November 05, 2004
Bounding down the stairs, as only grown adults can do with patronizing glares from everyone within a ten yard radius, we continued our jovial dalliance and exited the rear of the Cultural Center. John pointed out a bridge to our right which held Soldier Field at the other side and delivered a fatuous harangue regarding the urgency with which I must now be converted into a Bears fan. I shuddered, not at the cold... Scores of taxis passed us on one side while a vivd array of stone boxed flowers on the other held our progressing gaze. I turned briefly toward the white and yellow taxis, barely resisted whiplash with a terse double take and caught sight of an unusually long bus which appeared to have an accordion stuck in the middle of it. I could not, for the life of me, figure it out, and while I continued to ogle this object of refashioned normalcy, I managed to mangle the innocent foot of a woman leaning against a building. She let out a rather wimpish moan, quickly made up for with a sadist 'I'm going to make you pick up your teeth with your broken fingers' type stare, and we were not remiss in diligently crossing the street.Evening began to settle on the big, brightly lit city of Chicago. By then, we had twisted about enough sidewalks and snaked around a enough corners to declare ourselves somewhat ambivalent in our relation to the train station. John made more than one inquiry as to the general direction while I looked up into the sky for my Sears Tower (not to be confused with the EIFFEL Tower of Paris, as John insisted on pointing out several times). I stated my opinion to the course that we must take and yet my companion could not be swayed. He walked over to a man who had just exited one of the less lofty buildings in the area...
"Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me, which way is the train station?"
"Sure," the man replied, "right over there." Our heads turned to follow in the exact direction that I had previously voiced. John caught the proud smile within my eyes and said to the gentleman,
"So the young lady is correct, sir?"
"Well I suppose --"
"Of course she's right!" I interjected, just so as not to procure any brief pauses of undeserved doubt in the statement. I assured John that I would take care of him for the remainder of the trip and so looped my arm through his, leading him on the proper path.
Our hearts at ease and our wearied feet in need of rest, we headed to the first bar that infiltrated our sight. Billy Goat's, read the sign. I ordered a cocktail, John settled for a Coke and we reminisced over each event of that remarkable day. We staved our thirst, smoked our cigarettes with thorough enjoyment and then rose to continue on our errant way. On the corner, just outside the bar, stood a shadow of a man with a golden instrument that glistened off the lights of the street and was carefully cradled against his chest. The undulating notes of his saxophone rose high into the open air and resonated above the plangent sounds of the city. I reached deep into my jeans pocket, produced a dollar's worth of change and grinned as I let the coins slip from my hands and into his cardboard box. An ingratiating procession of 'thank yous' and 'bless yous' from the street performer tread upon our heals as we turned to walk away. We strolled into Walden Books where I leafed through the crisp pages of Charles Dickens, Maya Angelou and Robert Frost, all the while attempting to conceal an open cup of Coca Cola which I had refused to relinquish at the door. John checked my impulsive nature by requesting that I replace each tome to its proper location, insisting that we might acquire these same works for half price at another time. I, for once, digressed.
Onto the streets once more and I, intent on pursuing the route less traveled, climbed upon the two foot marble wall which ran parallel to the sidewalk, as John kept pace beside me. The wall gave way to a set of concrete steps on which we paused and hence remarked Dear John upon the satisfaction I should hold by having never lost our way. I rambled on of my inadequate geographical abilities and thus he pressed for my opinion of which way lies Lake Michigan. In stoic thought I stood, the wind diminished of its vigor, yet falling softly on my cheek, and I professed that it must be in likeness to this slightly chilling breeze.
"Correct!" with brevity, he stated. "And Lake Michigan is than to the east, so might you claim which way is west?" Obviously, I was than capable of pointing in each direction. He pointed to the north and inquired as to where we would end up if we continued in that direction, to which I ignorantly replied,
"Missouri!"
With a dramatic drop of his head, he sighed, "No, Laura, that is south."
"Oh, yeah." Followed by own uproarious laughter.
(to be continued...)