In the wintry months of my junior year of college(circa 1990,) I was introduced to a bar in the (then) offbeat Chicago neighborhood of Wicker Park. At the time I was a college radio dj, and likely the first thing I noticed was how many members of various local bands were in attendance. I spied these characters, sipping at their Hacker-Schorr Weiss beers, carefully tipping back the mammoth glasses so as not to have the accompanying lemon wedges spill on to their goatees. Other less monetarily-endowed patrons (much like myself) enjoyed the $1 glasses of Leinenkugel.

As the years went on, I graduated and moved into a charming apartment in a Northside enclave known as Andersonville. Andersonville (and adjacent neighborhoods) had its own wonderful selection of small bars and taverns, each with its a unique ambiance. But despite the proximity of these, I was continually drawn miles down Damen Avenue to that dark, Wicker Park cavern of knotty pine and red vinyl. Luckily the Damen Avenue bus dead-ended at my street, so I could hop a ride, noting each stop with schoolgirl glee in anticipation of the night's events.

This bar was NOT a pick-up place, nor a date place. To some, it was a see-and-be-seen joint; to others it was a haven for cheap drinks and fantastic, eclectic music spun on the house turntable by the bartenders. The bartenders were also well-known musicians among the crowd of regulars.

And then there was the bouncer, Ken.

I never once saw Ken actually "bounce" anyone. Despite the (at the time) seedy locale, the crowds, though varying depending on night of the week, always seemed amiable. Ken sat perched atop a barstool at the entrance wearing a beret and looking very much like a beefier, more fit Philip Michael Thomas, minus the pastel suits. Occasionally he'd help the bartenders by washing glassware. As my best friends and I became not one or two but three to four-night-a-week regulars, we'd sometimes get a, "Goodnight" from Ken as we left. He was an enigma.

Then one night, in what must have been the waning days of winter, my friend, Bridgette, and I were approached by Ken. As we sat at the bar, he walked to us, handed me a business card with a handwritten address on the back.

"I'm having a party next Friday night," he said. "You girls should come."

We were both so simultaneously shocked and thrilled, we just stared back. Finally one of us muttered, "Thanks."

Our next move was to rush into the bathroom to further examine the "evidence" (the card) of what we thought was our validation into the Rainbo Hall of Fame.

On the front of the card was the bar info and simply "Ken" in the corner. On the back was scrawled an address in the 2100 block of West Washington. If you know Chicago, you know that is the Westside, likely even sketchier of an area than that of our beloved tavern. We were undeterred.

The following week, with the giddy combination of excitement and fear, we headed to the private party. As we walked up to his home, we read a sign on the door:

I believe it also listed some sort of Evangelical affiliation, or at least had a Cross on it. In other words, his party was (apparently) an opportunity for him or his pastor or SOMEONE to attract a new group of young people into the fold to hear about Jesus.

 We must have spent 10 minutes on his front stoop, shivering in the cold, trying to decide what to do. Bridgette and I, both raised Catholic but at the time very loosely affiliated with that persuation, had great doubt (that it would be fun) and fear (that they'd try to indoctrinate us) relating to this situation.

In the end, we fled the scene with disappointment and still feeling a bit confused. Ken never spoke to us again. Not that he was nasty; I'm guessing that the Spirit just  didn't move him off his barstool.

In retrospect, I feel I acted a bit like Peter, denying Jesus when it hit the fan in the wee hours before Good Friday, then rejoining his friends a few days later. To this day, I wish I could re-do that scene as the person I am today: confident in my faith, happy to enjoy the spirit of fellowship with other children of God, and gracious enough to follow-through on a personally-delivered invitation.