1,001 Chicago Afternoons

It’s easy to wax poetic at a graduation. That’s sort of what a graduation is, a chance to don medieval dresses and impractical hats and wax poetic about the last four or so years. » Read the rest of this entry «

Two ticket takers on the Metra stood in the divot where the stairs lead down to the still-closed outer door. They had been talking for about 10 minutes about a co-worker who died two years before retirement.

One was older, fatter, black and patient. The other was younger, taller, wiry and white. The younger one looked around with fight in his eyes, as if every person, ticket, metal wall and announcement voice was making him angrier.

They were leaning back on the partition walls, facing each other.

“What would you do if you didn’t have to do anything?” the older one asked. » Read the rest of this entry «

The lead guitarist leaped off the stage, continuing his thrashing among the crowd. Aiming his electric guitar like a machine gun emerging from his crotch, he strafed the crowd with imaginary bullets.

He pumped a fist in the air to the beat. The crowd packed in the deliberately divey Rogers Park bar screamed in approval, pumping their own fists in time.

This. Is. Polka. » Read the rest of this entry «

Cops were scattered throughout the student center.

Some cops sat at the tables where students on endless MacBooks studied, laughed and ate surprisingly decent food from the nearby food court kiosk. Other cops leaned against walls, blocked stairwells, stood in circles chatting and talking shop while casting their eyes around the throng of college kids. » Read the rest of this entry «

Peace to the old man sipping drinks at the VFW bar.

And the bagpiper on the condo roof.

Peace to the newsman, chasing stories for cartoons.

Peace to the lady who jammed in Tunisia.

And peace to the one who makes really sexy ladies’ underthings. » Read the rest of this entry «

In the cold, under certain bright streetlamps, the world looks black and white. » Read the rest of this entry «

I never found out if she was living in the storage space. » Read the rest of this entry «

An old man sweeps a store.

The store is closed; no getting in for paletas, helado and the other frozen treats whose taped-up pictures line the edge of the storefront window. The door is locked. The neon above it with “Open” in cursive glass isn’t glowing.

And an old man sweeps inside. He sweeps around carts. » Read the rest of this entry «