Alive, Coarse, Strong, Cunning
My walk begins at exactly 4:47 p.m., when the sun is beginning to set but is still filling the streets with heat, whisked away only by the cold breeze that always exists in Chicago but seems to be an actual living creature today. As I take the back alley behind Corcoran and McCabe halls, where the street is lined with big brownstones apartments laced in ivy and trees that shade me from the heat, the wind whips down the alley, blowing my hair into my eyes. I brush it away, pausing on the sidewalk of Fullerton to write, when a student (I presume) in thickly rimmed glasses and a blue striped shirts walks briskly by, steering a bass in a black case. I smile, and turn right onto Fullerton — east.
4:50: As I walk down the sidewalk, all kinds of people walk past me. Students, friends, a black woman with her toddler daughter, a boy carrying a Spider-man backpack. Across the street, people lean against the side of a CVS in a long line, waiting for the bus. A guy with longer, greasy hair and a scruffy-looking beard wearing a baggy leather jacket passes me and winks. Gross.
4:52: I reach the strange, complicated, stress-inducing six-way crosswalk where the only three street names I know are Fullerton, Halsted, and Lincoln. I wait in a crowd on the corner for the light to change, listening to the people about me talk but not making out any words. It smells like old french fries here (McDonald’s is on the corner opposite me) and I make awkard I contact with two men and woman who pass by. I cross Fullerton, blinded by the sun, but still able to see the two men who cut in front of me on bicycles. one wears a helmet, and the other wears a red t-shirt. An ambulance speeds past, sirens seeming to shatter my eardrums. I remember when I used to jump at the sound of sirens — they were rarely heard in my hometown — and I head down a street that I can’t find the name of.
4:57: I pause outside of a business-y looking building to read the signs and write. There’s a big brick building that’s tan and worn, with a big neon sign that is unlit, reading BLUES. It looks like a gas station, with posters creating a collage of colors ad pictures of beer over the windows, and I wonder if it’s abandoned. Around me trash swirls in a small tornado, and I can smell it, too. There are three flags that are being snapped by the wind loud enough to make me look up and notice them: the Illinois state flag, the American flag, and a flag with two blue stripes and red stars on the front that I keep seeing everywhere, but still don’t know what it means. I should probably find that out.
4:59: The farther I walk down the street, the more it clears up. Cars go by like ghosts, silent but felt (If you can feel ghosts, I wouldn’t know but it seems plausible). The buildings are mostly apartment buildings with balconies that have plants slowly turning brown filling up most of the space. A firetruck speeds past now, impressive in its red grandeur. I see the face of one of the men inside the truck, wearing navy blue and leaning out the window. It feels like a movie scene, like I am the camera catching a shot of the movie about this man. I blink and they’re gone, and ahead of me a man walks across the street with a slow dog, whose fur is peppered with grey but he is fat and happy-looking plodding along the sidewalk.
5:00: Suddenly the endless cookie-cutter buildings break on my left, and a vacant lot appears, bright against the dark brick. The sand looks dry, surrounded by a wire fence that is caving in on one side as if a group of people had tried to push it over. It looks empty and sad, an empty vodka bottle the only thing around, until my eye catches on a tiny spot of red along the base of the building the lot borders. I look closer, and sure enough, someone has planted tomatoes in the mini desert. And they’re growing, too.
5:03: At the end of the apartment-lined street, on the shadowy backside corner, I come across a pleasant red surprise. Planted in the center of the sidewalk like some sot of sign requiring you to stop, is a red sculpture. It is thin and tall like wire and bright red. I walk around to read the plaque and discover the piece is called “Aspire #2” by Christopher Thomson.
5:07: For a moment the sidewalks and streets are quiet (besides the ghosts) and no one crosses my path for a moment until I see a woman turn onto the same sidewalk as me. She wears black scrubs and has her blonde hair pulled back in a bun, and beside her, a small girl walks idly. She has brown, wildly curly hair, and beside her the girl is talking gibberish (to me). At first I think it’s child talk, but as I gain closer and pass them, watching the woman scoop the little girl up, I hear the woman speak in a language I don’t recognize.
5:11: I stop on the corner of N. halsted and W. Wolfram, perching on the edge of a wooden boarder around a patch of trees lining the sidewalk. There’s a car parked beside me, and when I look inside I notice a stethoscope hanging from the rearview mirror. A few feet away, in the soil meant for the trees, a Pepsi can sits empty and dormant, a cluster of tiny ants swarming in and out of the mouth of the can like a living tongue. The wind blows, stirring the yellow leaves and leaves of the newspaper into the street, swirling lazily. Across the street is a construction site, a bold-dozer squatting behind the green mesh and fence like some sort of guard dog to the future site of — what? Probably more apartment complexes. A man walks across my path, wearing the type of shirt people used to go bowling in and glasses. He has a Beatles haircut and carries a large tote filled with objects that I can’t make out. He glances at me briefly, but nothing in his face changes so i know he doesn’t really notice me. His lips move, but I hear no words.
5:15: The wind makes it hard to write, but I smell something pungent — oil? The streets are calm here, and despite a few restaurants that aren’t flashy or chains, it’s mostly apartments once more.
5:18: There’s trash everywhere here. Up ahead of me, it’s bright and sunny like a glorified place to be, but i know it’s just more strip malls and gas stations and “places for women to hand out”. I kick a stabucks cap and step on a used paper towel, and a man in blue jogging gear sprints past. A traffic jam starting from the glorified spot is backed up all the way to me, and someone honks three times. Up on one of the apartment balconies, a little girl laughs. It’s a long stretch from here to the sunlight, so I decide to pull out my phone and “speed things up a bit”.
5:22: I turn left on Barry, past the Halloween City and away from the Marshalls and Michael’s, and the sun is blinding again. Two women with big, dark curly hair pass by in high-heeled boots, speaking Spanish.
5:25: The boisterous noise of the city suddenly seems to vanish, a memory of playing in the background. Here old, unique houses line the streets in creamy white brick or dark brown, and enormous trees line the street and shade the quiet houses. Yellow leaves cover the rich dark earth, and I think of home.
5:29: I pass an elaborate medical center with a parking lot full of cars. No on is outside, save for an elderly woman and a tow-headed toddler playing with a stick. She tried to make him take interest in a toy car she was holding, but he was busy dragging the stick on the ground. Ahead of me the L screeches and whines like a large metal animal.
5:31: I turn on Sheffield, past an ice cream shop and a parking lot. Behind me two middle-aged men walk together, talking ambivalently about the city, and it reminds me of the way my dad and uncle talk to each other. Two younger women pass by as I wait to cross a small side street, talking about kindergarten teaching, and as they pass another man gos the opposite direction carrying a little boy on his shoulders.
5:36: There’s another small crosswalk of streets I do not know the names of. There’s neon signs and bustling cars that suddenly make everything feel alive again, and somewhere, in one of the surrounding apartment buildings, I hear a dog bark. The wind has settled down once more, and it smells like burgers.
5:38: I pass Vaughan’s pub and am overcome by the smell of bread, salt, and old wood.
5:44: The crossway of Sheffield and Diversey feels like a whole different world. I’m suddenly in a cluster of people — runners, dog-walked, friends, college students, even an old woman who silently rolls her walker across the street as the numbers count down — and I am truly amazed by all of the happy people, the indifferent people, the people I will never meet.
I pause across the street to write down my observations when an old man notices me and comments, “Oh, you’re a writer, huh?” I smile tightly because his face does not look welcoming and I have become wary in the city. The wind is back as the people are (is the wind ever really gone?) and I smell sandwiches and gasoline.
5:48: In a sudden state of euphoria, I feel like I am seeing dogs EVERYWHERE. Golden retrievers, a basset hound, golden labs, black labs, corgis, all kinds of dogs that I can’t even name. I’m beginning to think everyone here owns a dog when all of a sudden, THERE: Wiggly Field dog park. I smile hugely and try to take a picture, but apparently people are touchy about others taking pictures of their dogs because they stare at me and I pretend to be taking a picture o the sign instead and then quickly walk away. Some people are so touchy. BUT, as I continue down the street, I find dogs that have already had their visit to the dog park and are on their way home. One in particular has decided to quit the whole walking thing.
5:51: I stand on the corner across from Wrightwood park, waiting for the light to change. The stop sign to my right is covered in stickers like a public piece of art, and I like to look at them and wonder about the type of person who stuck it up there. When the light changes and i cross the road, I notice a homeless man in many layers sleeping at the base of the metal statue. People walk by, on their way to other things, and no one takes notice of him. Suddenly the wind picks up hard, stirring up the sand and hurling it at my face. I duck down and walk fast.
5:55: Finally back to my Blue Demon home! The sun is beginning to sink closer to the horizon, and all of fullerton is bathed in gold and warmth. Students walk by slowly, most of them done with class, chatting about friends and activites and smiling. No one seems hurried, no one seems distracted — then again, how can I really know? The wind isn’t as bad anymore, but it’s getting colder now, and I have five minutes to get to Writer’s block.
