The following is from the Chicago Sund Times front page, Thursday July 30th, 2005. It is my husband, Aaron's story. Thank you to all of you have responded to my posts in the past. They helped me/us through our struggle. Peace & Love, Caitlin
Chicago Sun Times
A kind heart, a helping hand
June 30, 2005
BY MARK J. KONKOL Staff Reporter
On most nights at Village Tap, Aaron Watkins held court from behind the bar, the
first to greet you when the swing of the door announced your arrival.
Tall and fit with a closely shaven head and stubbly beard, he moderated barstool
debate, shamelessly flirted and always, when you needed it most, offered an
empathetic ear.
Folks came to the Roscoe Village tavern just to enjoy his company. And during more
than eight pint-pouring years there, Watkins found some of his best pals, shared some
of his best times and met his best girl, Caitlin Marcoux, a transplant from
Nantucket.
Village Tap regulars became a "second family'' with Watkins at its center -- a pillar
of a tiny drinking community.
In mid-May, doctors diagnosed Watkins with a rare, aggressive lung cancer. On May 26,
he married his best girl. And on Saturday -- just 30 days later -- his heart stopped
beating.
His death leaves a giant gap in the lives of his barroom loved ones. Wilted flowers
line the sidewalk below photographs and tender messages are taped to the bar window.
On Wednesday, Village Tap mourners gathered at a Lake View loft to celebrate Watkins'
spirit with people from other corners of his life.
Afterward, they marched to Lennox Lounge -- home to much of Watkins' courtship of
Caitlin -- to properly toast his memory.
Buried beneath their grief for this bartender was a thanksgiving for having found
each other in such a giant city.
Although the number of Chicago taverns is smaller than ever -- down from some 7,000
taverns in the late 1940s to 1,283 today -- Watkins' passing reminds us that
shot-and-a-beer joints remain a dear part of city life.
'Better lives' through bars
Chicago taverns, gathering places where working-class folks would discuss the day,
once littered neighborhood corners.
"Bars were very important. They were neighborhood centers providing things that
people could not find in their own homes, even good restrooms. It was a place where
you could collect money for charity, cash a paycheck or escape on warm evenings from
being stuck in hot tenements,'' says University of Illinois at Chicago professor
Perry Duis, author of The Saloon: Public Drinking in Chicago and Boston 1880 to
1920.
The demise of the corner tap here is well-documented, blamed by some on the sale of
beer at supermarkets, the boom of television and the continuing decline of tavern
licenses. Since 1994, 411 tavern licenses have been revoked and 53 ward precincts
have been voted dry since April 1995, city officials said.
They called him the "Zen Bartender.''
Watkins was a tattooed fine artist, bass-playing rocker and martial arts master with
a kind heart who had -- for his most faithful regulars -- a generous pour.
Behind the bar he often shared duties and tips with Alexia Delandry, whom he lovingly
referred to as his "bar wife.''
"He made friends everywhere and talked to everyone,'' Delandry said. "When a boy
broke my heart or when I had to put my kitty down, he was always there.''
Many of the 300 folks who crowded the sweaty, tear-soaked "celebration" Wednesday had
had special encounters with Watkins.
''He picked me up so many times when I needed it. And, no, not from being drunk on
the floor,'' said Village Tap regular Bijal Shah.
And places like Village Tap and counterparts across the city allow Chicagoans an easy
way to make introductions, occasional fist fights aside. "You can open your belt,
relax and socialize at taverns without having to work at it,'' Northwestern
University professor Bernard Beck said.
After Watkins passed, members of the bartender's first and second family met, some
for the first time, at Village Tap.
'A special place'
John Talley manned the bar. "[Aaron's] parents were there Saturday and Sunday and
everybody got to go up to them to say they were sorry. . . . It was a meeting place
for them. They got to soak up the atmosphere and see people walk up and pay tribute
to their son. They said they felt like they were at home, a part of something
special.''
For their son, it was indeed special, fateful even.
Take a quiet September night in 2003, for instance, when a spunky, tattooed blond
from Nantucket walked in.
"We were flirting with each other shamelessly,'' Marcoux-Watkins said. "After I left,
my friend bet me $5 to go back in and give him my number. When I walked in the door,
he threw up his hands. He said he tried to yell after me, but didn't know my name,''
she said.
"He called me the next day . . . Aaron and I weren't big drinkers. This wasn't about
boozing as a lifestyle. The bar was the center of the community and has been for
years. It was a huge part of life, an extremely special place."
Widow left with bills
Watkins' death leaves his 28-year-old widow with a heavy heart and "financial
craziness,'' some $400,000 in medical bills that insurance won't cover, she figures.
Without prompting, though, her barroom in-laws already raised $5,000 to help. And
they're putting together a July 4 motorcycle run to pitch in a little more.
Marcoux-Watkins said she finds comfort in some of her husbands' final words: ''Don't
be afraid.''
"I lucked out. I walked in the right bar at the right time, met the right guy and it
all makes sense to me,'' she says. "This community around me is just so incredible.'
