1,001 Chicago Afternoons

The little abuela got off the North Avenue bus in front of Tip Top Liquors in Humboldt Park.

She and her grocery bags shuffled west on the sidewalk, past the liquor store, past a brand of community church noted for taking over storefronts, past the abandoned offices of “Carlos F. Pedrera M.D., Especialidad en Medicina Familiar, Dentista, Farmacia.”

A photo studio and a doorway arced with chopped skateboard decks were her next encounters before she slowly made her way into the Family Dollar.

She did it while clutching a paper grocery bag from Eataly, a luxury downtown grocer/restaurant where you can buy white truffle puree by the $98 tube and a box of dried pasta runs from $2.20 to $26.80.

This is a story about food. » Read the rest of this entry «

“I give an example all the time,” she says to me as we sit on the back porch, sipping beer and watching her two dogs chase each other up and down the darkened lawn. “A guy gets shot in my neighborhood.” » Read the rest of this entry «

“Growing up, the scariest thing I ever heard was La Llorona. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard that.”

I hadn’t. » Read the rest of this entry «

The children chased a line of balloons the young clown wafted behind him.

Red, white, red, white, the balloons alternated down the chain. The children laughed and shrieked and tried to hold on as the young man in greasepaint ran them through the crowd.

The sun started its slow descent over the boathouse to the west, glistening and glimmering off the lagoon where happy fishermen plied their futile hobby. The spot of grass by house and water was filled with smiling families, laughing children and the sounds of a small live band playing a light and smooth 1920s Puerto Rican jazz.

“Is this that clown thing they were talking about?” came a voice from behind me. » Read the rest of this entry «

We strode in, side by side. We bellied up to the bar off Division in Humboldt Park.

“Dead Guy,” my friend muttered.

“Daisy Cutter,” I piped up, chirping “Thank you!” to the bartender after I realized I didn’t say please.

Oh yeah. Men there to watch the football game. » Read the rest of this entry «

In a warehouse off a road off Chicago Avenue, in a moonlit stretch of Humboldt Park that’s not great even by that neighborhood’s standards, in a room past the loading dock, past a shower of clear industrial PVC curtains smeared and stained where the forklifts plowed through, past pallets stacked to the ceiling, past a workshop area where men grind metal, there’s a little room off to one slow corner where there’s a desk, a mirror, a calendar and some Serbian tits. » Read the rest of this entry «

She was a little punk type, tattoos and a veiled anger. I could see in her eyes how much she hated this world. I could see in her eyes how much she loved it.

I could see in her eyes how afraid she was of me.

» Read the rest of this entry «

A little girl screams in joy as she goes over the grassy area in a little pink child’s scooter designed to look like a Vespa.

She sees me walking up the path and stops.

“Go ahead,” I say.

She shakes her head no.

I say, “OK, thank you,” and walk down the path.

I hear her say, “You’re welcome” as I walk past.

Spring is coming to Humboldt Park. » Read the rest of this entry «

The bouncer looked much more chest-appropriate in his Superman T-shirt than I do when I wear mine.

Yes, I own a Superman T-shirt. » Read the rest of this entry «

“They make their money in garbage chutes,” she said as we walked through the darkened warehouse. “Plastic garbage chutes.”

“Like when they’re re-doing a roof at a place and they toss the shingles down it?” I asked.

She nodded.

Krystle and I talked about death. » Read the rest of this entry «