We were lined up outside the Logan Square Auditorium in Chicago for the John Hinckley Jr. concert when we learned the concert had been canceled. The venue sent the email minutes before doors were scheduled to open. I had been passing the time in line checking my phone, so I learned this first. My older brother Cal was chatting with a DePaul student queued behind us with her friends.
Cal said, “See, if I were Hinckley, I would have—”
I interrupted Cal to break the news. The venue was concerned about safety.
One of the DePaul student’s friends said something about a bomb threat.
“And they say cancel culture isn’t real,” said another friend.
Then Cal finished his thoughts. “I wouldn’t have missed,” he said. “Believe me.” The student and her friends all nodded.
Cal excused himself. I reread the email. Nothing about rescheduling the show or issuing refunds. Cal returned a few minutes later.
“House show at your place,” he said. “Hinckley still wants to play tonight. I talked to his manager at the front of the line. I said we could provide a new venue if we could be Hinckley’s opener.”
Cal and I were one-half of the Chicago-based indie rock band Adlai the Last, which we had started together in high school. Pitchfork loved us in 2013, but today, in our thirties, we were dinosaurs in the scene. That Netflix show Easy featured us on their soundtrack several years ago; otherwise, our career had been quiet. Our most recent album came out pre-COVID, and we hadn’t even played live in six months. We had been recording our latest album for over a year now with a divorced dad in Naperville who had installed a recording studio in his basement after his ex-wife and kids moved out.
“I haven’t cleaned,” I said.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Cal told me.
Cal said he would have offered his place if he lived closer. “Think of the band,” he said.
My roommate and his girlfriend were staying in tonight. I had to text him.
Concert canceled. But now we’re playing a show at our place. Hinckley’s playing too. That OK? I put away my phone. I wasn’t going to wait for an answer. Cal had made his decision. And the band needed shows.
Cal yelled to the line of a hundred people that there was going to be a house show at Fullerton and Kimball. Then he gave everyone my address. The apartment couldn’t fit all these people. I asked Cal if we could play in the backyard, but he protested due to the cold weather.
“Do you want to make Hinckley play outside in this?” he asked. “Hasn’t he been through enough?” Cal asked me to text the rest of the band to get to my place ASAP. He said Hinckley would meet us there.
Then we walked back to my apartment. A lot of people beat us there, and they weren’t happy about having to wait on the front porch.
“About time,” a guy said as I opened the front door, entering before me, but there was another door I had to open with a second key, then he walked in front of me again. There was a third locked door at the top of the stairs.
The drummer, Max, couldn’t play tonight; he was bartending at the Native until two. The bassist, Henry, lived in Lombard, and he could be here in forty-five minutes, he said, but his wife wasn’t happy. Is she bringing the kids? Cal texted him in our band group chat, and he didn’t reply. Cal suggested that his children should meet a “true American hero,” and maybe John Hinckley Jr. would gift them a guitar pick they could bring to show-and-tell.
The kids are in bed, he replied. And so was I before you texted me fifty fucking times about this.
It was difficult for Cal to remember that we weren’t in our teens anymore, that we had responsibilities, mostly because he didn’t have any. And the people he spent his time with didn’t either. He always sought out other people—younger, cooler. I loved my brother, but he acted like this all the time. It was part of the deal. He needed me for this show. And I needed him. I needed the band—I was “all the way with Adlai,” like the slogan for Adlai Stevenson II’s 1956 presidential campaign. The second of two losing campaigns. The Stevenson political dynasty from Illinois was the inspiration behind our band’s name, courtesy of Max, who was a history buff in high school.
I was excited to meet John Hinckley Jr., all things considered. I was going to make the perfect tweet about this. It had to be both controversial yet not get me added to a list. I had a draft cooking, a half-baked Reagan assassination joke, punchline to be determined. I would get it there by the end of the night.
Cal and I started to set up our amps in the living room.
I asked him if John Hinckley Jr. was here yet, and he said he was getting food.
“His manager said he’s never eaten a Chicago-style hotdog before.”
“Can I talk to his manager then?”
Cal said he was with Hinckley getting the hotdogs.
“How long is he going to play?”
“Does it matter?” Cal asked. “Your neighbor blasts that oldies shit all the time.” Cal was right, but I wasn’t concerned about noise complaints. I wanted to know how late people would be here so I could figure out how angry my roommate—and his girlfriend—would be. The lease was up soon. His girlfriend wanted them to move in together. I didn’t want to find another roommate, and I especially didn’t want to find another apartment. I checked my phone and had a text from him, but I didn’t read it.
I asked Cal if we could have people out of here by one, and he said we could do that.
“Does John Hinckley have a drummer we can use?” I asked.
“He’s doing a solo acoustic set,” Cal said.
“What about your new friends?” I asked, pointing to the DePaul students in the corner, reading the titles on my bookshelf. One was holding my copy of Our Band Could Be Your Life, which I had owned since high school, before we even started the band, and I wanted to make sure they didn’t steal it.
“What about them?” Cal asked, as if he had been accused of a crime.
“Are any of them musicians?” He eased up, then said they weren’t. They all studied film and television production.
“Can I borrow this?” The DePaul student held up the Azerrad book, and Cal nodded.
I escaped to the back porch for fresh air, where a group had congregated. I couldn’t get an exact head count, but the number exceeded the maximum occupancy—eight persons or twelve hundred pounds—listed by the caution sign.
I checked my phone for a text from Henry. No updates.
“Is Hinckley going on?” someone asked when I opened the back door.
“What’s this address?” asked someone else. I abandoned the safety hazard.
Inside, I heard, “There’s a line,” then looked down the hallway as a lanky DePaul student standing by the bathroom put a hand on my roommate’s shoulder. I walked over to them and guided my roommate into the kitchen, asked if he needed anything.
“Like what?” he said.
I suggested a drink, and I said he could use a beer.
“I know where the fridge is,” he said. “The PBR’s all gone.” He pointed to the DePaul student in line for the bathroom, who now sipped a tall boy.
“Is that mine?” he asked.
“I saw him bring a six-pack,” I lied. “Do you want me to ask him for one?”
He said he was going to have some whiskey if this was “going to happen.”
“Olivia should invite her friends,” I told him.
He said his girlfriend didn’t want anything to do with this.
I returned to the living room to ask Cal if John Hinckley had arrived yet.
“Uber driver got lost, but Hinckley’s on the way,” Cal said.
The beer was a problem for more than just my roommate. There wasn’t enough alcohol to keep these twentysomethings entertained, and half the band still wasn’t here, so Cal asked if I could get us an opener for the opener.
“The people need music,” he said.
I thought of one musician I could ask, a singer-songwriter I saw play at the Hideout last year. She lived in the neighborhood too. I texted her: Can you get here in ten?
“Tell her it’s BYOB,” Cal said.
Max popped up from behind Cal. “Check this out.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked him, and Max said he quit his job.
“I couldn’t miss this,” he said. He showed me a tweet on his phone from the Hollywood Observer. There was a picture of Jodie Foster that looked like a screenshot from a Zoom interview. The tweet read: “Jodie Foster reveals new details about her initial reaction after fan John Hinckley Jr. shot President Reagan in 1981: ‘Truth be told, I was a little impressed.’”
“Bro, do you think he’s seen this?” Max asked.
I asked for his phone, and I clicked the username. A link in the profile directed the user to the Wikipedia page for satire.
“Don’t show him that,” I said. “It’s fake. Do not show him that.” I returned Max’s phone.
I told Cal I texted the musician about playing before us, then told Max for a third time that he should not show John Hinckley Jr. the fake Jodie Foster tweet.
“Do you have Hinckley’s ETA?” I asked Cal, and he shook his head.
Based on Henry’s earlier text from when he left, he would be here in about twenty minutes. Then all of Adlai the Last would be here. I knew that much. One step—and one set—at a time.
The singer texted me back: Be there in five. Minutes later, she stood in front of the crowd, acoustic guitar in hand. We had gone on a couple dates. The last texts between us had been drunk ones from me about how we “should get together to collab,” and she had graciously ignored them. The crowd liked her enough, nodded along, wooed appropriately. I was maybe still in love with her. I had obtained a warm PBR from someone who had indeed brought their own. I checked my phone for texts from Henry between her songs, but he still hadn’t made it to the city. The singer’s set ended, and the crowd applauded. She took a spot next to me. The next band was us, I realized, so I had to set up. I thanked her for playing on such short notice, then told her we could give the crowd her Venmo, but she said the show was pro bono, that she was just excited to hear John Hinckley Jr.
“I’ve watched all his YouTube videos,” she said. “Talented songwriter. The love songs are sweet.”
The Logan Square Auditorium show had sold out before she could buy a ticket. This was her second chance.
“We all deserve second chances, don’t we?” she said. And I said cheers to that.
I asked if she wanted to finish my beer and made the handoff.
The DePaul students started talking to her, complimenting her set and asking where she got her tattoos (“other house shows”). I went to find Cal and the rest of the band.
Henry had finally made it, and after we hugged, he said he couldn’t find street parking and parked in the Walgreens lot on the corner.
“They’re going to tow you there too,” I said, asking for his keys. I told the band to set up while I found a spot.
I parked Henry’s minivan a few blocks away, then ran back to the apartment. I paused for a second before I opened the third and final door.
In the living room, I pushed past all the concertgoers, standing room only.
And then we were up. Adlai the Last, back in action.
Cal introduced us, then we started playing.
The setlist was vibes-based, whatever Cal wanted to play: a song from our first album he wrote when he was fifteen, a sloppy Dinosaur Jr. cover, an extended drum-and-bass jam. The crowd was into it. My roommate and his girlfriend even joined the crowd, and they didn’t look upset.
Cal told me we had one song left. He asked for a PBR from the crowd, and a girl in the front handed him one. He thanked her. Then he walked over to me.
“Hinckley’s not playing,” Cal said, taking a sip. He let out a satisfied ahh.
“What?” I asked. He handed me the beer.
“Hinckley’s not playing,” Cal said. He tuned his guitar.
“You’re fucking with me,” I said.
Cal shook his head. “I know the guy who booked the show. They figured it was going to be canceled. Hinckley’s probably not even in Chicago anymore.”
The John Hinckley Jr. Redemption Tour had ended before it even began.
“What about his manager?” I asked. “Didn’t you talk to him?”
“No, I was talking to this girl from UIC I saw closer to the front of the line.”
“Is she here?” I asked.
“I invited her, but she said she didn’t like indie rock,” Cal said. “I’m meeting her at Cole’s after this.”
“Next song?” Henry asked.
Cal told him. Then he turned back to me. “This has to be the best solo you have ever played in your entire fucking life.”
The last song was one of the rare few where I had a bona fide solo. I generally played rhythm guitar and Cal handled the flashy parts, but this one, titled “Auditorium Anthem,” was the exception. Adlai the Last had once even played it at a sold-out gig at the Logan Square Auditorium.
Of course, that was years ago, the Chicago Reader writeup now a broken link.
The crowd stirred.
Cal kissed my forehead. He said he loved me.
“They’re going to hate us when they learn Hinckley’s not here,” he said. He had never been more serious than this moment. “You need to make them love us.”
