Falling In Love, Chicago-Style

Tomorrow was better.

Much better.

I woke up around 9 and called a cousin of a friend of my father’s that works as a lawyer in Chicago. I know, it’s really convoluted, and I didn’t want to call, but my dad’s friend insisted. So

I called the super crazy high-powered medical malpractice law firm where this guy is a partner, trying not to state the obvious by saying, "Hi, I’m a random girl who knows you through four degrees of separation. Please take me out and pay for me to eat." He was very gruff on the phone, saying, "I’ve been waiting for you to call all morning! Get down here by 11:30 and you can come along with my partner and I to Manny’s Deli. See you then."
"Didn’t I live in New York City for four years?" I wondered aloud. "Wasn’t I once used to people being short with me?" I was re-developing the tell-tale sign of being from the sticks - taking things personally.

I showered quickly and high-tailed it - with semi-wet hair - to one of the largest office buildings in Chicago, 15 minutes early. That gave me time to call The Billy Goat and complain to the owner, Sam Sianis, about Nick and the night before. "Sir, I’m really sorry to have to call under these circumstances, but...." I explained the situation.
"Okay, I look into it," he said, shrugging me off.
"Thank you, sir."
So much for The Billy Goat. I’ll be damned if I ever go there again. Unless I’m with Frank. Frank would go apeshit on some old bartender ass.

I went up to the seventh floor and thanked my lucky stars it was Casual Friday. That meant I didn’t look too terribly out of place in my 3-dollar Wal-Mart jeans, green top, and Doc Maartens. Just slightly out of place. Tom, my dad’s friend’s cousin, met me in the hallway. I knew just by looking at him that my anxiety about his gruffness was unfounded. He was charming and funny, a fast-talker like any lawyer should be. His brown hair was lightening with gray and his blue eyes sparkled behind his glasses. He had on a checkered shirt and a flamingo tie. I relaxed. He cracked jokes about his cousin - "Why on earth would you ever be friends with Mary?" - and gave me some Harvick family history. After chatting briefly about my trip, he called someone to his office, saying, "My associate will be coming with us. I thought you’d enjoy talking with a female lawyer in Chicago rather than just me. Here she is!" I turned around, expecting to see a buttoned-up broad with tight lips and a bun. Instead, I saw Reese Witherspoon.

Honestly, this girl looked so much like Reese Witherspoon, and when she opened her mouth to say, "Hi, I’m Heather!" she sounded just like Reese Witherspoon, to the point where I felt bad, like I was staring. And of course she’s a lawyer! It was too perfect, too contrived in these post-"Legally Blonde" days. It was hilarious! I adored her from the start - it was impossible not to.

While Tom got caught up in a phone call, we talked about my trip, her home state of Oregon, law schools in Southern California, and how much she loved working with Tom. "He and I worked an interesting case together, a penile implant malpractice case. Very enlightening. I was the only female on the case, and here’s this seventy-year-old man outlining the problems with his penile implant. Tom’s sense of humor was the only thing that got us through that deposition. And apparently there’s all kinds of these things on the market, y’know?"
"What, you mean like the pumps?"
"Yeah, and I guess there’s like, rod ones too."
"Oh my god, really? Have you ever pitched a tent?" I asked her, images of the build-a-rods dancing in my head.
"Oh my god! That’s totally what I was thinking sitting in that room!"
It was kismet.

Heather went to Whittier Law in Orange County, CA, where she was a champion of individuality and very outspoken against the typical female stereotypes. "So of course I ended up in Chicago by following a boy!" she added. She was in her Casual Friday - what else? - pink shirt, jeans, and pink sneakers. After a few minutes I couldn’t stand it any longer.
"Do people razz you for being a lawyer when you look....so much..... like......" I trailed off.
"Reese Witherspoon? Yeah, I get it all the time - "Legally Blonde"! "Legally Blonde"! I’m used to it. Actually, I even had my flight upgraded to first class once because the staff refused to believe that I wasn’t her."

We forwent Manny’s Deli and instead walked to lunch at a swanky hotel restaurant that offered a great view of the city. On the way over, Tom pointed out the Chicago courthouse building. It was a bloody shade of rust. "See that? It was supposed to be called The Golden Building, but some chemical reaction occurred that made it turn ugly brownish red." The restaurant had a spectacular buffet - I’m usually not a fan of buffets but when it offers warm brie and poached duck, I won’t argue. Lunch was awesome and Heather and Tom teamed up to convince me to go to law school. I have to admit, it was the last thing on my mind but now I am seriously considering it, assuming my DUI can be expunged. (Doubt it.)

I learned a few interesting things about Chicago while out with Tom and Heather. One, the Chicago Cubs are a crappy team but their games are sold out every day. The White Sox are a fabulous team but their stadium is never even half-full. Chicago hosted the first World’s Fair, known as The Columbian Exposition in 1893, during which a serial killer preyed on the city. Heather recommended a book called "The Devil in the White City", outlining the events, which I picked up on the way back to the hostel. Both Tom and Heather advised me to check out Marshall Field’s department store (although I stopped into H&M instead), and they told me stories of the old roustabout businessmen in Chicago who literally built the city through savvy and sweat - Daniel Burnham, Frank Millet, and somebody named Atwell. It made sense then, that civic spirit that still swirls about Chicago; the ghosts of hundreds of well-fed men in bowler derbys smoking cigars under thick mustaches and making noises like, "Harharharharharhar", mingled and fed with the blood of the stockyards. Several times after that conversation, I felt if I turned my head quick enough, I would see them.

Tom ran off into the hot Chicago afternoon to get a haircut before going back to work. Heather unfortunately had to go back and study up on a case, else I would have kidnapped her and played hooky the rest of the day. Well, hooky for her, normal everyday life for me. I hugged her goodbye with the hopes we could keep in touch, then set off back to the hostel. I took my new copy of "The Devil in the White City" and my laptop on a walk and ended up by a huge fountain whose name starts with a B. The park was beautiful but stifling, but I chose to sit in the sun anyway, hoping to even out my t-shirt tan with a wifebeater tan.

I got a lot of writing done in between watching a gnarled old black man feed the seagulls. He was the kind of old person you find yourself pining for long after they walk away, the kind you want to hug and hold onto out of mixture of pity and protection. He was tall, seated carefully on a sunny bench, wearing black jeans and a navy windbreaker with a Star of David on the back. His salt-and-pepper afro stuck slightly out from under his mesh cap, worn high on his head. On his lap rested a plastic bag from 7-11 and a black knapsack was at his feet. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he were in pain from arthritis. I watched him carefully unwrap a sandwich and eat it, the seagulls violently jockeying for position in front of him. One gull in particular bullied the rest, cawing and chasing them out of his way. "Sounds like he’s sayin’, ‘Get out!’, don’t it?" the man called to me.
"Sure does," I said, trying to figure out why watching this man made me want to cry. Even now, more than a week later, just writing this is difficult. Maybe it was the careful way he moved, maybe just the look about him that spoke of Every Black Man In Every Film That Ever Depicted Racism. I wanted to grab him and put him in my pocket, making sure he’d be happy every remaining day of his life. I want to do that to a lot of people. I saw many people like that in Chicago.

Sometimes I get so sad that I can’t save people from sadness that I find it hard to move, like a weight is tied to my heart. Maybe that’s why I felt like crying - the pain of knowing I can’t fix things.

The man threw the last bit of his sandwich to the birds and watched them fight over it. Then he reached into the bag and slowly pulled the seal from a small plastic bottle of whole milk. He was so beautiful. When he finished the milk, he put the bottle in the plastic bag and stood up, bouncing on his heels to shake the crumbs from his jeans. I saw his Star of David necklace as he turned to me, drawling, "You have a nice day, now!"
"You, too," I waved as he turned away, limping slightly out of the park.

I had been so intent on watching him that I hadn’t even noticed a friendly red-headed man sit down on the same bench as me. This younger man and I got to talking after awhile and he told me all about his novel. It sounds really good, a mystery with a lot of twists and turns. If you see a book called "Lunar Falls" someday in a bookstore, pick it up. I’m betting it’ll be worth it.

When my battery died I went back to the hostel, de-stunkified, and met the latest addition to Room 415. I forget her name but she was from France. We talked for awhile, during which we asked each other a lot of questions. Bizzarely, the majority of my questions and answers were all prefaced by, "Now, I don’t want to sound like an ignorant American, but...." She didn’t seem to mind, though. She was one French person who actually preferred America to her native country.

I left a note for Susan on her bed with my cell number, so she could call me when she got back from her conference and we could go out on the town, and then hopped in a cab, armed with my new best friend, "The Devil in the White City". I was headed to Pizzeria Due’s for some Chicago-style deep dish pizza. Based on the events of that night, I owe a lot to the devil in the white city.

I was expecting a huge wait, it being Friday night and having seen the line outside the night before. I use the word "line" loosely - really it’s just a bunch of people milling around on the corner drinking beer out of plastic cups, whiling away the hour-long wait for a table. Lucky for me, I was alone. Dining solo: bad at The Billy Goat, good at Due’s. Anyway, I got a table right away, albeit a high-top in the bar area. Still, it was the perfect size for one and it beat sweltering outside trying to hold a flimsy cup of beer and a book open at the same time.

The Cubs were playing and there was a group of aging frat boys gathered at the tiny bar, causing a general ruckus and bothering me while I was trying to read. They were so obvious - I could see them daring each other to go over and talk to me. I mean, seriously, the whole restaurant is about the coffee mug, so standing 4 feet away in a huddle and looking over at me is going to be pretty freakin’ noticeable. Not to mention "breaking" with a hand clap. Ugh. I hate stupid people. (Honestly, guys, if you see a chick in a bar with a book, the book is not bait. It’s not a conversation piece. It’s a conversation preventer. And just because a woman happens to be out alone, IT DOES NOT MEAN SHE WANTS COMPANY!!!!)

Anyway, here comes this middle-aged balding guy in a Jimmy Buffet ball cap and Hawaiian shirt, getting way too close, asking me the most inane questions about my book, and making the strikingly astute observation, "Hey, this doesn’t have any pictures!" (I swear I am not making that up.) I looked at my waiter imploringly, hoping he would come over and save me, but he didn’t notice. That left me to shun this dude with my usual stockpile of uninterested responses, silent nods, and failure to make eye contact. The next guy picked for The Impromptu Team Of Men Who Will Bother The Single Chick tried the "Hey-This-Place-Is-Crowded-Can-I-Set-My-Beer-On-Your-Table?" approach. Perhaps he thought he had a better chance, what with his sexy graying goatee and all. I told him the table was too wobbly.

Thankfully, my pizza came just in time. No one wants to hit on a chick with her mouth full. Of pizza, at least. (I added that because I knew you would in your head anyway, you dirty-minded sons of beetches!) So I was five chapters and three deep-dish slices in when I looked up and saw Rivers Phoenix standing at my table. In a Pizzeria Due’s uniform.

"Hi, I’m David!" he said brightly.
My mind: "Oh my god, he is devastatingly cute..."
My mouth: "Uh, hi! I’m Jessica."
We shook hands. He had Buddy Holly glasses, my favorite Guy Accessory. I blushed like a schoolgirl.

"I saw you reading and I just wanted to come over and introduce myself. Only because it’s not often that you see someone reading in a restaurant, much less a bar." He was speaking very fast, probably trying to squeeze this conversation in between taking orders or something. "I’m a writer, so it’s nice to see somebody reading. Do you write?"
"Uh, yeah, actually! I’m writing a book right now, that’s what brings me to Chicago!" I quickly explained a little about my crazy life.
He took a pen out of his apron and began writing on a tiny slip of paper. "Wow, that’s great! Well, thanks for being on the front lines, y’know, actually writing! It’s not often that you meet someone who lives the dream. Um, this is my number, in case you want to get together or something, y’know, later. Or whatever. I just... think it would be nice..... to....talk about writing. You know." He suddenly got very shy, looking at his hands.
"Yeah, I’d love that!" I told him. "Tonight I’m getting together with a girl from my hostel, maybe you could come too?"
"Great! Well, give me a call!"
We both giggled nervously for a second, nodding our heads like dorks.

He sped away to wait on his tables. I tried to hide my cheesy grin. Around 9, I had to leave to get back to the hostel, to meet Susan and renew my parking permit at the lot near the hostel. The waiter brought my reciept and I started to write a note for David on it with my number. Usually, I don’t go around giving it out AT ALL, but I got such a good vibe from him that I made an exception. David appeared at my table before I could even sign my name, like he materialized from somewhere.

"Oh! Goodness!" I stammered. "Well, here! I was going to give it to my waiter to give to you, but here you go. Um, I guess just give me a call when you get out of work?"
"Yeah," he said. "Definitely! And thanks again, y’know, for just being on those front lines. There aren’t many of us. Maybe you can tell me some stories of your travels or something."
"Oh, yeah, I’ve got some crazy ones!" I said, jumping off my stool and shaking his hand again. "Nice meeting you!"
"You too! I’ll give you a call a little later!"

Okay, so maybe a book is a conversation piece every now and then, albeit unintentional, though. On the way out of the bar I whispered, "Thank you, devil in the white city," as though he were an imaginary friend.

I all but floated out of the restaurant and onto the street, hailing a cab and bounding up to the parking attendant on Congress and Wabash like a kid who knows his birthday is tomorrow.

Racing up to the room to meet Susan, I found she wasn’t there and the French girl was asleep. I waited downstairs in the common area for some word from Susan but it never came. I read my book until David called at midnight. "I’m finally out of work," he said. "What’s up with you and your friend?"
"Well, looks like it’s just me, actually."
"Oh. Well, that’s cool. Do you want to just have coffee or something? You can just meet me up here and I’ll take you to this little 24 place if you want."
I had been falling asleep and coffee sounded perfect. "I’ll be there in 15 minutes."
Yet another cab ride later, I came around the corner and found David perched on the steps of an apartment building next to the restaurant. He smiled. "You ready?"

We walked a few blocks, chatting in that way that people who don’t know each other do, where they try to say and retain as much stuff, as casually as possible, without sounding neurotic. I learned that David is the oldest of five, grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, graduated from the University of Illinois, and his whole family is into the arts. His mother is shaking her head because there’s not a doctor, lawyer, or architect among them. We cabbed it up to Boystown, his neighborhood, aptly named because it’s Chicago’s gay area. "I’m straight but I live in the gayest place in Chicago. It’s cool, though. It’s also one of the cleanest."

He took me to a place called The Golden Nugget, one of those diners that does most of its business after the neighborhood bars let out. Walking over, David told me his mom worried when he moved to Boystown, especially after learning that his best friend is gay and that the two of them frequent gay bars together. We ordered coffee from a stocky little waitress and kept right on talking, mostly about writing. It was one of those conversations that you wish would go on forever, but then the waitress drops your check and you notice all the drunk people filtering in as she says, "I’m gonna need this booth."

At one point while David and I were talking, an old woman padded in and took a seat at a tiny booth near the back. She had on a dingy gray winter coat and red knitted cap despite the heat. Her eyes were sunken, her skin loose, hanging from her jaw like droopy cloth ceiling in an old car. She ate her small meal carefully, chewing each bite thoroughly and slow. David was telling me something but I couldn’t pay attention; I was too caught up in watching this woman. As groups of young, beautiful people came in, she looked up with sad blue eyes and watched them walk past, still chewing. They didn’t notice. "What is going through her head right now?" I wondered. I felt that same tugging sadness that I had earlier watching the old man in the park, only stronger.

David noticed me watching her. "She’s homeless," he said. "She goes to the mission across the street a lot. I’ve actually written about her."
"She’s so beautiful. But not. She’s..... I can’t...... I can’t even look at her or I’m gonna cry. She’s Eleanor Rigby."
"Yeah. There’s a lot of people like her around here."
That sadness was a swelling ache in my chest. I wanted so badly to run over and hug her, to pull her into my lap and rock her like a baby. Instead I rambled on, looking around the room aimlessly and asking David questions there are no answers to.
"Why is she homeless? What happened that set her on that path? Something had to happen. What is she thinking? Why is she so sad? Why can’t I help her? Why can’t I just wave a wand and erase all that pain on her face?"
"I don’t know," was all he could say.

Other than that, our conversation was fun and happy, lasting well into the wee hours of the morning. When we left the coffee shop I grabbed a print copy of The Onion and David invited me up to his apartment. For the first time in three months on the road, I didn’t feel apprehensive, like he was trying to get in my pants. Actually, I couldn’t even tell if he considered this a date or not, he was being so physically distant. As we climbed the stairs, I said, "You should feel special. You’re the first guy I’ve been alone with that I haven’t cocked my pepper spray on, just in case."
"Oh, trust me, I do."

I parked it on one couch and he sat on the other. The sun started turning the street outside a dusky blue. We talked until I started falling asleep, about the same time he got up to show me something out the window and sat back down on the couch I was on. I was too tired to even think of anything else to say, so I opened The Onion and we read it together. I still couldn’t tell if he even thought I was pretty, but then he leaned over and kissed my cheek while I was reading. It was the sweetest thing ever. I kissed his cheek. We both blushed, looking back and forth at our hands, then each other. I laughed nervously, not knowing what to say. He spoke first.

"I made one dollar tonight."
"What? No way!"
"No, seriously. I made one dollar in tips."
"Why so little?" I asked. "Are you a really shitty waiter?"
"I’m decent. Well, our credit card tips get put on our check and we just keep our cash tips. I made $51 in cash. But....um... I gave fifty of it to another waiter so he would close for me. So I could get out early and hang out with you. So I made one dollar tonight."
Blushing the color of raspberries, I couldn’t say anything but, "Awwwwwwww..... thank you."

It was a John Hughes movie. We both leaned in slowly, still facing away from each other. We kissed softly and fireworks exploded in the sky over Chicago. The geek got the girl and all was right with the world.

We both fell asleep on the couch around six. Glenn’s words echoed in my mind as I fell asleep. "If you meet a guy who’s worth it, hold it down for awhile."