1,001 Chicago Afternoons

The woman’s word was “pertly.”

She smiled pertly as she moved from table to table in the hotel lobby. She moved pertly too. Her long, blonde hair, as much a part of the waitstaff uniform as her blue button-up and her black slacks, bobbed pertly as she pertly sidestepped some inconsiderately placed luggage to bring me my scotch. » Read the rest of this entry «

He walked down the street in a Blackhawks jersey, hat kicked backward. As he crossed the intersection, he hoisted to the honks of the cars a silver spray painted Stanley Cup he made out of a five-gallon water cooler bottle and a plastic bowl.

“You make that?” I asked.

“Made it, bro? It’s the real thing!” the young, bearded man said, pumping it in my face and giving a slight sports fan werewolf wooo. » Read the rest of this entry «

I found a spot with a view of the Jewelers’ Building. I liked the way the pinkish carved curls and swoops across the river were flanked from my perspective by the glass and steel up-ness of the Trump and some Miesian fiasco I can’t be bothered to learn the name of. » Read the rest of this entry «

The Loop wasn’t busy yet, wouldn’t be for an hour.

It would be the second moment of busyness for the day, the third if you count the momentary fluster around lunch. It would be the flock of the same people who looked so pretty and proper in the morning, now with ties askew and dresses rumpled. The ruby-red lips of the morning commute would be muted and wiped away for the ride home, the one to come in about an hour. » Read the rest of this entry «

The ‘L’ track above would have been rumbling had a train been going by.

The streets would have been filled with honks and exhaust had it not been a Sunday.

It would have been dark had there been any clouds.

But instead, on this non-rumbling, non-honking, non-dark slip of the street below the actual loop that gives the downtown its nickname, a little girl was doubled over to shout at a pigeon. » Read the rest of this entry «

Boston hit me hard.

I’ve never had anything less than the proper amount of sorrow for any of the mass killings that turn the name of a place into the name of a horror for months and years after. » Read the rest of this entry «

The woman’s eyes followed the cup’s path down to the table, then traced back up the waiter’s retreating arm.

She looked back at the cup, then back at the waiter. Then back to the cup.

Then she tittered. Little chuckles escaping as she stared at the cup of coffee sitting between her and the leftover slices of deep dish pizza. » Read the rest of this entry «

A plastic mustache dangled drunkenly from his glasses as he dangled drunkenly along the sidewalk, his green top hat askew.

He leaned over as he turned back to call to his friend, who leaned forward as she called to him. He was wearing white jams with pinstripes of green held by suspenders over a green T-shirt. He wore sandals meant not to cover his neon lime socks. » Read the rest of this entry «

A blizzard a blur a whirl of cash registers and make-up girls and transactions and credit cards and debt and Walnut and rich, milky, minty chocolates. » Read the rest of this entry «

Reading’s for chumps. Listen to this MP3 of today’s story. » Read the rest of this entry «