1,001 Chicago Afternoons

The rain killed the softball game in Eckhart Park.

Just south of the boarded church where plywood circles protect stained glass, the game gave up. Men, young only to the point where muscle turns chub, called it in under the light staccato.

From a diamond lit like day, they walked to the street, patting backs and praising performance. The rain was so light, they didn’t run. Just walked. » Read the rest of this entry «

“You’re coming from Pitchfork, I assume,” he said as he leaned forward on his banjo. » Read the rest of this entry «

The old public bath building is beautiful. It’s plain, yes. Stone façade covering the bottom two-thirds of the front. Brick for the rest, coming to a flat, square roof with some triangular ornamentation on the front.

Simple and pretty, with a few flourishes to show people cared. Some swirled carvings in the tile. And a name carved in the stone: JOSEPH MEDILL PUBLIC BATH. » Read the rest of this entry «

At the corner of Carroll and Wood in the industrial part of town, just south of the railroad tracks and an Allied Waste transfer station — an open warehouse piled with two stories of garbage — alongside a corrugated metal warehouse, dingy and drained, someone tried to make the world pretty.

It didn’t go well. » Read the rest of this entry «

I tore down your signs. And I’m going to keep doing that. » 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 «

It’s story #250, just under a quarter through my quest to tell 1,001 tales of Chicago, but my mind couldn’t be further from the place.

It’s in Rockford, Illinois, where my parents are cleaning the wreckage of a big family Thanksgiving. It’s in the Quad Cities, where my aunt is returning to her routine of the night shift at the post office. It’s in Seattle, where my sister is starting a new life, and it’s on the train bringing my girlfriend back to me from St. Louis.

And it just texted me from O’Hare, saying it made it with plenty of time for the flight back to Florida and had a great time staying with me. » Read the rest of this entry «

Herbert Hinchliffe is a name on the wall of a building I first passed by riding my bike to an interview with a lady who makes ladies underwear.

It’s a red brick garage-style building at Carroll and Damen in the Kinzie Industrial Corridor TIF district. It’s old and nondescript, a garage with doors on Carroll and a big wall along Damen, red and silent but for the words “Herbert Hinchliffe” in gray stone near the top. » Read the rest of this entry «

Dottie wasn’t girly. Her sister Girlie was girly. » Read the rest of this entry «

The sound of rain on concrete is unlike any other sound.

That’s not to say it’s a particularly lovely sound. It’s no better nor worse than rain on a tin roof in a warmish part of the world. It’s certainly much worse than the sound of rain on leaves or on a grassy field. » Read the rest of this entry «