1,001 Chicago Afternoons

He grabbed the handlebars of the Razor Scooter and tried to plow her into the chain link fence.

She laughed. She laughed and tried to pull away, leaning to make the Razor fall out of its descent into the chain link. Then, as her shoulders pulled left and his pulled right, they touched. » Read the rest of this entry «

In the darkened street where the road bends for no reason, the woman leaning against the motorcycle shook her head.

She didn’t know.

The man wandering down Milwaukee, head up in the air and body doing that search-stumble thing you do when you’re not looking where you’re going, I didn’t ask. He clearly didn’t know.

Nor did the two women who slowed their conversation to look up to the roof as well. Nor did the woman walking stately on in a kinte cloth dress and matching head wrap. She didn’t look or care where the music was coming from, this one. She just kept going, as unstoppable and elegant as an ocean liner heading out to sea. » Read the rest of this entry «

The window was open because I like the cold. I was on the couch because I was reading a sad black-and-white comic book.

And all I know of these people is that one was mad at Danielle. » Read the rest of this entry «

1. Wrigleyville

Just down the street from a storefront just marked “BEER,” no one was interested in the best margaritas in Wrigleyville.

The windows and doors had been thrown open to let the spring warm patrons who would hopefully come in to watch the Cubs lose badly on the many, many TVs stationed around the bar.

It wasn’t working. I was alone with my Victoria. » Read the rest of this entry «

Some days you mop. You have to mop. The floor is filthy and has little bits of things caked here and there. Sort of… gummy specks? » Read the rest of this entry «

The bus sped past the old man with the bright yellow jacket and the funny fur hat.

He stood in disbelief that turned into anger when I called “What the hell was that?”

“Motherfucking police!” he yelled, pointing at the two illegally parked squad cars that had blocked the bus driver’s view of the stop. “They park there, not fucking policing anything!” » Read the rest of this entry «

A student at the college where I teach recently interviewed me for an assignment for a different class. One of her questions was if I had anything I would prefer to write about.

I told her about lead in the soil in Englewood and the decades the Fisk and Crawford coal plants spent reeking the air in Pilsen and Little Village. I told her about science, about politics and poverty and how the three meet in ways the majority of the world walks by without giving a second glance.

What was I supposed to tell her? That I want to write about haircuts? » Read the rest of this entry «

Some days, I trek to Englewood to see where serial killers worked.

Some days, I head south to meet a man who has been cutting hair for 68 years.

Some days, I track down Chicago’s last typewriter repairman.

And some days these 1,001 stories of the Windy Second City That Works don’t take me more than 10 feet from my front door, where I look at a car that confuses me mightily. » Read the rest of this entry «

I have a receipt written out by hand on paper lined with dancing ostriches. » Read the rest of this entry «