Big Mike: A Whale Of A Guy

In the late 1990s and early 00s, I never felt happier than when I was at the Whale. Despite the fact that it was on the edge of the grim, grimy, semi-industrial wasteland that separates East Pilsen from Bridgeport on Chicago’s south side, and the fact that the noisy, filthy Dan Ryan Expressway loomed overheard a couple of hundred yards to the east, the Whale was heaven.

The place was located on the southeast corner of Halsted St. and Canalport Ave, across the street from a taco joint and next door to a pest exterminator. It was a beige aluminum-sided two story storefront with an apartment on the second floor. Its exterior walls came right up to the sidewalk.

When you turned into the alley behind it, though, you’d see the delightful little courtyard with ivy-covered walls it enclosed. Any night, as long as it wasn’t sleeting or frigid out (and, occasionally, even then), there’d be a circle of local artists and other no-goodniks sitting around a fire pit, drinking Negra Modelo or Maker’s Mark, waiting for the spare ribs to be ready.

The Whale was home to an artists’ collective that I was fortunate enough to be invited to join back in January, 1998. We were wood carvers, sculptors, bass guitarists, painters, song writers, poets, storytellers, film and video directors, modern-day Rube Goldbergs, performance artists, and others who couldn’t fit in anywhere else except with a bunch of rag-tag creative types.

On that frigid Sunday night I was wasting time at Bic’s Hardware Cafe when a tough-looking character came in, tapped me on the shoulder and told me to follow him. What with the filterless Camel dangling from his lips and his calloused hands, I might have figured he was a bill collector but, fortunately, I’d seen him around the neighborhood now and again. This mug, named Tim, loaded me into his car and told me not to ask questions. Then he drove me into the alley behind the Whale. We entered the place and I found it filled with people, just finishing up a sumptuous pot luck meal.

Several of the people surrounded me, dancing and laughing. They placed a titanic sombrero on my head and covered my shoulders with an old velour cape. One guy handed me a long, bent pipe brush and said, “This is your scepter.”

He continued: “Welcome to the weekly meeting of the Ever-So-Secret Order of the Lampreys. You’ve been selected as our adjudicator. It is your duty to judge the art that’s been made over the last week by our members. Tonight you are all-powerful. You are a deity. Wield your power wisely.” He motioned for me to sit in a chair.

For the next two hours, I watched and judged as some two dozen sculptures, drawings, paintings, poems, and musical pieces were paraded before me. I don’t recall ever having much more fun.

Immediately after the festivities were completed, the guy who’d handed me my scepter stripped off my royal raiment. “Now you’re nothing,” he shouted gleefully. The mug named Tim, a Camel still dangling from his lips, smirked. “Now you’re just like one of us,” he said. I couldn’t wait to come back to the next Sunday night’s meeting.

As the weeks passed, I found myself spending more and more time at the Whale. I’ve only felt at home twice in my life: Now, in Bloomington, Indiana (imagine that — Bloomington goddamned Indiana!) and then, when I was spending every possible free moment at the Whale.

The Whale, by the way, was also a man’s home. The fellow who’d anointed me adjudicator that January Sunday night? He was Kenneth Morrison, the Perle Mesta of East Pilsen. He’d throw a party to celebrate anything, up to and including the sunset. And there’d always be more food and booze than an army could consume. Twice a year, in June and October, Kenneth’d put on a pig roast, a two-day long fete that drew hundreds of neighbors, hipsters and artists from all over the city. There’d be dancing and drinking starting on Saturday afternoon when he’d put the pig over the coals and live music all through the next day. Oh, and the famed belt sander races would put an exclamation point on the weekend on Sunday evening.

Kenneth opened his home and his heart to anyone who was in need. And, believe me, in the artists’ enclave of East Pilsen, there never was any shortage of people in need. Kenneth opened up his wallet and bailed me out of a tough scrape once. A few weeks later, I confessed it’d take me a while to pay him back. He said, “Forget it. Consider it a gift.”

I could have kissed him. Nevertheless, a year later I squared my account with him. “What’s this for?” he said, looking at the nine C-notes I placed into his hand. “I told you it was a gift.”

Now Kenneth’s in need. The Whale burned down this month. He and his tenants, good old Nat from The Hideout and Michelle, are now couch surfing. They lost all their clothes and keepsakes. All the art that ever was brought to the Lamprey meetings has been destroyed. I cried when I heard the news. I cried for the art. I cried for the memories. But most of all, I cried for Kenneth, one of the best guys I ever met.

All the good that Kenneth ever did is being repaid in spades. The neighborhood is rallying around him. It’s called love.

Kenneth figures he’ll rebuild the Whale. If he does, I don’t doubt he’ll throw the party to end all parties.