Ah, Chicago. The Windy City. The City in a Garden. That other famous American city that wasn't New York City, Miami, or Las Vegas.
There was much that can and had been said about the fair city; far too much, if you took the eldest citizens at their world. Whether it be the historic landmarks, buildings, and monuments that peppered the whole of downtown, or the numerous slum-like districts that had been given it the less than glamorous name of Chi-raq, there was always something to say about Chicago, for good or for ill.
Still, regardless of what you or I or anyone else had to say, you could always could on a Chicago native to come in and start to brag that no matter what happened, no matter what calamities may occur, whether rain, shine or otherwise, Chicago would always be Chicago. To them, nothing would or could ever come along to replace it!
In spite of those claims of authenticity, though, what many would conveniently omit was that not a single piece of the old Chicago since it was founded was left standing at this point. Particularly over the past few years, the city had racked up an extensive budget deficit due to refurbishing, reconstructing, and refabricating just about every square mile of Chicago for one reason or another. Like the ship of Theseus, one had to wonder if the old Chicago even existed, or if an imposter had merely taken its place.
Of course, everyone knew exactly why this was the case. In polite company, though, there are always certain truths that are best left unspoken.
Meanwhile, in an old, isolated corner of the city, somewhere deep in the bowels of the Loop, among the layers upon layers of faux masonry, framing yet more layers of faux concrete squares bracing faux stone squares bracing faux glass squares, all built precariously on soft, marshy soil, lied a small little cafe called Avery Square.
On first blush, there wasn't anything particularly special about Avery Square. Sure, it was the kind of charming little cafe you would hear about from your grandpa every once in a while, as he went on and on about his childhood days and how much more character and life everything had back then compared to today, but that described a lot of cafes in a lot of cities nowadays. Plus, it was far from being a looker on its own terms; the facade of the building had long been neglected by the proprietor over the years he had owned the property, the red and white stripes that decorated the awnings and the front walls having long faded away to reveal the dull metal copper underneath. The chairs and tables that were left out in front shared a similar story, bits of red rust beginning to settle here and there within the green floral-patterned steel. There weren't even any umbrellas to speak of, leaving only the indoor roaring-20s styled bar stools and maybe a couple of plush red seats available for whenever the rainy season came.
No effort whatsoever had been put in maintaining even the slightest level of standards in appearance or in general presentation, yet in spite of that, there was always a steady, consistent flow of customers coming in and out of the cafe. Somehow, that unseeming cafe, tucked away from the gentrified squalors of downtown and nestled deep within one of the oldest districts in the city, was able to turn in a profit every year without fail. The sole reason why this was the case was simple; no matter who you were or where you lived in town, there was no one in Chicago who could brew a good cup of coffee quite like Arthek Chynoweth did.
Perhaps he could be making more than what he did, but for Arthek, it didn't really matter much either way. His patrons were happy with what he had to offer, and it made enough for him to continue running the place, so that was that.
Today, though, appeared to be an especially slow day for him. It was already almost 2 pm, and the only patron he had was a peevish young man with a bowler hat who was sitting just at the end of the bar, taking in his black Turkish coffee with the meekest expression he could muster. The man was a good lad, and he was Arthek's most consistent customer by far, but he had a habit of always trying to make small talk, so Arthek was always mindful to have some busywork reserved for whenever he came over. Thus, as Arthek bided his time with checking his inventory, the patron idly caught his eye on what looked like an antique 1920s Art Deco-styled coffee pot, its lustrous plating shining proudly as it stood on little white plastic display. Though the patron was usually too polite (i.e. awkward) to butt in while Arthek was in the middle of something, this was far too intriguing to just keep to himself. With a theatric cough, the patron took the initiative and addressed the old cafe owner in what he hoped was a natural manner:
"Hey, Arthek; couldn't help but notice you decided to display a real vintage today. What's the story behind that coffee pot?"
Arthek stopped, his brow furrowed at the unexpected interruption, before he sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. With a crack of his shoulders and a stretch of his arms, he headed out of storage to the sight of the patron making a small motion towards the coffee pot. For half a second, a small spark began to light up in Arthek's tired eyes.
"What, you mean this?"
The old man slaps the back of the old thing, a hearty ring sounding out from the bronze covering.
"Well, you could say this was a gift of sorts," he answered, his voice suddenly a lot more animated than before. For half a second, the patron could swear he saw something in the old man's eyes that he had never seen in a decade of having come here every day: unbridled joy. But then: "Although..."
Right then, the shadows on the old man's face seem to grow under the unforgiving glare of the afternoon sun, a roaring maelstrom swirling and frothing within the depths of his ocean-blue eyes as he stares almost straight past the coffee pot. It lasts for a few seconds too long before he ends up sighing to himself and rubbing his temple, as though he had to recollect that he was in the middle of a conversation.
"...well, that was already a while ago. Sure don't feel like it, though..."
"...I..."
The patron found himself at a complete loss for words. This was already by far the most words that he had ever gotten out of the old man, and now he was learning such personal aspects about his life! After almost an entire decade of nods and silent gestures, he was now the closest he had ever gotten to actually knowing something about the closest person he had to a friend! He wasn't going to let the opportunity to learn more slip by him while he had the chance!
"Well, if you don't mind me asking, you seem to hold it quite fondly," the patron continued, trying his best to paper over his excitement. "A lover gave it to you?"
"Gods, no!" Arthek replied in outrage. "It was my nephew!"
It was like a bolt of lightning had struck directly to the patron's brain.
"A nephew? I didn't know you had a nephew! Well, why didn't you say anything about him before?!"
The patron's thoughts were flowing a mile a minute at the revelation, his mouth running several miles ahead of him as he launched all sorts of questions about Arthek's newly revealed nephew. All of those would come to an abrupt end, however, as the patron got a good hard look at Arthek's expression.
He had an air as fierce and black as pure cocoa; rich and bitter, with a hint of sweetness buried deep inside. It was a deep, black sea that tasted almost like unmitigated sorrow. The patron began to wonder at that point if he had officially pushed his luck too far before a newspaper was haphazardly thrown in his direction, landing with a harsh plop right on the bar counter.
"Why don't you take a look for yourself?"
The atmosphere of the cafe was so thick at this point that a knife couldn't hope to cut through it all. But, in spite of himself, the patron slowly picked up the paper like it was a forbidden text, taking a good, long scroll through the front-page story that was prominently displayed:
Eastern District Left in Shambles by Chicago City's Giant!
"Witnesses say that around 6 pm last night, a sudden explosion tore through several blocks as Rumo Chynoweth allegedly accidentally tripped directly on top of the eastern region of Austin. As a result, authorities are expecting it to take several weeks for access to the 15th District to be available to everyone again. Currently, the level and extent of the damage is unknown..."
The story continued on into details about the inciting incident, as well as the contentious opinions about the person responsible, but all of that registered as nothing but white noise to the patron. Slowly, the patron put down the paper, looking straight at an unsurprised Arthek with an expression of pure horror. "You mean that-!"
"GOOD MORNING, CHICAGO!"
Arthek and the patron immediately took cover under the tables and plugged their ears, as a meteoric blast of sound exploded all around, the shockwaves coursing through their bones and churning their blood into a crimson froth. The windows of the small cafe burst into millions of tiny glass sharps along with the windows of every other building for several blocks, and somewhere in the distance, giant plumes of billowing smoke and dust were already beginning to form.
"AH, NO! I'M SO SORRY!"
"Yeah," Arthek responded with a sardonic, yet wistful edge. "That's my boy..."
"HOLD ON, EVERYONE, I'LL FIX THIS RIGHT UP!"
Once more, somewhere in the annals of City Hall, an overworked pencil-pusher got to work calculating just how much more of a deficit the city would run for this incident…
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