Confession of a Hotrod
The water is close to freezing as I hit it hard, but my body is in good condition and functions well, responding positively to regular exercise and careful maintenance. Still warm after recent exertion and the short, brisk walk in a ski jacket from the Union railroad station in the late evening, I know that my life is ending now. The South Branch of the Chicago River under the West Adams Street Bridge closes over me. My bulk sinks quickly through the water and reaches a layer of fine silt. Slowly my body settles through the silt passing, strangely, what seem to be a human femur with a chain round the ankle. Then there is a discarded purse — empty — and a set of door keys. I reach firmer sediment and my movement stops.
I am cold.
I am alone.
What a waste!
There is no chance that I will rise to the surface through the glutinous mud and filthy water.
Nature gets to work immediately, breaking me down atom by atom and starting to flush me into Lake Michigan. My total dissolution will be a long, slow process in terms of the lifetime of a great city, but completely insignificant on the timescale of the earth itself.
Settled permanently now in the ooze and detritus of the river bottom, I reflect on my life of over 60 years. It has been relatively active with much travel and many…
