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After stopping for beer and hot dogs, we finally reach our seats just before the opening pitch. While we are fairly high up, I can still see the field perfectly, though the players look pretty small. Looking around, I notice almost immediately that there is next to no one around us. Apparently no one shares Bentley's love for the nose bleeds and as such, the majority of the people near us are in the section below a few feet away.
There is a couple of people scattered throughout the top section but for the most part, we are pretty much alone. I glance over at Bentley who has his eyes on the game. He flicks them towards me and then holds up his hot dog, taking a huge bite.
I can't help but laugh at how goofy he's acting. It's so strange. I had him pegged for this controlling, powerful, dominant man, and while he is all those things, he's also so much more. He's sweet and playful and has the most infectious laugh I have ever heard. The more I am with him, the more I see him as arealperson and not just some rich asshole.
Turning my attention back to the game, I proceed to enjoy my very first baseball game hotdog, which Bentley seems to think is the weirdest thing in the world. Apparently I am the only Chicago resident that has never had a hotdog at Wrigley Field. We make small talk while working through three more beers. I have never been a fan of beer but I realize very quickly that once you get past the first, it's actually not that bad. And even though baseball is not my favorite thing in the world, I am still having an amazing time.
“My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid.” Bentley finally speaks, after a long stretch of silence. I don't know if it's the drinks or maybe just that he feels more comfortable with me, but the moment he starts talking, I find myself hanging onto every word.
“We didn't have much money growing up but whenever he got the chance to bring me here, he did. Of course, we always sat up here because we couldn't afford the more expensive tickets.” He says, reminding me of the only other thing he's ever told me about his dad.
“I thought your dad was in politics?” I ask, not being an expert on politicians but assuming they make enough to take their child to a baseball game and get decent seats.
“My father was in politics.” He glances towards me. “My dad was a factory worker.” He says, leaving me confused by his statement.
Laughing lightly, he turns his attention back out to the game but to my surprise, continues talking. “My biological father was Jack Monroe. My mom met him their senior year of high school and fell head over heels. They conceived me while in college and Jack decided that was his moment to walk away. He left her. He left us.” He says, his face expressionless.
“I'm sorry to hear that.” I say, reaching over to run my hand along his shoulder.
“Don't be.” He says, turning his eyes towards me. “My father, was Lucas Reed. My mom met him a couple of years after I was born. He accepted me as his own and raised me as such. Jack signed over his rights and Lucas adopted me when I was six. Officially making me a Reed.”
“Did you ever get to know Jack?” I ask, curiosity making it impossible not to push for more information.
“He decided my Junior year of high school that he was ready to be a dad. By that point, I wanted nothing to do with him but for my mom's sake, I tried. We talked here and there through college and he even made it out to a few of my games but it never really amounted to anything beyond that. He died a year after...” He pauses. “After I left the league.” He skirts around his injury and keeps going, clearly not wanting me to pry for more. It's easy to see in that one small statement how much he misses the sport. A pain I am very familiar with.
“And your dad?” I ask.
“Passed away two years after that. Heart attack.” He says on a heavy shrug.
Not sure what to say or do, I reach across and take his hand, entwining my fingers with his. “He sounds like he was an amazing man.” I say, leaning into him.
“He was.” He says, turning his face inward. “He would have loved you.” He smiles. I can't stop the rush of excitement that runs through my veins at his words. Even when having such a serious conversation, he still finds a way to make it okay, to make me feel like I'm worth sharing the pain with. Or at least, some of the pain. It's clear to see his largest wound is one that has simply been bandaged up and has never fully healed.
The rest of the game goes by in a blur. The conversation quickly lightens after that and by the time we exit an hour later, we are both a bit intoxicated and laughing like teenagers as we make our way out of the stadium.
“There's some place I want to show you. If you're up for it.” He says, leading me down North Clark and then left on Addison when I agree.
We only walk about three blocks when Bentley comes to a stop outside of a little brick building with blacked out windows and an old rickety fence surrounding the outskirts of the property. “It's fine, I promise.” He laughs, catching my worried expression.
Tightening his grip on my fingers, he leads me down the cracked sidewalk towards the building. The closer we get, the more I can hear the sounds coming from the small establishment, but it isn't until Bentley pulls open the door that the full effect of the music streams all around me. Jazz. I know it the moment the saxophone kicks in.
Leading me further inside, I immediately squint through the smoke filled room trying to take in my surroundings. It's a little room, an old bar lining the right side, round tables lining the left. The room is lit only by dim red lights and makes it difficult for my eyes to adjust at first. Bentley takes my hand and escorts me to the bar, ordering two beers from the old white haired bartender before leading me to the far corner of the room, where a vacant table is shoved up against the far wall closest to the stage.
I know why he brought me here without him needing to tell me further. I can tell by his ease, the way he spoke to the bartender and the way he commands the room, that he has been here many times before. No doubt one of the places his mom brought him as a child and somewhere he has continued to frequent through the years.
I try to ignore how uncomfortable I feel dressed still in my Cubs gear and turn my attention to the stage that is currently occupied by five different men. To the left is two older gentlemen, one playing the saxophone, the other on the trumpet. A bass player sits on a stool towards the middle of the stage, bobbing his head back and forth to the sound of the music they are creating. There is a young man on a keyboard at the back of the stage and tucked in the corner is a middle aged man beating away on the drums.
I can tell by the way one will change the chord and the others will follow that they are playing through improvising. It's so exciting to watch them go back and forth and how into the music they are. Turning my attention to Bentley, I find him staring back at me with a look that I can't quite place but it immediately sends my steadily beating heart into a raging pound that makes me feel a bit off kilter.
We drink our beers in silence, watching the musicians as they do what they love, all the while I can feel Bentley's eyes on me. Even still, I try to focus on the music. I have never been a fan of Jazz but I will say, I have a much better appreciation for it now having experienced it like this, with Bentley at my side.
Before long, I find myself so engulfed in the performance going on in front of me that I am beating my feet against the dirty floor in time with the music, watching the men move along the stage and scream out to the crowd as they get lost in their art. Just after eleven, Bentley reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, cocking his head towards the door.
Nodding, I take his hand and allow him to lead me outside into the warm night air. It seems so clear and clean outside after having been tucked away in that little building for so long. “That was incredible.” I say, taking Bentley's hand as he leads me onto the sidewalk. Stopping at the curb, a black town car immediately pulls up in front of us and he steps forward to open the door before ushering me inside.
“When did you call a car?” I ask, knowing there is no way he could have heard a thing inside to make a phone call and he didn't once leave my side.
“It's this crazy new thing called text messages. Have you heard of them?” He asks, laughing when I swat at his leg as he settles in next to me.
“Don't be an ass.” I laugh, snuggling into his side when he drapes his arm around my shoulders. “Thank you for today.” I say, muffling a yawn with my hand. I don't drink often and with so little sleep, my drowsiness has increased substantially in the last few minutes.
“Thank you.” He says, pulling me tighter into his side.
“Pretty sure I didn't do anything.” I get out weakly.
“Pretty sure you did more than you realize.” He says, kissing the top of my head.
