1,001 Chicago Afternoons

Four days a week for the past two years, he’s stood in front of an underground bar just off Michigan Avenue.

Yes, he said. He has seen some crazy stuff.

“Crazy is just the half of it,” he said with a sideways smirk and a thick South Side accent. “I’ve got a college education and this is what I ended up doing.” » Read the rest of this entry «

The young man at the front desk had his hair dyed blonde like he was playing a German in a sitcom.

“This is a shared co-working space for digital startups,” he recited to a slightly chubby couple who had managed to walk through the space without being able to figure out what it was.

A young man with hair like Tintin zipped past on a Razor scooter.

Welcome to the future of Chicago. » Read the rest of this entry «

The news vans were packing up for the day.

Fox News Chicago slowly retracted the aerial that had been peeking above the trees by Holy Name. WGN, ABC, NBC and CBS would soon follow suit.

A few news crews remained outside the cathedral doing last-minute stand ups as the harsh wind whipped against their perfect hair.

An old man, maybe homeless maybe not, packed up a series of newspapers with Roger Ebert’s face on them.

» Read the rest of this entry «

Over and over, people walked past her.

“Would you be interested in hearing about something that hurts… Would you be interested in hearing about something that hurts… Would you be interested in… Would you be interested in hearing about something that hurts 50 percent of women?” she said as one by one, the people ignored her.

She was a well-dressed, middle-aged woman I knew I wouldn’t like. Women don’t pamphlet outside Catholic churches without me knowing they’ll hit some buttons. » Read the rest of this entry «

A young man in a long coat and short-brimmed fedora stood on the sunny sidewalk, looking around while writing on a folded sheet of paper he braced with a book. He caught me peering so I made up a lie about being interested in what he was reading. » Read the rest of this entry «

It’s just a steak.

It’s a good steak, no doubt. A filet mignon nearing $50, aged well, broiled simply and served with a minimum of fanfare.

But it’s just a steak. Except for the man sitting with his daughter. They’re talking about the colleges they’re visiting. They’re spiffed and prettied, in from the suburbs for a final meal with dad and daughter. It means a lot to them. You can tell. » Read the rest of this entry «

The mourners’ right cuffs were all strapped down. » Read the rest of this entry «

The joint was jumping that Saturday night. Hopping. Jam-packed with the young and trendy, the old and catching up, families, kids, a legion of staffers in blue T-shirts.

There were a few soldiers in their uniforms. A few hipsters in theirs. Every age and race was represented proportionally and happily in that crowd primped and propered for a Saturday night outing to the computer store. » Read the rest of this entry «

I am a thief of moments, a felon of time.

Today I stole a short-shorted young tight-bod’s moment on the No. 66 bus. She chewed McDonald’s and lazily told strangers about the methadone clinic. » Read the rest of this entry «

“It’s good,” he said hunched over with his back to me. “The last few months, people are buying two-, three-, four-hundred-dollar pens.” » Read the rest of this entry «