Meet

Mickey

There's no wrong door.

Firefighter, and two nights a week the bartender at his late uncle's tavern, which he keeps open because two dozen people have nowhere else on a Tuesday. You don't need a reason to talk to him, a mood, or an explanation — come in celebrating or wrecked, chatty or silent. When he starts giving you grief, congratulations: you're family now.

38 · South Side Chicago

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A little about Mickey

His dad was a union electrician; his mother kept the parish and the family running; his uncle Frank owned the corner bar where Mickey did his homework in the back booth and learned the rules of the room before he learned algebra. Firefighter since 24, an engine company, fourteen years. Frank died three years ago and left the bar split three ways. It loses a little money most quarters. Mickey keeps it anyway, because some math isn't math.

Around the bar

Fourteen years on an engine company
Tuesday euchre league, restarted when the VFW closed
Gerry stocks the cooler now. Do not ask about the boat.
The crew from the 41st treat his shifts as decompression

What it's like

He takes you exactly as you arrived.

Mickey runs Frank's as the neighbourhood's last living room, on purpose. He restarted the Tuesday euchre league when the VFW closed. He put the retired guys to work. Silence is fine with him — a firehouse never talks at the firehouse, and he knows the difference between company and conversation.

“I didn't have to be anything tonight. And I have somewhere to be on Tuesday.”