“It’s going to be another warm fall and one of those cold springs,” said Tony, one of Richard’s two bartenders. “El Nin-yah,” he concluded, “Can you believe you can smoke in bars in 2024?” He poured another glass to a couple who said: Believe me, Richard’s has been ignoring Chicago’s indoor smoking ban since 2008, and if you couldn’t guess, they’re counting because they’re affiliated with some local business operations. friends banner, or the Sinatra music playing non-stop on the jukebox, or the man, Bobby, quietly smoking a cigarette in the corner and dispensing drinks with a cool wave of his hand.

The corner television had switched from election news to college football updates when a Moroccan man asked Tony for a beer. “Get out of here! You’ve been drinking all day! Tony spat at him. “We have the right to reject whomever we want!” The Moroccan man bent over and began writing to his translator. “Dude, you’re not wanted here! Try to come back tomorrow.” The bartender winked at me. “I’m leaving tomorrow, I don’t care.”

Meaghan Garvey

“What do you think will happen?” I asked the guys next to me in the city to hold a business conference on packaging materials. “Damned if I know,” one of them quipped, turning to the topic of the market. “I can tell you what you need to buy to make $4,000 a month,” said a man in a trucker hat that read “BURGERS & BEERS 2024.” “Like I need your advice,” an old man down the bar said. “I’ll sell you something that doesn’t exist yet!”

“Attention passengers,” said a voice over the Red Line as my train headed drearily home. “We are waiting for the system to be intervened for a moment.”

“FUCK KAMALA AND TRUMP!” shouted a man from the next car selling his wares – cigarettes of all kinds, fanciful varieties of weed. “I AM THE PRESIDENT OF THE TRAIN!”

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