Tomorrow Will Be Better...

Waking up and breaking camp the next morning, I broke the bag that holds my tent, so now I have a huge tent flopping around in my back seat. Way to go, Jess.

I left for Chicago and made it in good time, following the directions that Frank told me briefly the day before. I was shooting for Navy Pier. I ended up on the Northside, lost. I called Frank. "Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you to get off 94 at Skyway," he said. "Sorry about that."
I cracked up. "It’s cool, it’s cool. It’s early yet, and this area is pretty nice. I’m just gonna tool around here for awhile, then I’ll come meet you when you get out."

Driving through Chicago to get to where I was lost (Wrigleyville), I got to see a lot of the skyline, which was awesome. Not as big as New York, obviously, but still enough to almost distract me from driving. Some sort of vibe was penetrating the air, even as I was on the freeway. It went beyond the ordinary permeating energy that you feel just walking down a city street - it ran deeper than that, truer, as though the soul of something was rising from the pavement.

Wrigleyville was interesting - a little neighborhood with brick sidewalks and tiny boutiques. Trendy little cafes - even one called "Toast" that had a ginormus wooden piece of (what else?) toast hanging from a signpost, peppered the street in between the couture clothing and housewares stores. Down a side street, an otherwise unmarked bar boasted having Milkwaukee’s Best On Tap, oddly pedestrian-looking next to "Diviynl".

I looked into a few of the stores, where most everything was over $50, and ended up having to buy something because the salesgirl was so helpful in explaining the train and bus system to me. There was a fight between my size 8 body and my size 4 brain in the dressing room, but I finally settled on the cheapest, most covering shirt in a gaudy shade of orange I’ll probably never wear. But she was helpful and I had to do something.

Not wanting to keep Frank waiting if I got lost, I left shortly after our conversation. Turns out I forgot that Chicago keeps Central Mountain Time and I was still an hour early. Frank works at the Tribune Building on Michigan Avenue, The Magnificent Mile, in the midst of one of the most touristy areas of town, so there was still plenty to see and do. Mainly shopping related, however, and expensive.

I parked and ate a grapefruit in a shady little courtyard between some skyscrapers and got juice all over my fingers. Then realized I had no napkins. I improvised, sitting down on the lip of a pretty fountain in the corner of the courtyard and, making sure no one was staring, dipped my hands in, quietly singing, "Doo-doo doo, nothing to see here...." Then I wiped my hands on my pants and promptly tripped on the sidewalk, drawing everyone’s attention. Go figure.

When Frank got out I met him in the side courtyard of the Tribune building, a massive gothic structure that looks more like a cathedral than an office building. Then again, I’m used to the more streamlined, modern skyscrapers of New York and Los Angeles, cities that both seem eager to market their history while creating more new-age vistas everyday. Chicago seems the opposite, wearing its history like a badge of honor. Look up in New York and you’ll see shiny steel, glass, and clean lines. Look up in Chicago and you’ll see the same, but merely interspersed between brick, gargoyles, and spires.
I was falling in love with the city. That same core-cutting vibe was everywhere, sweeping through the alleys and avenues just like the famous wind. It’s impossible to name and impossible to distinguish; a mix of pride, tenacity, valor, hope, and sadness, as though the souls of something are still singing.

Frank came around the corner and I laughed - he still had his Birkenstocks on with his khakis and Hawaiian shirt.
"Is it casual Friday?" I asked.
"No, I wear this everyday," he said.

A few minutes later, over Coronas at a café by the river, he explained. "I get called into HR a lot. They told me I couldn’t wear open-toed sandals. I said, ‘Okay. Well, when you tell the women that they can’t wear open-toed sandals, I’ll stop wearing my Birks.’"

Some more stories of Frank The Hippie at work in the big city: "I take the guys from my floor outside to the courtyard for hackey-sack games. HR told me I couldn’t but I do it anyway."

Another one: "I play at work. How else is it supposed to be doable, y’know? So Barry, the guy across from me, and I, we’re always throwing hackey-sacks at each other and flipping each other off. Stuff like that. So here comes this new guy - my height, black guy, fully ripped, he’s a karate instructor, chip on his shoulder out to here, right? So he comes over and I say, ‘Hey!’ and throw a hackey sack to him. It hits him right in the chest and falls. And he gets all offended! He gets in my face and (through clenched teeth) says, ‘Don’t. Ever. Do. That. Again.’ I explained to him that it’s a game, and I’m inviting him to play, but he just repeats himself. So of course I throw another one at him. He got so mad. Then he walks away, all pissed off and I throw one after him. It hit the wall right next to his head. The next day I get called down to HR and they have a whole incident report ready for me to sign, listing ‘what happened’. But it was that guy’s interpretation of it, not mine. I said, ‘I’m not signing that’. They got on my case, telling me I had to sign it, they needed me to sign it, but I wouldn’t. I told them, ‘I’ll sign a piece of paper saying that you gave me a piece of paper with his account on it, but I’m not going to put my name on his side of the story’."
"Wow," I said. "I have so much respect for people like you, because you stand up for yourself in situations like that. I would have kowtowed."
No, it’s not balls. I’m just arrogant," Frank said through a grin.

"If I’m ever 35 and I become one of those women who hunt down a husband just to have a baby, will you promise to beat my ass?" I asked him.
"I may beat your ass if you ever get married, period."
"Good looking out, Frank."

Following the spray of a water cannon, we walked over to a nearby fountain that Frank likes to play in, but a little sign next to the fountain showed a stick figure waist-deep in water, in a circle with a line through it. I wanted to take a picture of Frank standing in the water next to the sign, but a security guard nearby made sure that wouldn’t happen. "Screw this," Frank said. "I know where we can play."

We walked a ways down to Milennium Park, a giant expanse with a concert venue, sculptures, gardens, and - of course - fountains. On the way there we went past the Tribune Building again. "You want to see inside?" he asked me. Of course I said yes, the building is a landmark. The funny thing is, at that point I didn’t realize just how much of one. Since that afternoon I started reading a book on the history of Chicago in the 1890's and was floored by how much the Tribune Building plays a part. Now I wish I could go back in again. Not much has changed, apparently, in the building’s structure or layout.

Back out on the street, we hit up the multi-leveled garden section of Millennium Park, where tiny canals lined the levels. People scattered along the edges of the water dangled their feet in. Frank and I rolled our cuffs up - I had to wear long pants the whole time I was in Chicago because my mosquito bites were so vicious I looked like I had a disease.
It was truly disgusting. Frank said, "Ew, you got cooties!" Frank stood up in the water while I sat on the edge.
Soon a security guard came over and said, "Sorry, sir, no standing."
"I can’t stand in the water?"
"No, sir. I know it’s a stupid rule. I hate enforcing it."
"Who’s rule is it?" Frank asked.
"Probably somebody’s who is bored."

We took a walk through the rest of the gardens before Frank said, "Let’s head back over towards Michigan Avenue. I know there’s a fountain there we can play in." I didn’t believe him, until we came around a corner and there were two huge rectangular screens facing each other, broadcasting close-up images of faces. Water poured off the top of each, making droplets fly in all directions on the smooth pavement beneath. Wet children ran back and forth between the sprays, shrieking. Many were in bathing suits. The asphalt between the screens was drenched, making it slippery and cool. This fountain was definitely a playing-okay zone.
Frank and I cooled our feet as we watched exasperated summer camp counselors monitor some of the kids. "No running! Hey! I said no running!" After a quick stroll through the water, my pantlegs soaked, we saw the rest of the park. A giant chrome bean sits on the north end of it, although I still can’t figure out why. Half of it was being polished that day, making the other half look like a giant chrome boob coming out of a gray wall.

A marching band in bright orange uniforms was performing in the shiny bandshell. Howie Day was giving a free concert at a tiny outdoor café by the street. It was blistering hot, but still so enjoyable. After taking some pictures, we went to get food.

"What are you in the mood for?" Frank asked me.
"Well, this is Chicago, and you’re the expert. You pick."
"Do you remember the Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger sketch from the old ‘Saturday Night Live’?"
"Do I? Oh, my god yeah."
"Do you want to go to the original place that sketch was based on?"
"Let’s do it!"

He led me to a stairwell descending from the street. It looked exactly like subway entrances had in New York. I half-expected to see a sign with colored circles reading, A-C-E-1-2-3-9. However, the only sign was a gold one with black letters that read something like, "Downstairs, The Famous Original Billy Goat Tavern". At the bottom of the stairs was another street, called Lower Michigan Avenue, where Frank told me all deliveries are made so trucks never have to block the street. "We should have that in New York", I thought, remembering laundry trucks doubled-parked on narrow streets on the Upper East Side, clogging traffic for blocks.

Tucked away in a corner of the subterranean avenue was The Billy Goat, a cozy little place with a wrap-around lunch counter and grill in the center. A well-stocked bar ran the length of the whole righthand side, and tables filled the rest of the space. It was dim, lit by scant florescent lights and neon signs behind the bar, and smelled of grease and meat. The walls were painted red, all but fully covered by black-and-white photos and memorabilia. Everything was just yellowed enough with age to make it perfect.That pulsing energy was everywhere, stronger here than it had seemed in the park, that dizzying aroma of history, pride, and love mixed with burgers and bacon. The pictures told the thousands of stories that had taken place within those walls since 1934, pictures of dapper men in suits, beauty queens in gowns, old employees wearing their paper hats, and the original owner, immigrant Sam Sianis, Sr. You could almost hear the old wartime trumpet fanfares just by looking around the room. The burgers are served on wax paper, not plates, and they are some of the best burgers in the world. In-And-Out is the only possible rival at this point. Frank got me one of the paper hats as a keepsake, it was just wonderful.
"I had no idea there was a bar as well!" I told him.
"Yeah, and they have awesome bloody marys!"

After dinner Frank helped me look for a hostel and dropped me off at one on the corner of Congress Parkway and Wabash Avenue. "Give me a call tonight and let me know you’re okay, and call me tomorrow, too," he said.
"Sure thing! Thank you so much!" I said, hugging him goodbye.

I raced up to the front desk and checked in for three days, then took a cab back up to get my car from the parking garage. That’s when I figured out just what I was in for in Chicago - I parked for 4 hours and had to pay $28.00 to get my car out. TWENTY-EIGHT DOLLARS!!! Not only that, but I had to stop at the ESPN Zone for cash before getting it, and the ATM was $3.00. "What the hell?!" I lamented, trying not to get pissed off, but when the attendant said, "$28.00" I couldn’t keep quiet.
"You know this is rape, right? I mean, Jesus, you could have used some Vaseline first or something."
"Escuz me?" she snapped in a thick Spanish accent.
"Nothing. Have a wonderful night."

Back at the hostel, I opened the door to my room slowly, but still scared the quiet girl brushing her teeth at the sink. "Hi, I’m Jessica!" I said, shyly. She smiled and nodded. Another girl, about 27 and blonde, came out of the shower room. "Hello, dere! I am Susan." She had a thick German accent. We got to talking and I invited her to come out and explore with me.
"I don’t really know where I’ll end up but you’re welcome to come."
"Oh, thank you very much, but I have to present at a conference tomorrow morning. But maybe Friday, yes? After 9 o’clock I will be done with my work." She began getting ready for bed, putting lotion on her legs.
"That sounds great! What kind of conference are you presenting at?"
"Oh, it is for speech pathology. I am speech pathologist. I work with kids who stutter. I run a summer camp for them in Germany, where they learn to not stutter."
As she spoke, the quiet girl, also thin and blonde got into bed. I learned later that she was from Khasikstahn.
"That’s awesome! Well, Friday it is, then." I

changed my shirt, brushed my hair, grabbed my journal and a taxi, heading back to the Billy Goat. I had to see it again, at night, when the tourists were gone and it was just old men sitting around talking about the good old days.

I had the cab drop me off a few blocks south, to save money. Walking north, most of the shops were closed and dark, save for one brightly lit window. Red letters stenciled on the glass read, "IARCA GALLERY". The walls inside were lined with colorful paintings, obviously influenced by Picasso. A man in white painter’s pants and white t-shirt, off-set by his long dark hair, stood at a painting near the back of the room, adding finishing touches. The door was wide open and strains of Vivaldi trickled out onto the dark street. I walked in and met my first crazy Romanian.

"It’s beautiful," I said, startling him. Looking me up and down, he didn’t seem angry about it.
"No, you are beautiful. This is just paint," he mused in an Eastern European accent, looking me right in the eye. I wondered how many times he’d gotten laid with that line.
"Thank you. Where are you from?"
"Romania!" he said, rolling the R, making it sound like, "Rrrromeneya". "And you?"
"All over. Mainly DC. My cousin is from Romania, though. She’s adopted."
"Ahh. Is good. You paint?"
"No, sir. I just admire."
He turned to look at me again, taking a step closer. "Sir? Why you call me sir? I am no sir, I just like you. You are so beautiful, you no need call me sir."
I stepped back, restoring the distance between us. I wasn’t some swooning tourist who was gonna melt over some cheesy lines and an accent.
"What’s your name?"
He turned back to his painting, a girl seated at a table with some flowers. "Iarca. You?"
"Jessica."
"Ahh. Is beautiful name. It fits you."

His pieces were not still lifes, but most were of the same girl in the same position. Only the colors or her facial expression changed. "Do you ever have models sit for you?" I asked, looking up at the dizzying array of colors he had used for one painting.
"Yes, I love to paint naked women. Do you want me to paint you? Take off your clothes right now!" His smile was childlike, his eyes lecherous, the perfect juxtaposition for snagging a chick. Too bad I’m not a chick, I’m a lady. A lady that laughed right in his face.
"You’re smooth but not smooth enough. Sorry, I don’t do that."
"Oh, come on! Take them off! You are so beautiful! I paint you naked, maybe you become famous. Take only two, maybe three hours. Why you say no - you have husband?"
"No, just dignity."
"Oh, you no need be scared of me. I am good guy. But you, you travel alone, you need be careful. Watch out for crazies."
The irony was falling like rain. "Yeah, I’ll be sure to watch out for crazies, thanks."

"I’m serious," he continued. "You are alone, many guys will lie to you. Like me, I tell only truths. I want to fuck you right now. See, I just told you a truth. But these guys, they will lie and then you will go to do fucks with them and maybe they kill you. I will not kill you. Only fuck."
It was then that I noticed his silver wedding band. "Does your wife know you’re out here dispensing all this ‘advice’?"
His eyes lost their impish sparkle for a moment. "No, I am very bad boy."
"I see that. Well, take care, Iarca the Romanian Manwhore!" I called on my way out the door, stepping carefully to avoid slipping in a puddle of irony.

I was within blocks of The Billy Goat when my friend Glenn called from Los Angeles. He and I were actually loosely engaged to be married some years ago, but now he’s about to marry his new girlfriend this coming winter. He fills me in on the details from time to time. "Tell me all about it, hon," I said. "I need to live vicariously through you because I’m going to die alone."
"Shut up, Jess. You’ll find somebody. But when you do, I’d recommend staying in that place for awhile. Y’know, holdin’ it down for a bit. Kinda get your claws in that. Mark your territory. ‘Cause I’ll tell you, no guy will want anything to do with you long term if you just up and leave the next day."
"Yeah, right! If he’s a good guy, he’ll understand! And he’ll wait for me!"
"Okay, Idealist. Listen - I’m a dude. And as a dude, I’m telling you, hold it down for a while. Stay with him."
"Well, it’s not like it matters anyway. I’m not gonna find anybody anytime soon."
"Hey, my dog is wearing a cone right now." I

got to The Billy Goat around 11:30, skipping happily down to the door, ready to immerse myself in the history there and maybe even hear some great stories. The place was nearly empty - more employees than customers, that sort of thing. The bar is shaped like an L and I grabbed a seat on the long part, opening my notebook to write down all the stuff Iarca The Romanian Manwhore had said while it was still fresh in my mind. The bartender was an old, squat Greek man. He asked me what I wanted and I ordered from a sign hanging on the stuffed head of a goat behind the bar. The sign read, "Try Our Signature Drink, The Horny Goat!" It was basically a Cosmo in a highball, not a martini glass.
"I’ll take one of those signature Horny Goat things, and can I please have a napkin, too, for my gum?"

He wasn’t friendly at all. He picked up an plastic ashtray sitting in front of me and slammed it down again. "You put gum in there." His accent was thick.
"But then it’ll stick to the inside. And you’ll have to touch it and pull it out."
"What is it with you women and gum? Here’s napkins. Napkins, napkins, napkins." He slammed a stack of napkins about two inches high in front of me, along with my drink. "There. Now you have napkins."
"Thank you, sir." I wasn’t writing him off just yet. He was the perfect story, the bartender who’d seen it all and didn’t give two shits.

He walked away and I went back to writing until a middle-aged couple sat down to my left. The wife went to the bathroom and the husband saved the seats, asking me about my notes. I told him about my trip. "That’s really great," he said. "Plan your work, work your plan."
"Exactly right," I said. It made me laugh to think of how hard I’d planned in the years leading up to this and now I live with absolutely no plan at all.
His wife came back from the bathroom and he filled her in. "This young lady’s driving all across the country by herself."
"Oh, my god," she said. "Be careful."

We talked for a good hour or so, long enough for them to buy me two drinks, about kids and colleges and love and cigarettes. Their names were Dan and Lisa. They were fabulous. "We live right outside of Indianapolis if you want to come visit," Lisa offered. "We could introduce you to some real characters!" They told me about their two teenage sons, back at the hotel. It seemed they had very good relationships with both of them. "They were laughing at us earlier at the restaurant because Dan and I started talking to a couple that was sitting near us and it turns out they live close to us and their friends keep their boat in our slip and their daughter’s been to parties at our house and it’s just such a small world, y’know? So the boys are laughing, like, ‘Only you, Mom!’"
"But how else would you know if you didn’t talk to strangers?" I posed.
"That’s very true," she said. "But you be careful! Aren’t your parents freaking out right now?"
"Yeeeeeeeaaahh," I said, slightly proud, like Bugs Bunny saying, "Ain’t I a stinker?"

"Nick’s a great bartender," Dan said at one point.
"Yeah, we love Nick," Lisa agreed.
Nick didn’t smile but bowed slightly, mumbling, "Thank you very much." Then he went to chum it up with a group of men that had come in, doing shots with them, carrying on in that way that guys do.
"Let me give you my cell, you’ll have to come visit," Lisa said. "And don’t worry, you won’t have to hang out with us the whole time you’re there. It’s just so you’ll have a place to stay, you know how it is." Turning to Dan, she added, "She’ll probably think Matt’s hot!" Matt is their older son, 17 or 18.
"Maybe, you never know," I teased.

They left after awhile, leaving me to fend off a trio of aging frat boys. You know the type: thirty-something guys with thinning hair who hang out together, no wives, drinking beer and doing shots of cheap whiskey trying to relive their glory days. On any given weekend, dive bars are full of them. This night was no exception.
"Hey, there!" one guy oozed. "Let me buy you a drink."
"No, thanks. I’m good."
"So you’re a writer, huh? That’s cool, that’s cool."

And so it continued for 20 god-awful minutes. I turned down their offers for drinks, phone numbers, and beds until they finally left. The bar was empty by that time, leaving only Nick and I to bask in the green glow of the neon. "How long have you worked here, Nick?"
"Never you mind how long I work here! Why you have so many questions?!" he snapped.
A young man in a red Billy Goat t-shirt stepped behind the bar. He looked Persian. "What kind of stuff are you writ–"
"Don’t talk to her!" Nick cut him off. "She is bullshit. Just bullshit whore. She sit down alone, order one drink, don’t pay. She just want everyone else pay for her. She is prostitute. Bullshit. She is bullshit person."

My jaw was on the bar. I kept looking back and forth between Nick and the Persian kid, not sure what to make of anything. "Nick, I was just about to ask you how much I owed for my first–"
"Shut up! You don’t pay nothing! Get out! I don’t want your dirty whore money."
The kid spoke up. "Nick, you’re being unfair!"
"You shut up!"
I put a ten-dollar bill on the bar, staring at the floor, my lip shaking. "Thanks for everything," I whispered, my eyes welling with tears.

I ran past the lunch counter and up the stairs to Lower Michigan Avenue. The Persian kid ran after me. "Miss, please don’t cry!" he called, rushing out onto the street.
"I don’t know what I did," I squeaked, full-on crying now. "I don’t know what I did wrong."
"Sssshhhhhhh, shhhh, honey, don’t cry. Please don’t cry. He’s drunk. He’s just drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry. Here, come here."
He tried to hug me, pulling my hands toward him.
"No, I’ll be fine," I sobbed, pulling away.
"Please, please, it’s just a hug." He held me close, rubbing my back. I sobbed into his shoulder. I don’t know why exactly I was so upset, but I have a feeling it’s because I was so excited to go to the Billy Goat, and the fact that it's such a landmark. And because I was so very lonely.

Loneliness has a tendency to amplify emotions.

I let myself cry, knowing I had no choice but to let it out or it would kill me. After awhile I pulled away, whispering, "Thank you", and turning to go.
"No, please, don’t leave!" he said. He put his hand on my cheek, leaning in and trying to kiss me.
"FUCK!" I exclaimed, jerking away and running to the stairs. I hated Chicago.

Luckily, I flagged a cab quickly without having to wait around on the street, crying. "Congress and Wabash," I croaked. The cabbie, a Turkish guy, asked what was wrong. "Thank you, but I don’t want to talk about it."
"Okay, miss, okay."

He dropped me in front of the hostel and I went up to my room, careful not to wake anyone. I was on the top bunk, so I felt bad for the sleeping girl below me. Falling asleep, a million thoughts ran through my head, mainly, "I hate this city".

The last thought was, "Tomorrow will be better."