A Whole New World, Mostly

The thing about Wrigleyville, Scott had learned, was that it wasn’t a theme park based on delicious gum. He stood at the edge of a great precipice, the wind in his face, the vast sprawl of the territory below him stretching out in every direction. From up here he could see everything, the streets, the buildings, the flags, the faithful gathering in their multitudes below. He had studied this land. He knew its history, its customs, its people. He had arrived prepared, which was new, and he intended to make the most of it. He looked out over all of it with the calm, sovereign satisfaction of a man surveying territory he intended to conquer. The precipice was the Addison CTA L Station platform, elevated approximately eighteen feet above street level, which was not technically a precipice by any geological definition but which Scott felt captured the spirit of the moment accurately enough. Also, he just really liked the word "precipice." Below him, Wrigleyville. Wrigley Field sat at the end of the block like it had been there since before the concept of professional sports had been fully invented, which it more or less had. The bars were opening. The flags were out. The neighborhood had the particular energy of a place that took its identity seriously and had been doing so for a very long time. Scott had read about all of it. He knew about the Cubs. He knew about 2016. He knew about the Malört, which Scott had read about with focused attention. He had recently poured most of a bottle of absinthe directly into his own face and was not making that particular category of mistake again. He could hold a conversation with a local about this neighborhood and not embarrass himself, which was all he was asking for at this point. He had done the work. He saw a piece of gum on the railing. He looked at it. He looked at the neighborhood below He looked at the gum again. No, he thought. He knew what this was. It was gum. Just gum. Regular gum that a person had deposited on a railing in a neighborhood that was not, in any way, a theme park based on delicious gum. He would not be tricked. He nodded once, satisfied, and looked back out at the neighborhood. A northbound Red Line train arrived at the platform with considerably more speed and noise than Scott had accounted for. Scott stepped back sharply, one hand grabbing the railing, the train passing close enough that he felt it in his chest. He stood there for a second, slightly recalibrated, watching the train doors open and close and the train continue north toward Berwyn. He put his hands back in his pockets. He looked out at Wrigleyville. Keyes appeared at his shoulder, having come up the stairs from the southbound platform, coffee in hand, looking at Scott with the expression he had developed over the past two weeks for situations that required patience rather than comment. “You good?” Keyes said. “Fine,” Scott said. “The train was closer than I expected.” “There are signs.” “I saw them after.” Keyes looked out at the neighborhood below. Scott looked with him. Down there somewhere, the rest of the merged field was settling in, eight competitors, one neighborhood, a bar crawl that Johnny Dorn was going to host with the energy of a man who considered Wrigleyville a personal possession. Scott had read about Dorn too. He was, by all available accounts, extremely annoying. He had also been trained by Lindsay Troy, which Scott had decided was one of those facts that didn’t need to be fully processed and could simply be filed away in a mental drawer labeled things that are true but confusing. He thought about the field. Not as a list. As a picture. Eight people, all of them dangerous in different ways, all carrying something into this bar crawl that had nothing to do with the challenge itself. That was the thing he was starting to understand. Everyone in this competition was competing for a reason that went deeper than the prize, and if you could figure out what the reason was, you were already ahead. He didn’t have all of them figured out yet, but he was working on it. “Ready?” Keyes said. “Challenge isn’t until Saturday.” Scott looked at the neighborhood one more time. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”

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The bar was called the Cubby Bear, which Scott appreciated because it was exactly the kind of name a bar near a baseball stadium should have, straightforward, unpretentious, and not trying to be anything other than what it was. It was loud inside, how Chicago bars got loud, not aggressive, just full, the kind of volume that came from people who had decided to be somewhere together and meant it. Scott wasn’t sure what that meant. It was too profound. Scott found TAL at the far end of the bar, the Anglo Luchador, or as his mother called him, Tom, slightly apart from the main current of the crowd, nursing something dark in a glass and watching the room patiently, like watching carefully was its own form of preparation. Scott had been doing the same thing from the other end of the bar for about ten minutes when he decided to walk over. Keyes stayed where he was. Scott felt him not following and understood it correctly. This was better done without Henry standing at his shoulder, making it look like a delegation. “Hey,” Scott said. Tom looked at him. There was a beat. Not hostile. Just calibrating. “Hunter,” TAL said. Scott ordered a beer, leaned against the bar, and looked out at the room like Tom had been. He didn’t open with a pitch. He didn’t open with strategy. He just stood there for a moment, which was sometimes the most useful thing you could do. He had read that in a book he had read recently on how to make friends. It was in the chapter titled “The most useful things you can do.” “You’ve been here before?” Scott said. “Chicago.” “Few times,” Tom said. “You?” “First time. Did my research, though.” Tom looked at him sideways. “Research.” “I didn’t know what the Aggro Crag was until two days before we climbed it,” Scott said. “I thought it was King of the Hill. I’m not making that mistake again. And believe it or not, Wrigleyville doesn’t have as much gum as you might expect.” “Tom was quiet for a moment. Then something shifted in his face, not quite a smile but close to one. “King of the Hill.” “I was very good at King of the Hill.” “I don’t doubt it.” They stood for a moment, both of them looking out at the bar. Scott took a drink of his beer. The crowd moved around them without much thought. “How are you finding the merge?” Scott said. Tom considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. “Different,” he said. “Tribal competition, you know who you’re working with. Now it’s everyone in the same room trying to figure out what they are to each other.” “Yeah.” Scott nodded. “That’s the right way to put it.” “You’ve got Keyes,” Tom said. “I’ve got Keyes,” Scott agreed. “You’ve got…” “Myself,” Tom said, simply and without self-pity. “For now.” Scott heard that. He didn’t respond to it immediately, which was the right instinct. He let the conversation breathe. “I know about your history with Ivan,” Scott said, after a moment. Tom looked at him directly. “Most people do.” “I’ve got my own history with him. Nothing like yours. But it’s there.” Scott turned his beer in his hands. “Draw, then a pin. Not really finished.” “He’s like that,” Tom said. “He doesn’t finish things. He outlasts them.” Scott thought about that. It was the most precise description of Ivan he had heard from anyone, including himself. He turned that over for a moment and decided it was the most useful thing anyone had said to him all week.” “I’m not asking you for anything,” Scott said. “I just wanted to talk.” Tom looked at him for a moment with the expression of a man deciding whether to believe something. Whatever he found in Scott’s face appeared to satisfy him. “Buy the next round,” Tom said, “and keep talking.” Scott signaled the bartender.

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Scott thought about Ivan on the walk between bars, Henry at his side, the Chicago night warm and loud around them. What Tom had said, that he doesn’t finish things, he outlasts them, was sitting in him the way a good piece of information sat when you knew it was load-bearing but hadn't yet figured out where. Ivan had beaten him once already. And the draw had put Scott on the map. The pin had been close. Neither felt decisive, which was exactly Tom’s point. Tom was thinking about Ivan as a force to redirect rather than simply beat. Scott could see that thinking even if he wasn’t fully there yet. He also genuinely liked Tom, which he hadn’t expected. The code was real, the kind that had cost him something. He put it away and kept walking.

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The following is an excerpt from an incident report filed by Dr. Nathaniel Okafor, DVM, Maui Animal Wellness Center, regarding patient KOALAYAMA, KERRY, male, age 4, koala (Phascolarctos cinereus): This practitioner feels compelled to note that the events described herein are without precedent in this practitioner’s seventeen years of veterinary practice, and that this practitioner accepts no professional responsibility for the social circumstances that have developed during the continued and apparently indefinite convalescence of the above-named patient. Patient remains on property. Patient’s physical recovery is, as previously documented, complete. Patient shows no clinical indicators of residual injury. Patient is, by every available medical measure, a fully healthy adult male koala who could be discharged at any time. Patient has chosen not to be discharged at this time. This practitioner became aware on Tuesday evening that the resort was hosting a bachelorette party for a Ms. Keilani Moku, the guest list for which included, through arrangements this practitioner cannot explain and did not authorize, fourteen female koalas. Why the Wailea Beach Resort and Spa was in possession of fourteen female koalas is a question this practitioner has raised with resort management on three separate occasions. Resort management has described the situation as a “promotional partnership with the Maui Koala Wellness Collective,” which this practitioner suspects is not a real organization. Patient became aware of the fourteen female koalas at approximately seven-fifteen on Tuesday evening. Patient’s demeanor, which had previously been characterized by this practitioner as serene and mildly imperious, underwent a significant transformation at seven-sixteen. What followed is difficult to document with clinical precision. Patient moved through the pool area with a purposefulness and confidence that this practitioner had not previously observed in a marsupial. Patient made a series of vocalizations that the resort’s wildlife liaison described as, and this practitioner is quoting directly, “extremely bold for a koala in a cast.” This practitioner notes that the cast was removed eleven days ago and patient has shown full range of motion since. This practitioner is also obligated to note, with considerable professional discomfort, that koalas are among the animal kingdom’s most prolific carriers of chlamydia, and that the sudden congregation of fifteen koalas in a resort pool area represents a public health consideration that this practitioner has flagged with the Maui Department of Health. The department has not yet responded. The resort’s poolside bar has continued to serve eucalyptus Mai Tais. As of this filing, patient shows no intention of returning to the mainland. Patient was observed this morning accepting a small flower lei from a resort staff member, which he wore with what can only be described as satisfaction. Patient’s checkout date remains unclear. Dr. N. Okafor, DVM Maui Animal Wellness Center

P.S. This practitioner has begun updating his resume.

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Scott found Nathan Lake at a bar called Sluggers, which had a batting cage on the second floor and the specific energy of a place where fun was a competitive sport. Nathan was watching the batting cage from a table near the railing, a drink in front of him, the teal and blue of his vest visible even in the bar’s variable light. He looked relaxed in the way that people looked relaxed when they were paying attention to everything. Scott sat down across from him without asking, which was either confident or rude depending on the context, and in this context he confidently decided it was confident. “Good evening so far?” Scott said. Nathan looked at him with that open, considering expression. “Yeah,” he said. “Chicago’s good. I like it here.” “First time?” “Second.” Nathan glanced toward the batting cage. “Brought my mom last time.” Scott nodded. He took a drink of his beer and let a moment pass. He was learning that silence wasn’t something that needed to be filled immediately, that sometimes the most useful thing you could do was let the other person decide what came next. This was a newer skill, and he was still getting used to it. “Can I ask you something?” Scott said. “Sure.” “Ivan.” Scott said it simply, the one word an entire sentence. “The two of you. How did that happen?” Nathan looked at him for a moment, deciding how much truth to tell. “He helped me,” Nathan said. “When I first got here. I didn’t know the game. He explained it.” “And that was enough?” “It was honest,” Nathan said. “He didn’t have to be. He was anyway.” Scott turned his beer in his hands. He thought about Ivan on the war board during Squad goals, the red strings, the strategic positioning from day one. He thought about what Tom had said. “I’m not saying it was wrong,” Scott said carefully. “I’m just trying to understand it.” Nathan looked at him with something that might have been appreciation for the distinction. “I know,” he said. “I think most people in this competition are trying to figure out what I am to Ivan. I don’t have a clean answer for them.” “That’s fair,” Scott said. He didn’t push. He had asked the question and gotten the answer. Nathan was as decent as he appeared. Whatever was happening between him and Ivan probably wasn’t just strategy, and real things were harder to predict than strategic ones. He kept his eye on Nathan and his thoughts to himself.

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The AirBnB was quieter than the bars, which was the point. The initial bar crawl before the real bar crawl had done its work. It loosened things up, moved people around, created the kind of informal contact that was harder to have in a structured setting. Scott and Henry had come back earlier than most, which was also the point. Coltrane Anderson had arrived about twenty minutes after them, which Scott had not planned but was not unhappy about. They were in the main living area, the three of them, the night settling around the house in a comfortable way. Someone had found a Cubs game on television. Nobody was really watching it. They also were all a little tipsy, though not really aware of how much. The question of how strong Coltrane really was had come up organically. It had started with Henry noticing that Coltrane had carried in what appeared to be an extremely heavy bag without effort. “What’s the heaviest thing you’ve ever lifted?” Scott said. Coltrane considered this with the seriousness the question deserved. “Legitimately?” “Sure.” “Eight hundred and change,” Coltrane said. “Deadlift. Few years back.” Scott and Henry looked at each other. “In the gym,” Coltrane added, as though this distinction required clarification. “Right,” Scott said. “Obviously.” Henry had already started looking around the room with the expression of a man conducting a structural assessment. His eyes moved across the furniture as if calculating load-bearing capacity. They landed on the couch. “The couch,” Henry said. Coltrane looked at the couch. It was a substantial couch. The homeowner either had very good taste or very poor planning about ever moving it. “Probably,” Coltrane said. “Probably,” Scott repeated. He looked at the couch. He looked at Coltrane. He looked at the couch again. Then he walked over and with a small leap plopped down onto it. Then, maintaining eye contact with Coltrane, he lay down on it fully, arranging himself as if settling in for a long flight. “How about now?” Scott said. Coltrane looked at Scott lying on the couch. He looked at Henry, who was leaning against the wall with his arms folded and an expression of some satisfaction. He looked back at Scott. He bent down, got his hands under the frame, and lifted. The couch went up. Scott went up with it. The ceiling was suddenly a great deal closer than it had been a moment ago. Scott felt he was suddenly back up on the train platform again. From his elevated position, he took a moment to assess the situation. He was approximately six feet off the ground, lying on a couch, being held aloft. The game was still on television below him. Henry had not moved from the wall. It seemed, in the circumstances, like the appropriate moment for a song. Scott got up on his knees and really belted one out. “I CAN SHOW YOU THE WORLD!!!” Scott said, in a singing voice that was sincere if not technically accomplished. “SHINING, SHIMMERING, SPLEEEEEENDID!!!” Henry closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, he saw Scott looking down, but he couldn’t tell if he was looking at him or Coltrane. “TELL ME PRINCESS…” Scott continued, reaching the line with a particular satisfaction, arriving at a destination he had been traveling toward without knowing it, “NOW WHEN DID…” He stopped. He looked right at Henry. He looked right at Coltrane. Henry and Coltrane looked at each other. “...who’s the princess?” Henry said. Coltrane said nothing, which was its own kind of answer. They appeared to give this genuine consideration. There was a brief, wordless exchange of expressions that covered significant ground without resolving anything. “Listen here,” Scott said, from the ceiling, “Prince a-boo-boo.” He paused. “I need to come down now.” “Yeah?” Henry said. “I’m allergic to Peabo Bryson songs. I feel itchy.” Henry looked at Coltrane. Coltrane looked at Henry. Some kind of understanding passed between them that had nothing to do with the couch and everything to do with the general experience of knowing Scott Hunter. Coltrane lowered the couch back to the floor with the same ease he’d lifted it, which was somehow the most impressive part of the whole demonstration. Scott stood up, straightened his shirt, and sat back down on the couch in a normal sitting position. “Strong,” he said, nodding at Coltrane with genuine admiration. “Thanks,” Coltrane said. Henry poured three drinks without being asked. He handed one to Coltrane first, then Scott, then kept one for himself. He sat down in the chair across from the couch. Nobody said anything for a moment. The Cubs game moved through its innings. Outside, Wrigleyville was still doing its thing. It was, Scott thought, a good night. Not because anything specific had been solved or decided or agreed upon. Just because three people had been in the same room together and something real had happened, and that was sometimes enough.

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The night wound down the way good nights wound down, not all at once but gradually. Scott sat on the front steps of the Airbnb. The street was still going. Chicago didn’t stop, which he appreciated. The night was clear and crisp, the alcohol still flowed, and all of the cheese in all of the pizza was properly melted. He thought about Rob Williams. He’d have to confront him eventually. Not with anger, exactly. It was more like patience, surprisingly. Rob was the most immediate problem in the competition and also was doing really, really well. Holding both of those things at the same time without either one collapsing the other was something Scott was getting better at. He wasn’t sure he was doing it perfectly now. But he was doing it. I can’t promise not to throw bacon at him again, though. He let that sit there for a second and then moved on. Everyone in the competition was carrying something. Scott had started to see it, not just his own weight but theirs, too. That was the thing. You couldn’t understand what someone was going to do until you understood what they were trying to protect. He was getting there. He looked down at the armband. Blue fabric, yellow letters. Frank Hunter, who had known when to speak and when to stay quiet, who had stood on a porch and said five words that covered everything. Scott was learning. He stood up, went inside, and went to bed.