Third Places

This is the second piece in our "Resurrection" collaboration with Still Alive magazine. I’ll call him Scott, because that’s his name. I met Scott one weeknight a few months back at Cole’s, a dive on a clotted stretch of Milwaukee Avenue in Chicago’s Logan Square. I had walked the 15 minutes from my apartment, and just after stepping inside, wrote my name on the chalkboard by the door like I always do. I was the only one on the list, which, despite the early hour, was rare for Cole’s. Also rare: to not recognize the person at the pool table. That evening it was a young dude with a David Crosby ’stache and black shoulder-length hair hanging beneath a wool hat. He said he’d just broken if I’d like to play.