DISPATCH: Agathe, 6:00pm to 7:27 (The Whistler, Chicago), The Onslaught of Memory

Taylor Thornburg launched his debut novel, Agathe, 6:00pm to 7:27, at The Whistler, with readings by LJ Pemberton, Ben Niespodziany, Tori Rego, and Zach Kocanda.

Hey, Zona Motel. Jules here.

Gather round, and I’ll tell you the story of Taylor Thornburg;s reading at The Whistler in Chicago, in support of his debut book, Agathe, 6:00pm to 7:27, from Lost Telegram Press.

Sorry, just gotta check my phone... Nope. Nothing from my landlord.

Oh, long story. Basically, my fridge has been out of commission for a full week and was on the decline the week prior. At first, the fridge was freezing everything, so my fiancée Anna and I turned the temperature knob down from “Recommended.” Then we weren’t home for the weekend because we had to be multi-day tech support for my mom and stepdad in the suburbs while also commuting to work in the city. Plus we had a party at my mom’s where my family and Anna’s family met for the first time, which was great.

But we came home last Monday night and all the stuff in our freezer was soft and squishy. A food thermometer from Target revealed it had all gone bad.

We had a lot on our plate. Our wedding was approximately a month away with much work left to be done, logistics left to figure out, taqueros and mariachis to hire, speeches and vows to write—but first and foremost, we had to clean our shithole of an apartment because we were hosting writer and friend LJ Pemberton, who was reading that Wednesday to support Taylor’s book launch.

The details are a little foggy, but I think we tried to address the fridge and freezer first. We kept it closed as long as possible and got groceries—maybe prematurely, because the cubes in the ice trays were melting inside. So what did we do, after some crying and deep breaths, because who wants to fight in the middle of such confusion? Run to the Jewel and buy two big bags of ice, as well as half-gallon Ziploc bags and two thermometers for the fridge and freezer. Then we filled the Ziploc bags with ice and stuffed them in alongside the new groceries.

Then we got to deep cleaning. Our apartment, which had been a smorgasbord of books stacked everywhere your big toe might land and art supplies and dust bunnies, got an insane makeover. HGTV shit. We mopped every room. We reorganized and shelved all—ALL!—of our books. LJ would be staying at Chateau Martinez-Tighe, not Martinez-Tighe Motel (no offense—this place of yours is so choice).

Did I think to text our landlord about the fridge? Yes. Would he have ruined our time with LJ by being a vague-texting flake? Yes. So we didn’t text him right away. The fridge and freezer temps weren’t great, but they were borderline and our food was safe. Back to cleaning, we decided. At one point, I took out the trash and discovered a puddle at the bottom of the trash bin and when I took a paper towel to it (we went through so many fucking paper towel rolls), the towel was a dirty neon yellow.

This was two hours before we left to pick up LJ. Anna’s theory? Lysol, ounces of it leaking out the bottom of the bag. I thought I’d felt some wet shit on me while carrying it out.

What’s this got to do with Taylor Thornburg, David Lynch enthusiast (and scholar in a previous career, but I don’t know if he cares that I’m putting that out there) and sincere sweetheart?

Fuck all, really. His event at The Whistler was a wonderful reprieve from all this shit.

Living on the South Side, Anna and I aren’t really as much a part of Chicago’s Logan Square literary community as we used to try to be. We’ll come out once in a while, but it takes us about an hour to get up North. Writers are thriving, though, with workshops and open mics all along a couple-mile stretch of Milwaukee Avenue. The Whistler, in spirit, is the Logan Square scene’s epicenter.

Drenched in reddish light, I don’t really think it photos well (I’ve tried! And tried! I think it photos okay!) but it looks sweet in person. It’s a square and spacious stage, special for the jazz outfits that are often slotted after literary events. Busy bar. Oldies on the speakers. Limited seating. I’m sober, but people like the drinks and they carry N/As, so I’m happy, too.

Two people you’ll often see at a Whistler reading: Zach Kocanda and Ben Niespodziany.

Zach was the MC of Taylor’s book launch, introducing readers and encouraging extra rounds of applause. Sitting at the very front row by the stage, I thought, look at that smile, baby! If Taylor is our resident sincere sweetheart, Zach is our resident cutie pie. Aw, shucks. He’s a great guy. A real champion of local artists. A born MC and yet, the self-proclaimed worst rapper in the tri-state area, according to the first poem I ever heard him read.

Ben Niespodziany is a mad scientist, reading brief surreal magic tricks every time he’s on stage. They’re gut-busters, too. Another champion of the work of others, not infrequently handing out books for friends to borrow.

Tori Rego kicked off this event with a prose piece depicting a world’s origin story, strange and elemental. The poems that followed were similar in tone and theme but more intimate, the poem’s literal thoughts and desires a device in both pieces. It was cool as hell.

Then came Ben, who I already talked about. Jesus. I’m all kinds of mixed up. I didn’t even tell you about how we picked up LJ then sat through two hours of rush hour traffic to get up North, then got pelted with rain in the bumper-to-bumper gridlock from our favorite bagel place to Perpetual Books to The Whistler, stopping at Anna’s parents’ place along the way to refrigerate the cream cheese we prematurely bought.

Anyway, we had a good day in the car, shooting the shit about the origin stories of our romances, books we were into and weren’t into, whether Jason Alexander could get it or not (LJ feels very strongly on yes).

LJ was the penultimate reader and shared a section of her debut novel, Still Alive from Malarkey Books, which features the protagonist and her beloved fighting off some violent bigoted kids then recovering the morning after. It was bloody, it was tender, it was the part from Still Alive that’s her go-to at readings for the very same reasons. I won’t say it’s raw, because people have worn that word out. It’s great stuff.

Taylor ended the night. His energy was infectious, and yet his smile would drop and his brow would furrow. At multiple points, he thanked loved ones for their contributions to the book’s editing process, thanked us for being present, expressed his awe at his book being out in the world. Taylor really means it, whatever he says. He considers his words carefully and considers yours. There was a bar in the portion of Agathe he read that’s not dissimilar, in its off-orange pallor, to The Whistler.

Agathe, 6:00pm to 7:27 is about a woman who finds a note from her long-time husband saying he’s leaving her, for both their sakes. The novel details not only her devastation but her regression into her memories, from the recent past to the origin of their relationship, as Agathe tries to make sense of her identity with and without her other half. She’s unable to stay in the present yet unable to settle on one memory before it bleeds into another—a scrambled and lost teller of her own story.

And I feel that. The good times mix with the bad. We had a great two days with LJ. We had a great family party before the fridge shit. My little cousin got sent to the ICU the weekend after Taylor’s reading. Anna and I took off work once visitation was permitted, but he got discharged that same day and we had an uneventful afternoon with him and my aunties.

Then Anna and I went back to work and both had the most grueling, difficult stretch of days we’d had in a while. Every time we came home, every time we readied for bed, every time we woke up, we kept drying puddles off the kitchen floor because the bags of ice were melting again. The groceries went bad again. We threw everything away. Anna’s phone bricked completely one morning. We went to work and got yelled at by customers. The technician our landlord hired no-call no-showed, and another tech wouldn’t be able to come until the following week.

I wish I could’ve been more present for Taylor’s reading. We had a great time with LJ, taking her to our favorite Indian spot that night, then our favorite diner the next morning, then to Exile in Bookville, our favorite bookstore downtown (one of the booksellers is officiating our wedding)—all pivotal spots in our love’s origin story.

Agathe is the origin of an amazing career for Taylor. Still Alive is for LJ. Maybe this time in our lives will—

Man, I can’t fucking think straight. Our landlord is over, fucking with the back of the fridge while yelling at his brother-in-law on the phone, and there’s a long beeping sound from some gadget he’s using that sounds like a fucking AED.

I’m grateful for Taylor, his grinning generosity. I’m grateful for Tori, for kickstarting my brain on origins. I’m grateful for Ben, his enthusiastic weirdness. I’m grateful for LJ, her laugh, her good company.

I’m grateful my landlord is trying, though what the fuck is that sound?

One day, we’ll remember all the stress and laugh, not because it happened but because we made it through, barely remembering much at all.

Shit, we’re laughing right now.