“Doors open on
the right at Damen,” an automated voice alerted. Moments later I
was on a blustery Blue Line platform tossing a hood over my mop of hair. I spread my arms wide and expressed gratitude towards the brick structures
that tamed the wind as I descended steel stairs and set foot on solid
ground. A man standing outside The Subterranean was taking down
plastic letters from the marquee with a suction cup attached to a
long pole. A different band would be playing there that evening.
The Tavern, Crocodile Lounge, and the rest of the bars stood silent
as Wicker recovered from it's hangover... I wanted a drink.
I declined a
breakfast menu upon entering a bike-themed dive a few blocks down
North Avenue. I sat at the bar and sipped a bourbon while I mapped
out the next few hours in my head. One was all it took to take the
edge off. A splash of daylight and the effects of the whisky warmed
me enough to unzip my jacket and hoodie as I reemerged from the bar.
Most of the morning was spent checking out some local gyms, cafes, and street art, all the
while inconspicuously snapping a few pictures on a camera phone. The
neighborhood slowly awoke, and the streets began to fill as the sun approached it's highest point in the sky. While I wandered, I wondered how the
residents of Wicker saw me through their plastic sunglasses and over
the lids of their eco-friendly coffee containers. Hipsters.
Feeling the eyes of scrutiny or a dreamer's subconscious turning on me, I ducked into
Myopic Books and felt at home surrounded by stacks upon stacks of
used books. So many great words, sentences, essays, novels,
manifestos housed under one roof. The thoughts and efforts of
thousands of other people were at my fingertips; their education and
experience printed on pages, bound together, and offered to the world
for critique. A book only ends up at a store like Myopic for two
reasons. Either, the original owner didn't find the book good enough
to ever read again or wanted to share it's greatness with others.
Ironically, the used book business, like most great books, thrives on
both abandonment and empowerment.
After I had my
fill of browsing, I approached the counter with three books that
ranged greatly in seriousness and content. One was heavy. One was
light. One was somewhere in between. The conversation with the pretty
cashier who wore a strategically torn sweater was ready to check me out behind the counter. I
showed her the card she gave me earlier when I checked my backpack.
It was a picture of Danny and his friend the Dinosaur from my
favorite children's book, Danny and the Dinosaur.
“Hey, how's it going?”
“Good, Is this
it for today?”
“Yep. Hey my
name is Danny, and you made my day when you gave me this card.”
“Wow, that's a
lot of information... errr... my name is Kate.”
We spent the next few moments of awkwardness speaking through expressions.
“Oh, no no.
I wasn't hitting on you.”
“Yes. You
were.”
“Well, maybe
a little...”
“I knew it.”
“...but I was
mostly just trying to spark conversation for conversation's sake.”
“Why?”
“I'm trying
to get a feel for people in Wicker. You know?”
“No. Hey, is
my co-worker checking me out?”
“Yeah, he
is.”
“Good, I like
him.”
“I know you
do. I'll get out of your hair.”
“Thanks.”
We returned to normal conversation.
“That picture is
from the best book ever, Danny and the Dinosaur.”
“Oh, okay. I've
never read that one. Your total is $21.35.”
“Cool, thanks
Kate. Have a good one.”
“You too.”
The Myopic fiasco
wasn't the first time that day I failed to strike up some decent
conversation. There was also the guy who worked at the gym that no one was working out in and the girl at the coffee house that named all their coffees after famous artists like Pollock and Van Gogh.
I was failing to
grasp Wicker. I had been running around the neighborhood like a five-year-old on an Easter egg hunt. I bounced from place to place
in search of enlightenment and inspiration, moving to the next
sensible hiding spot as soon as the one before proved lacking. I
ordered a whisky like Hemingway, struck up conversation with
strangers like Terkel , and tried to consume experience like Eggers. I faced the facts that I'm not at all like any of these people and shouldn't try to be; I'm bad at it.
With that tweak in perspective, I finally lightened up. I came to realize how much I was enjoying Wicker. I fear that way too many of it's frequenters fall into the trap of trying to become a part of the neighborhood rather than appreciating what it has to offer. Grateful I had overcome this trap, I continued to wander and collect my thoughts. For all my searching throughout the day, inspiration overtook me in the least expected
of places, hanging out on a bench in the park. As soon as I put my
body to rest, my mind went into motion. I wrote...
I
see a man on a powerized chair. He wears a brown hat, black jacket,
brown slacks, black shoes, browninsh-blackish skin, and a grey,
coarse beard. It's a crisp day, one of those confused between winter
and spring. He's weaving through Wicker Park. The actual park.
Through the corner of my eye he appears homeless or drunk, or both.
He swerves within a foot of me as I rest on a time-worn bench that
sits alongside the sidewalk. He doesn't beg, plead, or con. He
asks, “How yuh doooin-uh?” and is on his way. I wish I had
recorded that utterance so I can play it back over some instrumental
blues from time to time. For all his brown and black and grey, he is
the blues. He is John Lee Hooker, “uh-boom, boom, boom”. As he
fades from sight I look at the path he has traveled, which can't
stretch more than 30 yards. He wasn't swerving in drunkenness. He
was navigating a treacherous sidewalk riddled with imperfections. At
my feet lies a couple feet of navigable path around a particularly
prominent crack in the pavement... a crack to me, a canyon to him.
It soon occurred
to me that all the benches in Chicago parks are exactly the same and
probably have been since the beginning of time. But, at that moment
the bench I sat on reminded me of one in particular. It reminded me
of one that my Grandma would sit on while she watched me and my
brothers jump off the swings and play “Stay off the Hot Lava” on
the jungle gym at Hiawatha park. It was a humbling experience,
watching the rest of the world continue to move while I sat and watched like she would. I
noticed a girl playing fetch with her dog in the out field of a baseball diamond near where I sat and tried to capture the
moment by scribbling a couple lines.
Back and forth
I watch that white dog go.
She pants and
plays in mud and melted snow.
Unafraid of
consequence, happy as can be.
She is titan; a
champion of curiosity.
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