1,001 Chicago Afternoons

If he said a few words before he pulled out the velvet-covered piece of cardboard with the three green pop bottle caps on it, I didn’t hear them.

The conversation was behind me, among the inward facing seats on the hated Red Line nausea cars. A man in a thick tan jacket and stocking cap with a hint of a tattoo peeking out from his sleeve pulled out the board with the pop bottle caps and promised $50 to whoever could spot where the ball was. » Read the rest of this entry «

She kissed me under the Wrigley Field sign, the girl with the close-cropped hair and the warm, wonderful eyes. She kissed me and laughed and said:

“Why don’t you take a Divvy bike?” » Read the rest of this entry «

“Pardon me,” he yelled to the rumbling train car. “May I have your attention?”

Oh god. Here we go. » Read the rest of this entry «

Good for you, George.

Good for you for chiming up to ask if I knew anything about the patent office. » Read the rest of this entry «

Writing about a city is writing about oddness and absurdity. It’s writing about the details rather than the broad strokes. There are no broad strokes here, no skylines that go on for miles of undiluted, beautiful sameness. » Read the rest of this entry «

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Want a new car? Well-qualified buyers can get 0.9 percent APR financing at the Honda Summer Clearance Event, happening n- » Read the rest of this entry «

The city breathes at night.

After a locked-in day of heat and sun, we want to get out once the light goes away and we’re left with a wind whose only virtue is not being as hot as it was earlier.

Under dark skies, we go to bars or eat on patios. Dogs must be walked and long hair must be tousled as women and men stalk the sidewalks for ice cream, frogurt or just to get out and breathe. » Read the rest of this entry «

“Concussion!” the man in the pleated plaid pants and the flowing white shirt yelled into his phone. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. I know concussions. He’ll know it when he starts fighting.” » Read the rest of this entry «

“No, I sometimes go to the barbershops down in Chinatown, but it’s a haul from me,” the Asian man told the black man on the No. 49 Western bus as white I plopped down next to them in the back.

The Asian man was young and professional, wearing a suit and clutching a briefcase with one hand. His interrogator was a young black man with a flat-brimmed baseball cap and a goatee that extended a few inches from his chin.

He was talking about hair. » Read the rest of this entry «

All around me, high school students swarmed.

A pretty girl chattered and held court among a sea of horny boy attendees. A few laughing, acne-scarred boys rushed back and forth along the aisle, occasionally smacking each other or testing the waters by saying something slightly racist.

They all laughed and chattered and sulked and teemed. They moved in fast forward with the volume cranked up by half. Even the sulking was loud. » Read the rest of this entry «