancing with.”
He stood and shook my hand. “Hello. I’m Patrick Swayze.” It really was him. Wow.
“Hi. I’m Gordon England. Good to meet you. Thanks for dancing with my wife.”
“It was my pleasure. And I thank her for talking to Nicole. Enjoy your visit to Chicago.”
As we walked away, Annie had the biggest “I told you so,” smile.
I shook my head in amazement. “I should know better than to doubt you, dear. Your crazy stories always turn out to be real. That movie star cloud stays over your head.”
“Doesn’t it though.” She laughed as went walked into the starry night.
- Share this story on
- 4
COMMENTS (0)