#143: Stanley the Centipede and Ernie Worm

March 27th, 2013 § permalink

Leaning on the shovel, the nanny planned her trip to Starved Rock State Park with the geologist.

The nanny, Ellen by name, listed off a slate of plants and animals she wanted to see, the only one of which I remember now is skunk cabbage.

“I want to see vultures,” Asa the geologist said.

Ellen wrinkled her nose at him.

“Vultures? Why?”

Asa looked around the patch of green among the rows of homes in Chicago’s Logan Square.

“Nothing soars here,” he said.

I kept hammering on the frozen dirt. » Read the rest of this entry «

#142: Psychopaths Have No Shame

March 25th, 2013 § permalink

The story ends with civil goodbyes and the writer walking skew past the Logan Square monument with a smile slowly breaking over his face. Lesson learned, the theme music swells, possibly a Bob Marley cover or something with a ukulele.

The civil goodbyes were preceded by compliments, a bit of gushing adulation that slightly embarrassed both the writer and the man wearing the large vinyl sign saying “Psychopaths Have No Shame.” » Read the rest of this entry «

#141: Green Beings

March 22nd, 2013 § permalink

A plastic mustache dangled drunkenly from his glasses as he dangled drunkenly along the sidewalk, his green top hat askew.

He leaned over as he turned back to call to his friend, who leaned forward as she called to him. He was wearing white jams with pinstripes of green held by suspenders over a green T-shirt. He wore sandals meant not to cover his neon lime socks. » Read the rest of this entry «

#140: Evil Twins

March 20th, 2013 § permalink

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 «

#139: The Quantum Jew Loses Faith

March 18th, 2013 § permalink

I went to a Jewish thing in Bucktown. It would have been an awesome story. » Read the rest of this entry «

#138: Old St. Pat’s

March 15th, 2013 § permalink

As the blood pooled in my knees on the riser and the ventilation licked dry the spot of sacred water on my forehead, I smiled and recited the Our Father, the Hail Mary, the Glory Be. I don’t believe in God. » Read the rest of this entry «

#137: The Danish Invasion

March 13th, 2013 § permalink

“How do you spell that?” the woman in the security blazer asked as she looked down the laminated sheet.

I blinked twice.

“D-E-N-,” I said, pausing to let her check the sheet. “M-A-R-K.” » Read the rest of this entry «

#136: In Praise of Loonies

March 11th, 2013 § permalink

Over and over, people walked past her.

“Would you be interested in hearing about something that hurts… Would you be interested in hearing about something that hurts… Would you be interested in… Would you be interested in hearing about something that hurts 50 percent of women?” she said as one by one, the people ignored her.

She was a well-dressed, middle-aged woman I knew I wouldn’t like. Women don’t pamphlet outside Catholic churches without me knowing they’ll hit some buttons. » Read the rest of this entry «

#135: Hunting Ben Hecht, Part 1

March 8th, 2013 § permalink

A middle-aged man in the waiting room leafed through sheet music, reading it like a book.

Along the far wall, a mother diddled with her iPhone waiting for her son’s piano lessons to finish.

A song describable as only “da da da da da dum dum” repeated interminably overhead as an unseen instructor in another room bade his pupil practice and practice.

And a grand piano by the storefront window was topped with stacks of fliers and posters for upcoming shows, books of sheet music, a clock and a bottle of Purell, the last of which I availed myself of when I was sure no one was looking.

Here’s where Ben Hecht’s legacy lives. » Read the rest of this entry «

#134: Fiesta Time

March 6th, 2013 § permalink

He was smiling toothy at me, but clearly didn’t want me there.

“Coffee? Down there,” he said, pointing west toward Foster and Western. “Down there you have coffee, hamburger, everything you want.”

He had a perfect coif of white hair to match his toothy smile. He was handsome once, you could tell. He was handsome now. But he wanted me out of Fiesta Time. » Read the rest of this entry «

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