Madeline The Sniffer

The first time I ever went to Miska’s Liqours on Clark, I already had a belly full of booze and it wasn’t even midnight yet. To tell you the truth, I had some time to waste, and maybe a little bit of money, so I wandered in there, decked out in all my goth glory; hair spiked up, my body laced with chains over a slinky bodysuit, and patent leather boots about three inches off the ground. The only color in all the black was my white makeup and the sheeny peacock blue on my lips that I had made from this horrid drugstore eyeshadow and lipgloss. I looked good. I was way early to meet Leon and Rachel at one a.m. across the street for goth night at Club Neo.

The guys behind the counter didn’t ignore me like most normals do. The little fat friar man, aka Cy, stands near the vodka aisle and smiles at me, nodding and waving hello with his fingers perched on his pert, but portly belly. What a freak. The dude behind the counter has an even bigger grin on his face, maybe because the poor sap’s name is Larry. With a ballcap, flannel and grimy jeans, it’s hard to believe he has nothing better to do on a Friday night.

Lucky for them, I’m a perkygoth. I smile and say hello. No one else is in the store, which seems odd, but then I remember where I am. Lincoln Park, one of the richest neighborhoods in Chicago. The blond-haired blue-eyed workaday types are either sleeping in their beds like good little boys and girls, or they’re out at one of the many garish bars trying to get some and spending wads of cash. I hate those people. I guess the guys who work at Miska’s are used to seeing goth types like me heading to Neo.

It’s like a parade or some sort of migration, or like we’re all hooked up to a homing device and told to come back there. You see goths getting out of cabs, circling for parking, walking from all directions, standing outside the entrance, which is hidden in the crevasses of a long, dark alley and marked by the painted black legs of a mannequin that stand watch every day. You see a stream of colored lights emerge from the open door, pulsating out in the night. The latest mural on the side of the building is an abstract school of square fish, that surge toward the door. Neo is one of the oldest and best clubs around.

A horrid noise rings out when the door opens. It’s just a chime, but the decibel of it is shrieking loud, probably to keep the guy in the ballcap from falling asleep. I turned around from my aimless scrutiny of wine bottles to see a decently cute goth boy slinking along the counter to buy cigarettes. He is lean, lanky and eyes me with a fierce look. I grab a bottle of wine and pretend not to notice him. I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him around.

Once, at Belmont and Clark, he asked me for a cigarette. I pulled out my pack and offered it to him. He pulled out a cigarette, propped it between his lips and looked at me. I just stood there, looking back at him. This was when I was first getting into goth, which was like almost two years ago. I wondered if I was supposed to say something cool, or if he was going to ask me out, and I got really nervous until he said, “If I needed a cig, don’tcha think I needed a light too?” I was super embarassed.

Whatever. What am I supposed to do? Be able to read minds?

At the counter he gave the ballcap guy some shit by asking for one brand and then having a second thought. This would be fine under normal circumstances, but he did it like four times. What a jerk-off. Didn’t he know these guys were cool? Just because they wait on yuppie assholes all day doesn’t mean it’s alright to fuck with them. I mean, they’re working class, blue collar, so why make them the enemy? As my friend Leon would say, it’s just the way some goths are honey. While I waited for him to leave, I wandered around the store.

The cooler was in the back and the racks held six packs. Then a door and another set of coolers on the same wall as the counter, filled with chilled white wines, ice, and mixers for cocktails. They had lots of wine, some cheap, some expensive. Some of the wine was displayed in the boxes they came in, which I thought was cool.

Up front were shelves filled with spirits, a short aisle of vodka, gin, whisky and whiskeys, with just enough variety to keep the small space from feeling too crowded and keep people happy. Along the windows that looked out onto Clark st., chips, bottles of juice, tonic water, and soda bathed in rays from the throng of neon signs advertising labels and logos. Underneath the neon like an abandoned child, sat an out of place copy machine. I guess you never know when you’ll need to make copies, even if it’s at one in the morning. On one side of the counter sat a lotto machine, while underneath the register lay a bevy of candy treats.

Crappy junk food and soul sucking government games aside, this place seemed pretty cool. All it took to get a job there, I learned, was to sidle up to the register and start talking. I met Larry and Cy that night, and was told to come back to meet the boss later in the week. Sayed, they told me, was a fair boss and was looking for someone new. I could make tips on deliveries. I could work for cash under the table and screw taxes. I could get a job.

How could I refuse?