1,001 Chicago Afternoons

Because there seems to be some confusion, that white thing with the circles on the bottom painted in the lane on the right side of the road is a picture of a bike.

It’s not a picture of a big fat moose who has to be let out of the car four feet from the restaurant because walking any longer would cause heart explosions

It’s not a picture of a cabbie sitting there to tally up bills and smoke.

And it’s not a picture of a big-ass van that decides pressing the little flashy lights means any spot that’s paved and isn’t actually being inhabited by a human being at the moment is a parking spot. » Read the rest of this entry «

The man on the platform stood too close behind me and gave a grin.

“Pauly!” he said.

“Steve!” I replied.

Ten years later, there we were. » Read the rest of this entry «

He drew the hair first, a few lines. They flowed into the outline of a face. Always good to get the broad strokes first. » Read the rest of this entry «

The Brown Line slowed as it made the turn before Belmont. The car and track made that inexorable slow-down groan all train-riders know.

The turn sliced the morning sun at an angle that lit the newspapers of the people facing the back of the car without hurting the eyes of people facing forward. The creak crescendoed. The train slid into silence. Then the three beeps.

Beep beep beep. » Read the rest of this entry «

She was taller and a few years older than him, but they looked at each other and smiled when she got on board the bus. » Read the rest of this entry «

He talked about salvation and passing on your goods to others because you can’t take it with you. He talked about Oprah not having any kids and about people who leave billions to their dog. He quoted Mark 8:36 to the bus driver and turned his head a bit to see if the rest of the No. 66 west to Pulaski heard him.

“For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” he asked the bus driver and crowd.

But it was something else that made me shoot up in my seat.

“No therapy, no counseling, none of that,” he told the driver in a hushed loud tone.

That’s when I realized I knew this man. He was telling the bus driver about how his wife tried to murder their child. » Read the rest of this entry «

All the passengers shifted in their seats when he got into position.

Some suddenly found the window enthralling. Others looked down at their hands with vigor renewed. Those of us lucky enough to already be facing away from the man in winter gear slumped lower in our seats as he took his stance in the open area between the doors of the Blue Line from O’Hare.

“Excuse me,” the man said loudly. » Read the rest of this entry «

There were six hands but only 23 fingers wrapped around the pole on the Blue Line train. » 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 «

Half of what I say is meaningless. But I say it just to reach you, Julia. » Read the rest of this entry «