Hokum

Jim operated a storefront barbeque on the lakeside of Sheridan Road, a few doors down from the Loyola El. Smoky pits. Molted white linoleum beneath rickety barstools. A restaurant reviewer had once wandered in, and Jim flaunted the results of this occasion in a fifty-cent frame displayed next to the door: One of the Ten Best Eats in Chicago.

Less than three dollars in change weighted my pockets the first time I walked in. I eyed the trash can that had a lid on it. My brain lumbered hollow after not eating all day. The art of retrieving leftovers appeared to be more difficult than I hoped.

“Chicken tonight,” Jim said.

He said I could have a half or quarter, but tonight would be half. It was already midnight and he wanted to lock the doors. He said he lit his coals at 4 a.m. and stayed open until he sold out. Then Jim poked the last remaining half chicken on the grill with a yard-long spike, flipped it to a greasy board, chopped it into bite-size pieces with a cleaver the size of my forearm, and scooped it into a red plastic basket with a paper liner. I stared at moist white meat with charred flecks of skin and sauce.

“How much?”

“How much you need it to be?”

I pushed my shoulders back. Smoothed my hair and tried to act certain of myself. Confident. Ready to walk away from the chicken that I was not looking at. Definitely not looking at.

“I’m not very hungry.”

Jim stared at me, a long, deliberate gaze itemizing my ripped jacket, the tennis shoes soggy with November slush, my hands tightly gripping the counter. He nodded slightly. “I don’t care to eat what I cook after watching it all day, most of the night too. Lot of folks say this is the best barbeque in town. You eat. Tell me what you think.” He reached behind him, rummaging under some dirty rags, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Tomorrow you come back with a peach pie and quart of milk. If you go by the Jewels store early you can get those day-old pies.

The fresh ones got to sit to be any good. I’d go myself, but I