Works in progress: Jack Clark

     The Works in Progress feature which had been running Saturdays ran out of steam — well, ran out of writer-friends, actually. I'd hope that readers who had various literary side hustles would step up. But they didn't. Since I try not to repost TOO much old stuff, I crafted a slice-of-life glimpse of my visit to Schuba's on Sunday, and that ironically flushed out Jack Clark, who I had invited to contribute a few weeks back. On Thursday, I posted a 2002 column on him, by way of introduction. Take it away, Jack.

     When Schuba's opened back in 1989, my first thought was, "Oh, oh. Here come the yuppies." I was driving trucks back then, moving furniture. My favorite breakfast joint, the Holiday Grill, was kitty-corner from Schuba's, one door off the corner. It was a single storefront, not very deep, ten stools and three or four small tables. That was the entire place, open for breakfast and lunch only. "Southern Cooking," the sign said.  

Jack Clark at the Grafton Pub

      Ruby was the waitress. Her husband was behind the grill. I forget his name. They were originally from Athens Georgia. I'm pretty sure that's right. They made the best biscuits and gravy I'd ever tasted. I also loved their French toast, a very light batter on fingerprint white bread. It didn't need syrup, strawberries or powdered sugar, just a touch of butter.
     I'd been stopping in regularly since the mid-'70s, usually along with a moving crew. We often ran into crews from other moving companies inside. It was a long way from a yuppie place, and I took it as a bad sign when Schuba's showed up. Rents would go up and the Holiday Grill would be priced out of the neighborhood.
     One day I walked in and Ruby was behind the grill. Her husband had had a stroke. I remember their daughter came in and worked as a waitress to help out. The food was as good as ever. But you could tell it was taking a toll on Ruby, cooking all day and then going home to take care of a sick husband.
     Ruby hired another cook for a bit. The gravy was as white as bleached flour, and I think that's all it was, flour and water. There wasn't a hint of sausage, no bits of meat scraped off the grill to turn the gravy that lovely shade of grey.
     The next time I stopped by, the place was closed. A few months later, I heard that Ruby was cooking breakfast across the street, in Schuba's back room. They'd decided to open bright and early special for her.
     I went in with a moving crew and she was smiling behind the grill. The food was as good as ever. The same room where the bands played at night was filled with morning light. I decided to forgive the Schuba brothers for being yuppies (if that's what they were).
     Ruby always had the radio tuned to WMAQ, which was a great country station back then. One day, George Jones came on singing, "He Stopped Loving Her Today." Ruby shouted from behind the grill, "Ain't no food going out of this kitchen 'til this song ends." You could hear Georgia in every word, and you knew without a doubt that Ruby was thinking of her husband, sick at home, waiting for her to get back to him.
     I was in and out of town in those days. Once I got back and a fellow mover told me that Ruby and her husband had died. "Her husband, you mean?"
     He shook his head. "Both of them." That's what he'd heard.
     I double-parked on Belmont Avenue and went inside. Ruby had been helping her husband across the street, the bartender told me, when they'd been hit and killed by a turning car. That was all the details he knew.
     I've been in Schuba's many times since then. I've heard plenty of good music. But it's Ruby's voice that comes clearly through the years.

     If you'd like to dive into Clark's work, start with his three-book Nick Acropolis private detective series. It's all Chicago based, and start with "Westerfield's Chain," then "Highway Side," and "Dancing on Graves."