1,001 Chicago Afternoons

We slid up from the south, pop songs blazing and engine putt-putt-putting happily along the highway path.

The sun had burst through the clouds behind us, gray skies ahead from cumuli not yet scattered. We were in the light and dark at once.

Through the distance, so far ahead that it looked a shade of blue, Sears Tower poked.

“There she is,” I said, gesturing at the blue-tinged city skyline.

“Ugh,” my girlfriend replied.

I felt the same. » Read the rest of this entry «

For this of the Chicago Afternoons, we
Talk of injustice and pączki. » Read the rest of this entry «

All the paths have been beaten in a city.

They’ve been beaten, paved, put on a grid, numbered, named, given an honorary name recognizing someone the city council wants to flatter and digitized by a Google Street View van.

But you can try to find a path that’s new, odd or at the very least slightly less beaten than the others.

It’s a simple process. Get to a corner and say, “Left, right or straight?”

Pick one.

Go that way. » Read the rest of this entry «

For the last month or two, he said, it has been fashionable to cut out the knees of pants.

“I made these myself,” he said in his Aussie/Kiwi/Whatever accent, nodding toward his tightroll-ankle, cutout-knee blue jeans. » Read the rest of this entry «

To be a great writer, one must truck in impotent generalities. » Read the rest of this entry «

The Chicago guy remembers the neighborhoods as they were. There’s still a part of him that believes so-and-so is full of Poles, Irish, Jews, Hispanics or Greeks.

The Chicago guy tells stories of how things were 30, 40 years ago, expecting and getting interest from the details. How filthy Finkl Steel was when he made runs there in his truck driver days. How the houses never used to be condos.

The Chicago guy has strong opinions on Mayor Daley the First. Strong ones. » Read the rest of this entry «

“Ankh Ahmet,” a voice said from the darkness.

Chris looked in the direction of the voice.

“Hello?” he said.

“Ankh Yupid,” the voice continued.

“Look, I don’t know what you guys are playing at, but the guy with the ears promised me-”

A blur of motion, a whish of red shroud, a glint of steel.

“Ahn Donderanblitzen,” the voice whispered in Chris’ ear as he felt the blade plunge into him. » Read the rest of this entry «

Sitting down next to my football-crazed sister.
Mom: “I’m going to sit here and ask you questions every two minutes. Or I’ll knit.”

Walks into room.
Dad: “I don’t care what anybody says, Paul. I still love you.”
Leaves room.

Regarding a commercial.
Mom: “They’re watching TV while eating Thanksgiving dinner?”
Liz: “Do you know who that is?”
Mom: “Some idiot watching TV while eating Thanksgiving dinner.”
Liz: “Peyton Manning.” » Read the rest of this entry «

“I’m sitting in the railway station, got a ticket for my destination.”
— Paul Simon, 1966

“But the dawn is breaking. It’s early morn. The taxi’s waiting. He’s blowing his horn.”
— John Denver, 1966

“Did I remember underpants?”
— Paul Dailing, 2015 » Read the rest of this entry «

The three teens piled on the bus, gabby boy-men with muscle T-shirts, country accents and peach-fuzz beards.

They pushed and laughed and gaped at the machinery as two found seats a row behind me and one sat with a stranger a row ahead. They held loud discussions across me about whether the Western bus hits the Brown Line, about the best route back to the dorms where they had been staying.

“Bet you Tyler’s going to talk to her,” the two behind me fake whispered about the moderately comely blonde by their friend.

He did talk to her. About directions.

They had been given $2 each to live off for the day, so decided to make and distribute sandwiches to the homeless.

“We have enough to eat,” one of the teens said. » Read the rest of this entry «