#995: The Farm

October 19th, 2018 § permalink

By an abandoned train track in West Englewood, there is a half-block of land filled half with smatters of dying grass, half with crackling concrete, but Kristin Miodonski doesn’t see that.

She sees what it could be.  » Read the rest of this entry «

#994: Whatever Happened to the High Priestess of the Flappers?

October 17th, 2018 § permalink

One night in 1992, Kathy Moody got a call from her aunt. Mimmy had taken poison. » Read the rest of this entry «

#993: Death on Display (Or what’s the difference between a pickled punk and a pharaoh?)

October 15th, 2018 § permalink

I’m standing in a darkened room while soft, almost New Age music plays overhead. It’s relaxation-tape music, down to the odd moments of the simulated sounds of rainfall trickling around the carpet and glass.

I’m staring at a severed head. » Read the rest of this entry «

#992: Morning at the Huddle House

October 12th, 2018 § permalink

The woman in the hairnet with the inside-out Gildan T-shirt — the budget, budget, budget brand of the company that slings their high-end wares for top dollar at American Apparel — scrounged for the broken English that would get her the order of eggs, hashbrowns and single dollar bills in change rather than the five.

She shuffled from the diner counter to the vending machine against the wall.

“My dreams, they aren’t as empty,” The Who wailed from the radio as the woman fed the bills into the Lotto scratch ticket machine. “As my conscience seems to be.”

It was morning at the Huddle House Grill. » Read the rest of this entry «

#991: Nothing But Trouble

October 10th, 2018 § permalink

The three best bits of advice I ever heard about riding Chicago public transit are:

  • “My bus is my bus. I don’t try to make my bus my taxi.”
  • “There’s a reason that car is empty.”
  • and “Nothing but trouble comes through those doors.”

» Read the rest of this entry «

#990: Xanthippe (Or, “Tomorrow’s Song,” but it’s 990 stories in and I only have one story that starts with X so far)

October 8th, 2018 § permalink

On the train, by the window, rumbling south from the far north. Monday morning, she looked out through ’70s style Lennon sunglasses as she hunched over a college-rule notebook, pen in her left hand, wrist wrapped ’round purse so no one can grab and run.

Natural hair, close-cropped but growing out the last remnants of a henna job. It looked good — fashionable and two-tiered. I don’t know if she was hiding it under the white baseball cap turned backwards, or just was wearing a hat. I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to stop her scribbling. » Read the rest of this entry «

#989: Thoughts on a Cop

October 5th, 2018 § permalink

He was lanky and each pore of his skin oozed young.

He had a baseball cap popped too low on his head, like his mom had shoved it down before licking her thumb to scrub a bit of schmutz off his cheek. He noticed people looking at him — noticed me looking at him — and bit his lower lip, chewing it a bit as the train rumbled northward.

He turned and I got a better look down the aisle of the machine strapped to his hip. I helped pay for it. It could kill us all. » Read the rest of this entry «

#988: The Rabbi, Harry Potter and Too Many Corpses

October 3rd, 2018 § permalink

“I’ll tell you a good example,” the rabbi said. “A lady called me up, she said her son wants to go to the Museum of Science and Industry. They had a Harry Potter exhibit, OK? Imagine a kid, I don’t know how old he was, who was into Harry Potter needing to go to this Harry Potter exhibit. So I talked to her, I looked into it a little bit about how the exhibit was set up and it wasn’t possible. I wasn’t able to find a solution really.” » Read the rest of this entry «

#987: The Americans

October 1st, 2018 § permalink

I don’t want to write where this was because I don’t want the cops to roust them.

I’ll say it was on the North Branch of the river, in a spot where blue herons and kingfishers dance among the plastic bags and floating bottles. I’ll say it was where the water striders skim the surface so diligently their trails look like raindrops, and the sound of oars slicing the water overcomes road traffic and O’Hare-bound planes, but only for a bit.

I’ll say it was under a bridge since the story won’t work without it, but giving that much information frightens me, that tipping the world to their existence will get someone to call someone to call an alderman or cop and the laughing men and women and the community they built will be torn down and shoved out.

But they smile and laugh and wave and drink way too early on a Sunday, and they yell to us few on kayaks that they’re Americans. » Read the rest of this entry «

#986: Janna’s Light

September 28th, 2018 § permalink

As a child, Janna Sobel wanted to find the moment the light shut down and you became an adult.

“I felt like my friends were more playful, goofy, spontaneous, like whole, emotional, funny, alive,” she said as we sat in the grass by the Lincoln Park Children’s Fountain, the coincidence not occurring to me until I wrote this sentence. “As a kid it seemed to me like there was a light in their eyes — that’s the way I described it when I was young — and I didn’t see that same level of fullness of being or animatedness or livingness in most adults. It looked like something had happened.”

As an adult, she found that moment.  » Read the rest of this entry «

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