Smythers

By William Snead



It was a cold, windy day back in March of ’67 as I stood on the Roosevelt Street Bridge  I was half awake as I gazed north toward Madison Avenue up State Street.



In days of past world, famous Minsky’s played a big part in Chicago’s iconic reputation.



Up and down the left side of State Street were flop houses for two bucks a night.  In between those houses were taverns and dives of almost any type.



It was near noon, and the sun, with its brilliant beams of radiance brought forth a warmth that took almost all of the chill out of my bones.



Just then, I heard a voice from below the bridge on the left side of State Street.  “He Oh HO HO HEO HO.”  It was a voice sounding itself from the far distant past.  It was a voice that was familiar.



It was Doctor Smythers pointing to me and then pointing to his own face.



I slipped down the stairs on the left side of the Roosevelt Street Bridge and stepped on to State Street to meet him.  His rolling black eyes stared at me in disbelief.  He tried to half hug me as he shook my hand.  With his “Hum Hum,” he explained to me how his tongue was cut out.  Being depressed, he headed for State and Madison. Madison Avenue is where many former lawyers and doctors congregate.



We headed for one of the in-between joints.  It would be just a temporary stop.  The joint was named Louie Louie.



And the sad story I got from Doc Smythers would tear anyone’s heart out.  His wife and kids were gone.  The clinic was in its critical financial status and could not be helped.  He’d also lost his stellar reputation with the community. We left Louie Louie’s at 5:20 pm.  It was late and time for me to go.



I shook his hand as I put my left hand on his right shoulder and said good bye.  Then I handed him a sawbuck and a couple of fins.  He had tears in those black, rolling eyes.  He then turned and pulled away from me and scampered across to the right side of State Street.



It was the last I saw of him as he headed north to Madison Avenue.  I went back up the stairs of the Roosevelt Street Bridge, looked west and saw the sun red balling.  It was time to go home.



Years later, I heard of a young tongueless dentist who practiced in a small town south of Kankakee in central Illinois.  They say he was quite successful.  After all, he dropped the bottle and went back to his GOD.