The vast majority of my recollections of Frisbee Sid are true. Those that aren't ought to be.
As a teenager in 1981, Sid won the Frisbee skills world championship (yes, there was such a thing - sponsored by Wham-O, of course.) He attended Evanston High School at the time and worked part-time for a window-washing outfit. An outspoken and impatient sort, Sid never hid his opinion that the company could be run better. His boss tolerated his impudence because he was such a stellar worker. You think you can run things better? the boss would say. Buy the company and run it yourself.
After making an ungodly pile of cash traveling the country to demonstrate his Frisbee skills, Sid did just that. By the time I met him in the early 90s, Sid liked to brag that he worked only 45 minutes a week. His duties as CEO entailed returning customer phone calls, assigning work crews, and depositing checks into his bank account, inclusive. He spent the rest of his time sleeping in, playing chess and golf, holding court in the late, lamented coffeehouse Urbus Orbis, and caring for his African Grey Parrot.
The day I met him, Sid strolled into Urbus Orbis with the parrot perched on his left shoulder. One of the other regulars, an old punk rocker known as The Dark Prince because he made Keith Richards look like a Brooks Brothers man, nudged me and said, "See that guy who looks like a pirate? That's Sid. You gotta get to know Sid."
That I did, going so far as becoming his roommate in the late 90s. By that time, the parrot was gone. Sid was never a stickler for details. He'd left the window open in his Milwaukee Avenue loft one hot July afternoon while he stepped out to buy a pack of cigarettes. When he got back, he discovered the parrot had flown out the window.
When we lived together, the parrot had been replaced by a Boston Terrier named Buckley, who had all the energy of his breed as well as that of a speed freak. Buckley sort of resembled Sid - both were round-faced, wide-eyed, and sinewy. Like his pooch, Sid was also a ball of raging fire. They even shared some nervous tics.
Once, I had to drive Sid to a Skokie pet shop to buy food for Buckley. The day before, Sid and I had purchased new fedoras. We'd set our new lids on our heads at jaunty angles and sneaked looks at ourselves in the rearview mirror. On our way back from the pet shop, inching down the rainy Kennedy Expressway during the evening rush hour, we hit upon the brilliant idea that since we both owned fedoras, we ought to become private detectives.
Even though we were grown men, we were dead serious. We started making plans. Sid knew a neon artist who could design a blinking-eye sign for us. We'd buy cameras with telephoto lenses, pocket tape recorders, and - just in case - false mustaches. It was perfect: Sid knew how to run a business and I knew how to dig up dirt on people. By the time we got to the old Dennis Rodman billboard near Armitage Avenue, we were talking out of the sides of our mouths.
My first task was to go to the State of Illinois building the next morning and purchase whatever licenses and certificates we needed. I figured they couldn't cost more than a few hundred bucks, all told. It was my sad duty to report to Sid that private investigators must be trained and sponsored by reputable law enforcement agencies. Damn.
We still had our fedoras, though. We sublet the basement of our rented house to a guy named Danny Sideburns, whose life was devoted to girls, pomading his hair, and the avoidance of gainful employment. Danny Sideburns never paid his rent on time but we didn't care - as I said, Sid never was a stickler for details. Besides, as a writer, I paid my own rent a day or two late now and again.
Danny Sideburns started seeing the daughter of a deli-owner who billed himself as - no lie - The Bagel King. The girl was drawn to troubled punks, having thrown over a former high school dropout tough for our tenant. The jilted guy still had some of the girl's CDs and an item or two of her clothing. If she wanted them back, he told her, she'd have to meet him at a taqueria on Milwaukee Avenue where, she was sure, he'd start trouble. She begged Danny Sideburns to accompany her for protection. Danny Sideburns turned to us, panicked.
Sid and I exchanged glances. "Don't worry," Sid told him, "we're coming with you. We've got fedoras."
We looked intimidating as we followed the couple into the taqueria. Sid stood next to the door, smoking. I sat directly behind the erstwhile tough. He gave up the girl's goods without a peep and hastily made for the exit. Mission accomplished. But the guy turned around before he closed the door and yelled, "The next time you wanna talk to me, don't bring your old men with you!" The punk.
Frisbee Sid often tried to counsel me on matters concerning the opposite sex. I'd just experienced a string of disastrous affairs and was moping around the house. "What are you looking for in a woman?" he asked. I described certain qualities that seemed to dovetail precisely with those of a mutual friend of ours named Art Teacher Sharon, who, Sid pointed out, was awfully good-looking as well.
We'd been invited to a party at Art Teacher Sharon's house that Friday. "Now's your time," Sid advised. "A man has to take what he needs. She's ready. She's open. She's waiting for a man to come along and take her."
Yeah, I thought, why not? I arrived early at the party and stayed late. I helped Art Teacher Sharon serve appetizers and mix drinks. I made her laugh. "You're great, Big Mike," she said, touching my arm.
Sidney was right. She was ready. She was open. She didn't sleep alone after the party. Next to her lie a tall Rastafarian who, like Danny Sideburns, eschewed gainful employment.
I wonder if it was because I hadn't worn my fedora.
