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Hangout Review
Grandpa Dave
in Front of My Work in Chicago, IL
November 5, 2004
My friend Aaron and I used to host an open mic at a bar called Silvie’s Triple D. It was usually a pretty rote affair. The same ten people would show up every week and sing the same five songs apiece. There were definitely highlights, but they were few and far between.
One evening, right at the 10 p.m. start-time, there was an old man with a pronounced gut sitting at a table by himself. Aaron brought me the sign-up sheet, and I saw the name, “Grandpa Dave” written on it. I went over and asked him if he needed to borrow a guitar or something.
“No,” he told me. “I play the harmonica and tell jokes.”
“Sweet.” I said. He was a lonely-looking fucker, so we were glad to have him, although I did detect a birthday-clown vibe. We told him he should go on later that night, when there’d be more of a crowd. So at about 1:30, he got up and started playing a rather long harmonica. He said that he had harmonicas of every size, the smallest hung about his neck, it was the size of his withered pinkie. He played the same Beethoven passage on each harp, and had some innocuous story about it. He told a few kid-friendly jokes and was on his way.
Success. Aaron and I chatted with him for a few minutes, and he seemed genuinely excited about the whole thing. He asked me what instrument I played.
“Trumpet,” I said.
“Oh wow! Do you think you could teach me? I just bought a trumpet from some guy.”
“Sure, why not. I don’t know much myself, but bring it with you next week and I’ll show you what I know.”
“Oh, thank you!” Grandpa Dave gushed.
The next week came and so did Grandpa Dave. He forgot his trumpet, but he had his arsenal of harmonicas. This time when he got up to play, he branched out with some randier humor.
“You ladies out there better stop crossing and uncrossing your legs. The smell is getting Grandpa Dave a little excited.”
Whoa there Grandpa Dave. He sufficiently alienated the crowd with that one. Aaron and I figured he felt a little out of place, being so much older, and was trying a bit too hard to fit in. People still gave him a lukewarm round of applause when he finished up his shtick. Lukewarm, but warm enough that he came back again the following week.
This time he sallied up to the building on a recumbent bike with a rickety plywood trailer behind it. Grandpa Dave brought props, and when it was nearly his turn at the mic, clutching a sinister little duffle bag, he retreated to a dark corner of the bar. When Aaron called him to the stage, he came into view wearing no shirt, just a very small glittered vest and some sort of belt around his flabby waist.
“You knew you’re old Grandpa Dave would be back to see you, didn’t you?” He asked the stunned crowd as the stage lights washed over his pasty belly.
“Well, I’ve brought a little poem here that I’d like to read to you, or sing to you rather. It’s gonna go to the tune of “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” and it’s about a walk Grandpa Dave took though Boystown earlier this week.”
Boystown is one of Chicago’s gay neighborhoods.
“Now, you’re Grandpa Dave’s no homo. I don’t go for that,” Grandpa Dave was a sweaty nervous pile, but he charged hard. “As I was walking around there, I kept noticing all of these beautiful women everywhere, that were actually men! So I wrote this here song called, “Butt Pirates in Disguise.”
Grandpa Dave muddled his way through his song and was then asked to leave by Silvie. She realized he was bad for business.
I never really gave much thought to seeing Grandpa Dave again, but this morning, as I was locking my bike up, in front of my work, an old bearded man appeared at my side.
“Say, how do you like that track bike?” he asked.
“Well, it’s not actually a track bike, it’s got a freewheel on it.”
“Well, that’s what I want. You can hurt yourself trying to ride a track bike. I want one that you can spin backward.”
“This would be what you need then,” I said, spinning the back cog with my shoe.
“Say, if I get me one of those, could you put it together for me?” he asked. He seemed awfully familiar. He had on a black “Chicago” windbreaker, women’s sweatpants and black, buckling dress shoes. He also had a scraggly beard.
“I don’t have the tools for that type of work. A bike shop could do it for you.”
“I’m thinking of buying a Bianchi from some guy, could you fix it up for me?” he asked.
“Like I said, I don’t have the tools.”
“It’s a beautiful chrome frame. I just don’t want to ride the track bike. How much do you think it’ll cost to get it like yours?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I was late already. “I have to go. Good Luck.”
It wasn’t until I was inside that it hit me: he was going to buy the bike off of some guy, the ladies sweats, the all-around overbearing creepiness. It was Grandpa Dave hiding under that beard! Wow, I hope I never see him again.
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