that's awasum

State Street Sidewalk
03.25.05 + 2:47 a.m.

Chicago is a huge, broad city. Everything about it is huge, but I’ve never had the feeling that it’s falling in on me, like I have in other cities. Still, it's huge. But, like it is anywhere, once you have a routine, you can find your little spot.

There’s Mr. Nixon, the security guard at my office, who gives all of us a sense of home. Everyone loves Mr. Nixon. He’s a seventy-five-year-old southern gentleman whom you don’t want to mess with. He’s always dressed like a dapper, and brings me the office mail every day, with the same greeting. “Mail-man, mail-man!”

The other day, he told me to remember to carry an umbrella in case of rain. He pronounced it funny, though, so it rhymed with “lumber fella.” He always speaks gently, in his head register, in a way that makes me think it would be terrifying to hear him yell. He always wears a blazer and a hat.

Every night, when I leave the office, we have the same conversation. He sees me exit the stairwell and head towards the door, and says, “Kelly? You leavin’ me?”

“Yes, Mr. Nixon. You gonna be okay without me?”
“Kelly, I’ll try. I’ll try. You have a good evening.”
“You too, Mr. Nixon.”
“I will. It’ll be wonderful. Wonderful.”

Then, when I go out to wait for the bus, Mr. Nixon hovers by the door to make sure I’m not harassed by the crack-dealers.

Every night it’s the same, and every night it makes me smile.

Lately, I’ve had the same bus drivers to and from my office. In the morning, a friendly guy with gold hoop earrings is at the wheel. He initiates conversation with whomever is seated in the foremost seats; during silences, he drums his ringed fingers on the steering wheel in a syncopated rhythm. It’s the same rhythm every day, and depending on my mood, I find it either comforting or infuriating.

Dum. DAH! Duh-dum-dum. DAH!

Over and over again, until the silence ceases.

On the way home, I and the other public transit flunkies are driven by a young woman who drapes an afghan over her lap and keeps a Bible on her dashboard. She is sweet and smiling, but a little horn-happy. She’s quick to call a passenger or driver on any transgression.

To impatient passengers who try to disembark before the bus has come to a full stop, she says, “Calm down, baby,” and she smiles. To smaller vehicles who cut her off or ignore her turn signals, she makes her bus say BEEEEEEP!

Funny, I don’t recall ever riding a bus that is cut off more often than hers is.

And every evening, after I get off the bus, I walk east on State Street towards the subway.

And every evening, I look up at the skyline and the buildings, I look down at the flat river of Midwestern streets, and I think in terms of a lonely romantic.

Chicago may best be artistically depicted as drawn in craggy charcoal, or carved in glass. But despite his masculine, large-scale resplendence, downtown Chicago somehow avoids being a cocky asshole.

I think the skyline and the landscape have a lovely symbiosis, as if the skyscrapers are proud to be in Chicago, and Chicago feels lucky to host them. Their taking each other for granted is a true sign of appreciation.

It’s a very proud cityscape, full of handshakes and smiles and pats on the back, and hair slicked just for the occasion. Just so happens, the occasion goes on and on.

As I look up and down, this relationship satisfies me, the pedestrian. It’s not mine, but it welcomes me.

I peer up at the windows in the high rises, some of them made of rough stone, others of smooth glass, and I imagine what it would be like to live way up there, in easy view of the lake and the Sears Tower. Maybe lean out the window and spit on hoity department stores like Marshall Field’s or Saks if I wanted to. I probably wouldn’t do that, though. I’d just light up the barbecue and wonder if any ground-level commuters were looking up at me in envy. I wouldn't spit on them, either.

The vista from the State Street sidewalk always grounds me. It’s kind of like drinking a tart lemonade on a hot day, or biting into a pickle fresh from the barrel when you’re in the mood for something crisp and acidic. I always know what to expect, but it’s still refreshing.

My accidental routines in this big place make me feel young and little, and I’m okay with that.

People Are Weird

I’m waiting for my bus, outside my office on the wild, wild, wes’ side. A young man joins me at the bus stop.

“Hello,” he says.
“Hello,” I answer.
“How are you doing today?”
“Good. How are you?”
“Good.”
Pause.
He asks, “You ever date a fly, black niggah like me?”
Pause.
“Um … yeah, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I ask because, I’ve always wanted to meet someone like you. There’s nothing wrong with mixing the races. So, what did you mix with?”
“What?”
“What did you mix with?”
“What?”

The conversation ends there. He takes an old cigar out of his pocket, repeatedly licks one end, lights the other, and starts smoking. He spits like a camel. His cigar looks like a goose turd.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.
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words ฉ luvabeans, 2003 - 2004