Getting a Lump of Cole.

Sunday morning, July 17th, my dad called around 10 to wish me a happy birthday. I was in the middle of checking out of the hostel and stayed on the phone while I filled out a comment card. The survey asked you to fill in a bubble stating your age: 10-18, 18-24, 25-29, and so on. I was about to color in 18-24 when I realized something - I belonged in a new bubble. My dad laughed as I cried, "Dammit!" into the phone.

David and I hung out during the day. I’ll kindly spare you the details. Trust me, I do realize that this blog is called The Road Revisited and not Some Boy-Crazy Chick Let Loose Across The Country, and I apologize for getting distracted. I’ll skip ahead to the chaos of that evening, while David was at work.

After dropping him off, I took a drive inspired by "The Devil In The White City". I wanted to see the street where H.H. Holmes, serial killer, had done most of his Chicago dirty work. All I knew was that his hotel, which he designed and had a built-in gas chamber, had been on the corner of 63rd Street and Wallace Avenue. My map of Chicago was scant in detail so I didn’t even break it out of the glove box, I just went on logic. Driving south on Michigan Avenue, I had seen 11th Street, followed by 12th. I figured if I followed Michigan far enough, I would come to 63rd, turn right, find the incorporated neighborhood of Englewood, and Wallace Ave. I found 63rd alright, and followed it for an hour.

I never found Wallace, but I saw a lot of other stuff. The area south of downtown is a series of predominantly black neighborhoods. It was quite beautiful in that same, sad way. Old brick homes lined side-to-side with large front stoops, where girls braided each other’s hair and neighbors called to each other in that sleepy summer drawl. Some sold huge pickles out of jars set on card tables, the sun cutting through the green brine like a shallow emerald. Some sold snow cones. I wanted to stop but I figured I would on the way back. Oak trees offered a lot of shade. A few children had torn the cap from a fire hydrant, splashing in the huge, white spray. It was so powerful they couldn’t get too close to the pipe without it knocking them down. "This is what I want to be a part of. This is beautiful to me," I kept thinking. "Why wasn’t I born black?" I wondered for the billionth time.

When I saw a hit-and-run accident, I took it as a sign to get back to the touristy area. I booked back to the hostel, having to forego snow cones because the streets were one-way and I couldn’t find one heading north. Exhausted, I took my book and went for a walk.

I was reading on the steps of the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue. It was about 95 degrees, 94 in the shade. The humidity completely drained me and I wanted a nap. (It had nothing at all to do with the clinging hangover.) The Institute has a gorgeous shady park flanking its left side with wide granite benches that were cool to the touch. Perfect. I slept until the sun was nothing but a pink streak over the lake. A guy’s voice woke me up.

"Hey, you! On the bench! You want a Red Bull and Jaegar?! C’mon, wake up! We got Jaegar!"
My head still down, I looked under my arm and saw two young guys, about 21, in black t-shirts and baseball caps. They were sitting on a bench about 50 feet from me. I pretended not to hear.

They kept yelling, this time to a thin black man on another bench. "Hey! You want a Jaegar Red Bull?"
"Hell yeah!" the man yelled, jumping up. As he passed me, I looked up, squinting. "I was watching you while you slept, making sure nothing happened to you." His voice was as thin as he was, as though it were stretched over sandpaper.
"Thank you," I mumbled sleepily, managing a clumsy smile.

As the frat guys made a drink for the skinny man in a paper cup, I stretched like a cat. The only way out of the park, unfortunately, was past this trio. I walked carefully, hoping they wouldn’t drag me into conversation. On the other hand, I was groggy and my conversation defenses were shoddy. I might as well have had a bullseye on my forehead.

"Hey! Stop for a second. Are you drunk? Did you friends leave you behind or something? Or did you party too hard last night? Why are you sleeping in a park?"
All the questions made my brain hurt. "I live in a car," I managed to say. "I drive around in my car." (I know, I’m with The Department of Redundancy Department.)
"WHAT?!" Their Red Bull was taking effect. ‘THAT’S CRAZY! SIT DOWN! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?!"
I explained.
"WOW!" they said. Actually, "they" were not being loud, it was the bigger kid in black that was doing all the talking. The other be-blackened kid, he was really quiet, skinny - the wingman, the sidekick.

The big kid was Cole. The skinny kid was Ricky. I never did get the black guy’s name, but the four of us sat around talking for a good 45 minutes, me on the ground and them on the bench. Cole did most of the talking. Ricky and The Black Guy (who I’ll call Andy to keep from having to say ‘The Black Guy’) did most of the agreeing with Cole. I just listened.

What I learned: Cole is an athlete. A three-time Greco-Roman wrestling champ. Cole has a full ride to University of Illinois for wrestling. Cole’s parents are rich. Cole lives in the suburbs. Cole wants to go to law school. He wants to make millions and have a trophy wife. Cole did steroids in high school, that’s how he got so big. Cole is an amateur porn star. His movies are available online. Cole has taken 5 girl’s virginities. According to Cole, Cole has a 9 ½" penis. Cole tells me various other sexual statistics, such as how many girls he drives crazy with said penis. Cole seems to think I care. Cole is very offended that I don’t take him up on his offer to go home with him. Cole is annoyed that I keep looking at Ricky and laughing. Cole starts to see me as a challenge, but he is interrupted when ----

A bike cop rides through the park and sees the empty bottle of Jaegar on the ground. PS - For all Cole’s bragging, he forgot to mention that he is not 21.

"What the hell is this?" the cop asked. He was muscular, black, and bald under his bike helmet. He wore Buddy Holly glasses, so I liked him immediately.
"It’s a Red Bull, sir," Cole stammered, obviously trying not to crap himself. All his bragging beforehand made the irony utterly palpable. All four of us knew it could mean serious consequences for his full-ride scholarship and law school applications.
"Don’t play stupid with me," the cop ordered, jumping off his bike and asking for our ID’s. He kicked the empty liquor bottle. "I mean, what is that?!"
Cole didn’t answer. He launched right into the sob story.

"Officer, I have a full ride! Please! If you let me go this time, I’ll never do this again! I swear to God, I’ll get on the train and never come back to...." This went on for literally five minutes straight.
The cop kept interrupting, saying, "If you want to go to law school, you should have thought about that before you started drinking in a public park in downtown Chicago. I mean, honestly! Boy, what are you thinking?"
Cole fell silent for a moment, giving the cop the chance to say, "If I give you all the citations you’re up for right now, there goes your scholarship."
"I know! That’s why I’m saying, if you let me go, I’ll never, ever....."
This cop literally had Cole by the balls. It was odd to watch, knowing that I was privy to the immediate crossroads of someone’s life.

"Shut up for a second, boy," the officer said, sitting on the ground next to me. "What do you think?" he asked me.
"You’re putting this in my hands?!" I cried, incredulous.
"Yes," he said, smiling matter-of-factly. "I am."

There I sat, on the dirt path of a public park, holding the course, or at least the quality, of someone else’s life in the palm of my hand. It was surreal. It was powerful. I have to admit, I got a certain amount of sick pleasure out of it. I relished it, taking my time, only because Cole was every archetypal macho guy that ever acted better than me. And here I was, the one in control.
Cole looked at me imploringly, pleading with his eyes. Ricky snickered. Andy tried to appear invisible. Finally, I turned to the officer, saying, "That’s a tough call, sir. And I’m really not in a position to make it."

"Fair enough," he said, standing up. He turned to Cole. "I was your age once. But I didn’t get caught. And I certainly didn’t drink underage in a public park in the middle of downtown Chicago! Use that scholarship and get some damn sense next time, boy!"
Ricky, Andy and I burst out laughing as he rode away, leaving Cole trembling.

"Dude...." he exhaled, once the cop was out of sight. "That almost sucked."
"He was right, though, you idiot," I said.
"Whatever."

I excused myself. It was dark now, and I had to get ready to pick up David. Andy got up, too, saying goodbye and heading north. Cole and Ricky followed me. Cole wasn’t ready to give up. "Jess, come on. Just come home with me tonight. Please?"
"Nope. Nice meeting you. I’ll talk to you later."
"No, you won’t! Come on, I’m never going to see you again. Hey, I’ve got my stepdad’s credit card! We can get a hotel room!"
"You’re 20 and I’m an old lady, number one. Number two, no. Number Three, I have plans tonight. Number four, no."
This continued for blocks, until he suddenly got very serious. I was about five steps ahead of him. "Jess, please turn around." I did.

"Look," he said, taking my hands in his, his face somber. "I’m a star college athlete with a 9-inch dick. I don’t chase after girls."
I smiled sweetly, taking my hands back. "Then you better stop now before I become the first." I flicked his nose and spun around on my heel, back towards my car, laughing.
"Dammit!" he yelled into the Chicago night.
Skinny Ricky laughed. "He wants to give you a lump of Cole for your birthday!"
I must admit, it was quite flattering, but only because he was the personification of every guy who never noticed me in high school.

I took their picture, "to remember the guy whose life I almost shat on!", and took a shower. I picked up David and we went to The Green Mill to hear some jazz. It was classic, untouched since the 1930's. The booths were tall and lined with turquoise velvet. Carved wooden bas-reliefs lined the walls. The bar was a long L, with a small stage in the crook of the L. A baby grand was being played by a blind black man, another man had his arms around a stand-up bass. A large woman with a wonderfully clear voice was singing, "What A Little Moonlight Can Do". When the set was over, the owner invited people to play songs on the jukebox - an old-fashioned model that played 45's and only had the classics. And I actually did get a lump of Cole from that jukebox, the Nat King kind.

It was a fabulous birthday.

Driving home, David and I talked about "working" as unpublished writers. "It’s hard to pinpoint as a job," he said. "It’s more like employment by God."
"Yeah, and we met in God’s breakroom."

I had decided to leave for Maryland the next day, to get an extra week’s worth of work and family in before heading to Montana. I left Chicago at three in the afternoon, driving through the night.