Down in the Port

Last weekend I rode my bike down to Bridgeport for a friend's barbecue.



I haven't spent a lot of time around the Port, except to go to White Sox games. The summer before last I walked from the Red Line to Back of the Yards with my camera, and mostly got dirty looks from everyone all the way to the stockyards. When I was living in Pullman, I heard stories about the Chicago police dropping black guys off down there when they decided they couldn't get anything more out of them. And I've known a few operatives that rented down that way; it seems like there's something about being down there that matters to a fledgling career as a hired gun in Chicago politics. So that's pretty much my impression of the area.

It wasn't until I wrote a piece for Lumpen a few months ago and wound up at the Co-Prosperity Sphere, that I got a good look at the other side of Bridgeport. I've always thought of that neighborhood as this lily white area full of Irish motherfuckers. Which is only partially true. The rest of the neighborhood is Mexicans, Chinese, and what I've heard called "Mutants" - a shockingly true description of who hangs out in the street down there. Oddly enough Chris lives right around the corner, having just recently moved down around 32nd and Morgan. I go visit him sometimes; we mostly sit on his porch and drink beer.

So last week I'm riding down Halsted, and I hook a right on 32nd Street. It's dark out - the sun had gone down a while back, and Chris sent me a text message while I was at Chuck's, and I was headed over for more booze.

As I roll down 32nd, the street narrows, and the houses loom over me in the dark. Kids playing in the street, moms on the porch. I close my eyes, and for a minute, just one small moment, I'm back in Mexico City, sitting on a bench and watching dirty faced kids play soccer.

The name of the city is different, but the feelings are the same, I guess.

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Elizabeth

I’m sitting on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed, in my shorts. I can hear her peeing behind the closed bathroom door, just around the corner. There is sunlight pouring through the spaces of the blinds that cover her window. A car drives by, and I can hear a kid yelling on the street below. I used to sit in class in elementary school and wonder what it was like to not have to be in class in the middle of the day. This is what it’s like. I think about this every time I see someone that looks like they should be somewhere else during the weekday. I stand up and start putting my pants on. I can hear the change in my pocket as I pull the button closed and start to buckle my belt. The toilet flushes, and Elizabeth coughs. I snap my Zippo shut as I drag off my cigarette, and pad to the living room to put my boots on. I’m wearing my peacoat, unbuttoned still, and am leaning forward to tie my boots. Elizabeth comes out of the bathroom in her panties and t-shirt. I finish tying my boots and stand up. Even without the boots on, I tower over her. She comes up to me and runs her hand up under my sweater, pushing my t-shirt up a little and dragging her fingernails over my belly. “Leaving already?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s sooo cold out side.” I can hear the temperature in her breath. Elizabeth’s apartment is really warm, and I can see the heat as it swirls out the open window in her living room.

“I’ll call you,” I say, stepping to the front door and putting my cap on. The lock clicks behind me, and I’m in the narrow hallway going down to the street below. I never realized how threadbare her place is, but it’s cozy, like going home. Everything she does seems to just put you right at ease. The cup of coffee she had waiting when I first showed up. The clean ashtray. It’s like she’s just waiting around for me to show up and talk to her. When I first started coming to see her, just this summer past, I remember how her apartment was; shades drawn, fans placed on the open windows. The sound of the street below; a cross breeze in the kitchen. Cold bottles of High Life in the fridge. I loved how she sat on the chair, her leg tucked up against her small breasts, a bare foot poking out from the second-hand jeans that were a little too long for her diminutive frame.

I step out into the sunlight and slip my sunglasses on. This is my favorite time of the winter; bright, cold, sunny. The holidays are over, and everyone is just back at work. It’s really not that cold out—no wind; but coming out of the heavy heat of her apartment I can feel why she thinks it’s so cold. Warm enough, it was, to spend the day in shorts and a t-shirt. I’m walking down the street to my car and I can feel the salt crunching under my boots. The Blue Line rumbles by a few blocks back. I’m fingering the keyless entry button in my pocket as I walk towards my car.

As I sit in the drivers seat, I’m collecting my thoughts, the key sitting in the ignition. I turn the engine over, and turn the radio off as soon as I hear it. For some reason, it seems that Elizabeth always has the best records. When ever I ask what she’s been up to, it’s like Rolling Stone, this band and that band, all the shows. I always thought I had good taste in music, but man, she’s always on to the next band. I bought her a CD once, I was so sure she was going to like it. I looked through her CDs few weeks later. I was let down when the disc wasn’t in there.

I stub my cigarette out in the ashtray and put the car into gear. Pulling out on to North Ave, I head west. Elizabeth. I remember once when I came to see her. She went in the other room to take a call and I started poking around some of her stuff. I found a straw with some blood on it under some papers on her desk. I think the word for what I felt was disappointment. I never said anything. I’ve thought about what I would say. What could I say? Nothing, I suppose.

Image via The XGP

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Well, Here We Go...

I've always avoided putting together a blog of my own. I thought it was pretentious. Like, who cares what you think? I was derisive of blogging; I remember when they were called webpages I would scoff.

Then, about a year ago I found myself writing politics for that ephemeral of-the-moment darling Chicagoist. And that's when all of that changed.

I met people that wrote. People that thought of themselves as writers, who wrote stories and essays, for publication and for themselves.

I guess I've always written. I used to struggle to write these silly, self-indulgent short stories. I never really liked them. Sure, there was a section that I enjoyed reading, a sentence or two that I was really proud of. But overall I struggled to produce what I thought a Writer was supposed to write. You know, Big Important Things. Now I feel like less is more, and that simply telling the story of your day to day is much more interesting. In a way, Chicagoist took me there.

So here we go....

Image via rogercastoro

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