GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #139: LAST CALL

My favorite song in the world is Nick Cave's "Time Jesum Transeuntum Et Non Riverentum." It's the secret song on the X-Files album, the one you have to rewind from the first track to get to. When it comes to music I like, I act like a child. I listen to a group of songs over and over again until I get tired of them and move on to the next group of songs I'm going to obsess over for a month or so.


I do not act this way with this song. It's so wonderful that I don't dare wear it out. I only play it whenever I'm going through a change in my life, like when I graduated college. Or when I got my first book published. Or, well, you get the idea.


I start my new job on Monday, so you can believe I'll be playing this song as I go to bed tomorrow night (at the absurdly early hour of 9:00 pm, by the way). This will probably be the last GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS I write, since I can't bring myself to write these things when most people are still up and about. I wouldn't have the time to do it, anyway.


I hope I've entertained you all over the course of 139 posts. Maybe I've made you laugh or I've terrified you (or, more likely than not, I've disgusted you), and I'm sad to see this regular column go. It will be good to not write something as I sit in my underwear directly before going to bed, but I'll miss doing this.


Anyway, I'm rambling. The bouncer has put all the chairs up on the tables, and the janitor is wringing out his mop. Let's finish our drinks and get out of here.


Goodnight, fuckers.

THE SPRING INN: A HOLE-IN-THE-WALL OASIS

There isn’t a lot of fanfare to the Spring Inn on the outside, and that’s how it should be. Neighborhood bars should never advertise themselves too loudly, because they don’t need to. They have a specialized clientele, and these people all know where to find the Inn. In the summer, there are usually a few smokers out front, and chances are, you know them. But in the winter, there is usually no one there; the smokers are out back where there is a tent for them.

Once inside the Inn, you know you’re in the right place. The lights are dim, but not so dim that you can’t make your way through the crowd. Even though smoking has been banned in bars for quite some time, you can still smell the smoke in the nicotine-stained walls. You can hear darts thunking into a digital board near the back, but only if no one has plugged money into the ‘Eighties rock jukebox.

The bar itself is made of thick wood, and all of it is scarred. Generations of people in this neighborhood have leaned against this bar. It is practically a tradition. The face above the hands wiping at a pint glass is familiar. You always know the bartender in this place. Hell, he probably even knows your drink of choice. You probably don’t need to say a word to him about your preference.

Take a look around. Most of the customers here are middle-aged. They used to come here when they were young, and they’ve never decided to break themselves of the habit. There are a few twenty-somethings here, ready to perpetuate the tradition of their parents. There is even some eye candy here.

But this is not a place to go in order to get laid. It happens, but it’s a rarity. No, this is a place where you go to unwind, have a few drinks, shoot the shit with your friends, and maybe even play a game of darts. If you want to get laid, go down the street to Doc’s. There’s a college crowd down there, and your chances are better.

Ah, you have your drink. If you’re alone, or are with maybe two or three friends, hang out around the bar. Your glass will always be full. Or if you’re with a bigger crowd, push a couple of tables together. If it’s a weekday, no one will bother you. If it’s Friday or Saturday, you might have a bit of trouble, as those tend to be the busy nights. They don’t serve food at night, but sometimes, the bartender will send out for pizza and leave it out for anyone who wants a slice.

The bell over the bar clangs, and the lights suddenly become brighter. The bartender is calling out that it’s closing time. Go up to the bar for one last drink, but the bartender is flexible. If you want another last second shot, he won’t object.

It’s time to go. You head out into the streets, and even if it’s winter, there is a warm feeling in your belly. There are very few places like the Spring Inn in the suburbs, and you will be eager to visit again and again in the future.

Spring Inn
552 Spring Rd.
Elmhurst, IL 60126