1,001 Chicago Afternoons

A fire hydrant shakes when you crank it open. It shakes and shivers and sometimes blasts the cap off into the street. » Read the rest of this entry «

“It was at 65th and Green in like the dead center of Englewood,” the reporter started.

The conversation stalled for a moment as the third of our party showed up, followed by the beer the reporter ordered. We were in a package good store/bar at the edge of Logan Square’s gentrification, where old timers mingle with the young and trendy. The can of craft beer a tattooed manic pixie bartender handed the reporter bore a quote from “So I Married an Axe Murderer.”

“That’s random,” the reporter said after I explained where the quote came from. “Whatever it is, I like it. I get it all the time.”

He laughed and took a sip.

“So you’re at the shooting?” I prompted.

“Yeah, 65th and Green and I get there and the guy had already been shot.” » Read the rest of this entry «

Cannibals, I kept thinking. They have to be cannibals.

The lady was worried our dinner companions would be boring or might give us food poisoning, but I knew better. They planned to feed us of the longpig.

These are the thoughts as you walk to a house to eat with a total stranger. » Read the rest of this entry «

Leaning on the shovel, the nanny planned her trip to Starved Rock State Park with the geologist.

The nanny, Ellen by name, listed off a slate of plants and animals she wanted to see, the only one of which I remember now is skunk cabbage.

“I want to see vultures,” Asa the geologist said.

Ellen wrinkled her nose at him.

“Vultures? Why?”

Asa looked around the patch of green among the rows of homes in Chicago’s Logan Square.

“Nothing soars here,” he said.

I kept hammering on the frozen dirt. » Read the rest of this entry «

The story ends with civil goodbyes and the writer walking skew past the Logan Square monument with a smile slowly breaking over his face. Lesson learned, the theme music swells, possibly a Bob Marley cover or something with a ukulele.

The civil goodbyes were preceded by compliments, a bit of gushing adulation that slightly embarrassed both the writer and the man wearing the large vinyl sign saying “Psychopaths Have No Shame.” » Read the rest of this entry «

The streetlights didn’t shine on this stretch of street, but the little boy walked down it nonetheless.

He was about 10 or so, bundled up with hat and coat that made his arms stick out a little as he walked, looking around with wide-eyed tension. He knew the area, you could tell. He lived here. But alone after dark on a stretch of street where the lights don’t come on, the familiarity gave way for him.

I took a breath and just accepted that I was about to scare the crap out of this kid. » Read the rest of this entry «

The middle-aged woman with the short, red-dyed hair burst into the shop and asked in a thick, Hispanic accent if they had Hit-Girl #5 yet.

The heavy man, bald as Lex Luthor but with a beard worthy of Niles Caulder, looked up from the book he was reading on the couch, blinked and said yes they did. He then directed her to It Girl #5.

In all fairness, it was a very thick accent. » Read the rest of this entry «

“But at least I picked enough green beans for the homeless shelter,” Jill told me at the end of one of the most angering conversations I ever had.

The Altgeld-Sawyer Corner Farm has been vandalized » Read the rest of this entry «

“Aren’t you going to help?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, flinging myself through the air. » Read the rest of this entry «

My friend Nathan sees things. » Read the rest of this entry «