Chicago Days

By the end of 1982 my career as a railroader was coming to an end.  Jobs were becoming scarce and every year I would be called back to work later than the year before.  In order to have a year round job you needed to have between 10 and 15 years of seniority and it would be close to another decade before I would have reached that mark.

Just as important as the dearth of work, was the nature of the work itself.  In short, it was dangerous, dirty, and physically demanding and not the sort of thing you want to be doing, as you got older.  There were a few fifty-year-old trackman and they looked seventy.  These older guys were often ridiculed because they could no longer pull their weight.  It was not the type of future I saw for myself.  I had enjoyed myself greatly and really liked the people I worked with, but it was time to move on.

I had picked up a BA in History from the University of Wisconsin Milwaukee along the way, and began to consider law school.  My grades had been very good and I had little doubt I could get into one law school or another.  What I couldn’t stomach was leaving, what I considered the real world, to go back to academia for three years.  I had always done well in school but I could never wait to get out.

As I was thinking over my next step, a friend of my wife’s told her about a course of study that resulted in paralegal certification. I looked into it and found a program at Roosevelt University in Chicago that seemed custom made for me.  It was a 16-week program, 40 hours a week in class and another 20 to 25 hours outside class.  At the conclusion of the 16 weeks you received a paralegal certificate that would allow you to apply for legal positions in law firms, corporations and government offices.  So in April I moved to Chicago for four months.

On my second day of classes, a guy who had not been there on the first day, slipped into a seat next to me in the last row of the classroom.  During a short break, we began talking and discovered that we lived about eight blocks apart on the south side of Minneapolis.  Class ended early that day, and we found ourselves sitting in the Blackstone Hotel Peanut Bar around 3:00pm, getting to know each other.  As we sat there drinking pitchers of beer and eating peanuts, we found that we had mutual interests in baseball, history, politics, literature, film, and beer.  Thus were the seeds of a nearly 30 year ongoing friendship sown.

Right around 10:00pm, we stumbled out of the bar, and parted ways.  My friend was staying in the dorms right across the street from the hotel and he headed home.  I had rented a studio apartment, about six blocks from Wrigley Field, and decided to take the bus to the apartment because there was a bus stop about a half a block away.

As I waited for the bus, it occurred to me that it might have been a good idea to have visited the restroom before we left the bar.  I thought about going back, but was worried the bus would come while I was gone and I would have to wait for the next one.  I wasn’t too worried because the apartment was only about three miles away and, as my mother in law would tell me years later, I have a big tank.  I also thought the bus would zoom along like they did after 10:00pm on Tuesday nights in Minneapolis, and I would be home soon.

I waited a few more minutes and a bus packed with humanity pulled up and I got on.  I was surprised at the number of people on the bus at that time of night and had to stand the first several blocks.  As I was standing and the bus was stopping at every corner my condition began to concern me.  Every time the bus stopped three people would get off and four would get on.  I finally got a seat as the misery index ramped up.  We continued our block-by-block tour and anyone watching me probably thought I was a contortionist practicing on the bus.  I was able to refrain from out and out grabbing myself and hanging on for dear life, but just barely.  On and on we went as I unsuccessfully tried to concentrate on any thing other than my bladder.

 

Forty-five minutes later we arrived at my bus stop, which was three blocks from my place.  As the bus driver opened the door I flew out, already at full speed.  I covered those three blocks faster than if the hounds of hell were chasing me.  I think I would have won gold in the three-block apartment dash, if there had been a “Full Bladder Olympics.”  It was a painful reminder that mega cities never sleep.  There are always people around and public transportation doesn’t go quiet till the wee hours of the morning.

My “apartment” was a studio with a section of the one room serving as a kitchen.  The furnishing consisted of a kitchen table with three chairs.  It’s other inhabitants were a rather polite breed of cockroaches, which only occasionally came out to say hi.  At night I would sleep on an air mattress.  Early on the mattress developed a leak.  Every night I would blow up the mattress and would wake up at 3:00am lying on the floor.  There was a picture window overlooking an alley and the back of a three story gray brick apartment building.  The apartment building had wooden porches for each of the floors, which were accessed by a wooden staircase on one side of the building.

One early evening, I was daydreaming over my schoolbooks and looking out the picture window when a young man came out of the back door of one of the second story apartments across the alley.  I noticed how quickly he was moving and thought he must be late for something.  He took the steps two at a time and squatted down to unlock a bicycle that had been chained to a telephone pole in the alley.  Just as he was arriving at the bike, a woman burst out of the same apartment wearing only a towel.  The woman caught up with the man as he was trying to work the combination on his bike lock and assumed a prizefighter’s stance.  She was bobbing and weaving, up on the balls of her feet and began throwing left jabs and right crosses at the man’s head.  She was connecting often enough to cause the man to have to start over with his lock combination.  He was trying to ward off her punches with one hand while working the combination with the other.  He was clearly taking some pretty good shots, when he reached up and tore the towel off the women and threw it across the alley.  This maneuver had absolutely no effect on the women as she continued to pummel the guy.  He eventually got the lock off and threw his leg over the bike and started peddling down the alley.  The women ran along beside him, throwing punches at his head until he picked up enough speed to out distance her.  She turned around and calmly walked back up the alley, picked up her towel and went back in her apartment.

I never knew if this was a lover’s spat or more likely, a commercial transaction gone bad.  It certainly spiced up a night of studying.  As I was recalling this incident, I came up with an idea for a reality TV show that combines the twin American obsessions, sex and violence.  I would call it, “Birthday Suit Boxing.”  It would have the advantage of being every bit as degrading, morally bankrupt and stupid as the current reality shows that litter the network and cable stations.

Imagine the possibilities.  Feuding neighbors could settle their differences by taking off their clothes and climbing into the ring.  You might think people would be shy about boxing au natural but, as we have seen time and time again, the lure of getting oneself on television overcomes all common sense, decorum and self esteem.

The show could start out with a couple of bouts featuring “average Joes and Janes” who have a score to settle.  Their back-stories would no doubt be revealing and intriguing TV.  Then the show could be topped off with a celebrity bout.  These celebrities could come from the world of film, TV, sports or politics.  Imagine a three rounder featuring Janet Reno vs. Karl Rove.  Who wouldn’t take time out of their busy schedule to watch that fight?  Fan favorites could make arena tours, similar to American Idol tours.  This is can’t miss TV.  So, if you are in entertainment or know some one who is, have them contact me through the comments section of this blog (it works now) and we will get this juggernaut rolling.

The neighborhood I moved into was an interesting mishmash.  The two or three blocks around my apartment were largely blue collar, lower middle class dwellings.  A couple of blocks over toward the lake were very expensive condos and apartments with lake views.  Just about four blocks south of where I lived was an area that was described to me as, “the rough-trade gay” section.  I wasn’t too sure what that meant but the people there were something to see.  There were the “usual” leather type guys; along with guys sporting pink or neon green Mohawks.  There were people with shaved heads and leopard spots tattooed on their skulls and a whole lot of muscle freaks.  Body piercing was common.  None of this would be all that outrageous today, but this was 1983 and these guys were way out on the edge.

When I got bored or lonely, I would walk about three blocks to a working class bar and sit and have a few beers while watching the Cubs on TV.  One night a young Mormon sat down next to me and in the course of really getting drunk, told me about his problems with his father and his religion.  I don’t remember what advice I gave him, if any, but I’m sure that anything I told him was laced with wisdom and Old Style beer.

Another late afternoon, I was watching the Cubs lose another game, when a young man sat down next to me and struck up a conversation.  I didn’t think much of it as this often happened and I enjoyed shooting the breeze with just about anyone.  As the game went on, I noticed my new friend would sometimes punctuate a point he was making by laying his hand on my forearm.  Once or twice, he turned toward me on his bar stool, and touched my knee.  By the time he was telling me that he bet I was at the very top of my class, it finally dawned on me, he was trying to pick me up.  I waited for an appropriate juncture in the conversation, not wanting to appear rude or give him the impression I was some how horrified by his efforts, and told him I was just there to watch the baseball game and wasn’t interested in anything else.  Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to be put off that easily, and he got more aggressive.  When he turned to say something to another patron, I finished my beer and left.  As I rounded the block on my way home I saw that he was following me.  I quickened my pace and made it to my apartment before he could catch up.  I watched from the second floor lobby of my building as he walked back and forth in front of the building.  Eventually he gave up and left.

The experience gave me a new empathy for women who have to put up with this sort of bullshit all the time.  I have to admit, this guy creeped me out, but at least I wasn’t physically frightened.  Women often have to deal with the fear of being beaten and/or raped along with the nuisance factor.  It opened my eyes to just how unsettling this type of behavior can be for the person on the receiving end of it.

That summer in Chicago turned out to be a valuable one for me.  I learned once again that I was not cut out for life in the mega cities and much-preferred making my home in cities with populations more in line with Minneapolis. Chicago was a great place to spend time.  I really enjoyed its blues bars, public art, ethnic restaurants and great museums.  I just didn’t like the pressure of so many people being around all of the time.  Some times I need a break from my species and the mega cities don’t often afford you those times.

I did complete my program with honors and received my paralegal certificate.  Armed with that piece of paper, I was able to return to Minneapolis and start what would become a 25-year career in a Fortune 300 financial services company.

Just as important, I made a good friend, who also carved out a successful 25-year career in downtown Minneapolis.  Now we are retired and going to Twins games, drinking beer, and taking hikes.  As you get older, you realize the importance of having good friends.  They are a big part of what makes life worthwhile.  So nurture your friendships.  You will need them up until the day you meet your maker.

And last, but certainly not least, my wife proved to me that she did in fact love me when she visited Chicago for a long weekend.  On Saturday morning, I asked her what she wanted to do on her first full day in Chicago.  She replied that she heard there was a Cub’s double-header over at Wrigley Field and would I like to take her there?  True love, beyond a doubt.

Next:  The Teacher surfaces.