Month: November 2021

OVERHEARD IN CHICAGO

Me:  “I’m not sure how I feel about taking a “girls only” trip.”

My Daughter: “It’s not like anyone’s asking you to, Mom.”

GIRLS’ WEEKEND IN ATLANTIC CITY

I first mentioned my friend Anita (a/k/a The Goddess) a couple weeks back in an earlier post. Anita is my go-to, my mentor, my friend, my partner in crime. Although we come from different cultures, we became fast friends. As a matter of fact, our differences intrigued us, since at times we made assumptions about one another. We had alternating religious views, our own unique foods at holiday celebrations, different outlooks on life. Heck, we even had vastly different hair but still managed to share hairstyling tips with each other.

But for all our differences, Anita and I also knew how to have fun together.  In other words, if she came up with an idea, I was immediately on board.

And that’s exactly how it all started, back when we worked together at Winston & Strawn, the oldest Chicago law firm.  We were both secretaries, working for litigators.  That meant busy days and overtime into the late evening hours.  Heck, a few times we pulled all-nighters in order to meet court deadlines. 

When it was all said and done, though, we enjoyed the work.  As well as the overtime pay.  Some weeks we worked so many overtime hours, our payroll department was obligated to give us two checks on payday.  It was those extra dollars in our pockets that led Anita and me to consider a mini vacation for ourselves.  A treat for all the hard work we’d been putting in through the winter months.  April was just around the corner, and thoughts of spring entered our minds. 

“There’s an ad here in The Defender for a coach bus trip to Atlantic City for the weekend,” Anita mentioned, as she perused her daily newspaper at her desk. “If I go, do you wanna come with me?”

“Sure, I will,” my 21-year-old self said, all too eagerly.  After all, what was there to think about?  Mention a road trip, and I jumped at the opportunity.  “Um, where exactly is Atlantic City?” I naïvely asked.

“Hmm, I’m not sure myself,” Anita admitted.  “Let’s look it up in the law library.  They have an Atlas map there.”

Always willing, I followed my friend down the corridor of our law firm. As always, men’s eyes followed her down the hall, since she has as many curves as Lake Shore Drive. I still didn’t know why she hung around with me. For one thing, she was eight years older than I and clearly more mature. Plus, for the life of me, I couldn’t compare with her engaging beauty. Everywhere we went, people stopped to catch a glimpse of her – yes, she is that striking.

We stopped at the law library’s reference desk. “Excuse me, José,” Anita said softly, her eyes tender and innocent. “We need to take a peek at your Atlas.”

José’s own eyes lit up at the sight of Anita before him. “Sure, here you go,” he grinned. “Anything else I can do for you today?” he suggested, as he handed the catalog to her.

He held it tighter as she tried to take the book from her hands.  “C’mon, now, let go,” she giggled.  Jose’s smile great broader as he flirted with Anita, while I stood watching, mentally shaking my head.  How does she do it?

The next Friday evening my father drove me to Anita’s apartment; we were picking her up before heading to Goldblatt’s parking lot, where we were scheduled to board the charter bus to take us on an overnight trip to Atlantic City. 

“Thanks for driving, Mr. Van Howe,” Anita said kindly, as she slid out of the front seat. 

My dad held the door for her as she alighted.  “Please, it’s Howard,” he insisted.  As I struggled removing my own heavy bag from the back seat, Dad went on to lift Anita’s luggage from the car trunk.  Anita stood by sweetly, allowing him to do the gentlemanly thing.  If my father had worn a hat that night, I think he would have tipped it at her.

“Bye, Dad,” I called back, as Anita and I headed toward the bus.  The coach was already half loaded with suitcases.  Scores of passengers milled about, wishing good-byes to family and friends.  Their excitement was contagious, as I grew more thrilled about getting away for a fun-filled weekend with my good friend. 

Dad stood at his car, watching us as we waited our turn to board the bus. I turned around once more to give him a wave. “Bye, Dad!” I called over to him. Dad, standing taller than most folks, cupped his hands around his mouth, getting ready to shout to me from across the parking lot.

“Don’t get pregnant!” he bellowed, before ducking back into his vehicle.

I stood there, suitcase in hand, mouth wide open, and was at a loss for words. Anita chuckled, while several others in line peered over at me to see what all the fuss was about.

Thanks, Dad.

Finally, we were inside the crowded bus, bumping into others’ luggage, impatiently waiting for the standing passengers while they debated over the best seats. As quick as she could, Anita squeezed past others in order to snag a pair of empty seats toward the rear of the bus, so we could sit together. I scooted in first, leaving her the aisle seat. Our bags stored securely overhead, we settled in for our adventure, talking excitedly with other passengers, until we heard our tour leader’s voice on the overhead.

“Thank you, thank you everyone,” he announced, as he waited for us to settle in.

He held the driver’s microphone, waiting for everyone to quiet down. “I want to thank you all for joining us on a fun-filled weekend trip to beautiful Atlantic City, New Jersey!” We clapped politely, waiting to hear more.

“We promise you all a weekend to remember. Atlantic City has everything: casinos, nightclubs, the ocean-side boardwalk,” he went on. “In a few minutes I’ll pass out $10 in casino chips to everyone on board.” A small cheer came up from the crowd. “That’s right, these chips I’m about to hand out are part of your get-away package.”

We clapped again, encouraging him. “Finally, let’s all give a huge thank you to Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Pettigrew for making tonight’s on-board refreshments,” he went on. “Can we give them all a big hand?” He motioned toward two petite women in the front seats. The two ladies stood up, each wearing a wool coat with matching hat, complete with hatpins. They turned, smiling and nodding, while we passengers politely clapped a third time, showing our appreciation for our gracious hosts.

“Anita, what kind of trip are we going on, anyway?” I whispered. 

“Knock it off, girl,” Anita whispered, elbowing my side. She clapped louder and gave a whistle for the two refreshment hostesses.

We heard the start of the engine and the driver shut the front door. We smiled at one another, as he cleared the parking lot and headed down 87^th Street toward the Dan Ryan Expressway, toward the east coast. The ocean. Our weekend away.

The mood on our bus was lively, as folks happily chatted in anticipation of our destination.  Anita and I talked together, imaging what our hotel room would look like, the sights we’d see in Atlantic City, and the fun we’d have.  Things were going smoothly for the next 30 minutes or so, while the bus headed out of the city, heading east to head down Interstate 80. 

Suddenly, a strong voice broke above the general din of the passengers. “Well, I’m all about believin’ everyone’s the same!”

It was a male voice which popped out from the darkened vehicle. Anita and I looked at one another, wondering what that was all about.

“Yep, I’m all for love one another and don’t believe we’re different,” the vehement voice continued.

This time there was no mistaking where it came from – directly across the aisle from Anita. Anita nudged my arm, wanting to break the tension. “What did you bring to wear Saturday night?” she asked me.

“Um, my blue silk dress,” I answered.  Except I spoke quietly, because my heart had starting beating quicker.  I didn’t know what more to say.  That is, I wasn’t sure what to do.  In an instant, I felt cornered in my uncomfortable seat wedged next to the window. 

But this man was not to be ignored. “You ask me, everyone’s got a right to be here,” he said louder than before. Several others on the bus turned around, looking at him, then Anita, before resting their eyes on me. “You see, I’m just fine with that,” he ranted.

“Girl, we’ll just overlook him,” Anita advised. She opened a magazine and started flipping through the pages, browsing for anything to turn her attention to milder attractions. I reached down into my carry-on and pulled out a novel I had picked up from the library. I flipped on the overhead reading lights for the two of us, so we could better see our reading material.

Unfortunately, the fella across from us wasn’t satisfied and clearly wanted our attention. “Ebony and ivory, “ he started singing. “Live together in perfect harmony,” he sang, taunting us for a reaction.

I was getting nervous. Who was this guy? He was big, for one. And sitting way too close to us for comfort. Plus, Anita and I had nowhere else to go, as we were packed into a small bus, that barely accommodated 45 passengers. And from the looks of it, the seats were booked full. There were no other open seats that could accommodate us.

“Side by side on my piano keyboard, oh Lord, why don’t weeeeeeeee?” he went on. “Yep, I’m cool with whatever’s goin’ on in this here bus.”

I sat back in my seat, hoping to make myself smaller. I realized my body had tensed during the episode. I flipped through my book, quickly scanning the pages, but not truly reading. I was uneasy but wasn’t sure of how to handle the situation. Did I need to say something to him? I couldn’t think of anything that would appease him. I certainly couldn’t walk away at that point. We were on an interstate in Indiana, and any escape was futile.

At that point Anita had had enough of it.  Her face went solemn – a rare thing, but when it happened, you’d better stay out of her way.  She leaned over towards my left ear.  I could feel her long hair brush my neck.  “Let me take care of this fella,” she whispered. 

Anita turned toward the gentleman. She crossed her legs and turned her torso toward him, folding her arms in front of her. “You wanna say something to me?” she challenged the provocateur.

Her expression said it all – Anita meant business. She gave it right back to him, daring the fella to go on with his rhetoric.

Except he avoided her gaze. Instead, he stopped singing and simply stared forward at the seat in front of him. As if nothing ever happened. Anita watched him another half minute, waiting to see if he was going to continue his taunting.

I gripped the edges of my worn book, rubbing my thumb along the spine, I could feel the soft threads of the binding. My eyes darted to Anita, who wasn’t giving in, and back toward the window, worried that the bus wasn’t going stop for several more hours.

I’m not sure if it was Anita’s stance, or perhaps the wiseguy’s wife, who sat next to him and possibly gave him a hard side jab. But that guy shut up just as quick as he started. He settled into his seat more, and I caught a side glimpse of him, and saw his hands relax, while his fingers played with the edge of the arm rest.

Anita unfolded her arms and turned back toward me. She leaned back, resting her head against the pillow-top headrest. She slowly closed and opened her eyes, giving me a reassuring gaze. It was the smile from my friend that I was now long familiar with. I felt safe. Reassured.

I gave her a small smile back, and she went back to her magazine. I turned to the right, gazing out the bus window. The evening was dark, without much light from the summer moon. I watched the car taillights, as they sped along the highway alongside us. The bus engine made a steady hum and I could feel the vibrations of the vehicle, its wheels steadily rolling toward our destination.

The soft din of other passengers continued, as I heard muted conversations, a couple laughs, a cough from a few rows back, and the sound of the crisp pages of Anita’s magazine, as she used her index finger to swipe through the pages, searching for an interesting article.

I settled deeper into my seat and pulled my denim jacket over my chest for warmth. Our bags were packed with our favorite dresses for that Saturday night. We each had our $10 worth of red chips for gambling in the casinos.

So there it was — me and my friend, Anita. The two of us were on our way to Atlantic City.

Different.  But still together. 

WHAT DO WRITERS (anyone, really) do with a blank page – waiting for some profound thoughts to appear before them.  Ready to share their thought-provoking ideas with the world.  Or somehow relaying a memorable (even poignant) story that others will relate to.  Even cherish.

SIGH.  That’s not most of us.  Or, at least, it ain’t me. 

I started this blog with the idea that I’d routinely write, sharing my ideas with others.  From working in the city, living in the ‘burbs and everywhere in between, I’d confidently dash off stories or ideas that would shake things up just a bit.  Or at least make people think about 30 seconds beyond the end of my postings. 

Except that idea is unrealistic.  Creativity comes in waves, carrying levels of energy and enthusiasm.  Sometimes the story pours forth tremendously.  Many times it simply drips, like an old bottle of barbecue sauce that’s been sitting in the fridge for months. 

I’ve been dreading the thought of boring readers with listless prose, dull adjectives, and common themes. 

Yet, isn’t that where my past stories came from?  Real, everyday life?  Authentic stories that hopefully others can relate with?

Yes, I will keep writing, even if I feel it’s uninteresting.  I’ll push myself with a simple writing prompt…

“WRITE ABOUT YOUR YESTERDAY”

Simple enough?  Yes, to begin with. 

Let’s see where it leads.

Yesterday, I left my desk at 5:02 PM, giving me enough time to walk the 1+ mile trek to the Metra train station.  I like to allow for a cushion of time – 5 minutes – in order not to rush as I start my commute toward the station. 

I’m not a fast walker.  Never was.  Except now I’m of a certain age.  Plus, there’s a certain knee replacement that I can always use for a valid excuse.  I also know my right leg isn’t aligned with my left.  In fact, the lower right leg stands out to my starboard side, rather than pointing forward like its left partner.

Don’t get me wrong… I’m not complaining.  It believe it’s all part of me.  What makes me – well, me.

I finished the first block and one half, as I crossed Lake Street, heading south down Clark.

And that’s where it always begins.  That’s where I run into confused out-of-towners who are desperately trying to locate the CTA station. 

The bus station is unintentionally hidden.  Situated inside the State of Illinois building, with no decent signs pointing folks in the right direction.  It’s a bit noisy there, with the El tracks running overhead.  It’s also dirty with pigeon droppings at each crosswalk.  Be careful where you stand, as you wait for a green light.  You don’t want to wind up with bird poop on your head.

Tonight was no different from many, where an individual asked me for directions.  I see the look in their eyes:  they look at their phone, then the street signs, then search the surrounding area.

And the lost look stays in their eyes.

Some of them become bold.  “Excuse me?” they ask.  “Can you tell me where the train is to the airport?”

I point toward the revolving doors on Lake Street.  “Head down there,” I tell them.  “Once inside, you’ll see the CTA lines, which will take you to either airport.” 

They thank me and rush off, trailing their suitcases on wheels, treasured phone still in hand, afraid to lose their lifeline. 

Except yesterday’s lost stranger was a little different.  There he stood with a stuffed backpack and his phone in hand.  He was standing next to a sitting bus, trying to speak with the CTA driver.

But getting nowhere. 

I watched his forlorn face tell part of the story.  My eyes switched from him, then toward the bus driver, who sat defiantly in his coach seat, seemingly unwilling to assist.  Already, I felt sorry for the poor fella, so I slowed a bit, already sensing he was lost and needed support. 

He was young – probably about 22 years old, smooth skin unmarked from time or weather.  His hair was dark, and his soft brown eyes showed naiveté.  Already, my sense of motherhood was building up in me. “Please, please, help,” he said to me, walking closer.  He held out his phone toward me, just close enough so that I could read the words on the screen.

I saw words written in Spanish.  “Oh dear,” I thought to myself.  “Here we go.”

It was a translation app he was using.  Except the words weren’t quite making sense.  My Spanish isn’t quite up to par, considering the fact that I only finished three years of the language back in 1981.  

Might as well have been 80 years ago.

I reluctantly scanned his phone.  My guard was up.  I was downtown, after all, and I try to avoid getting too close to strangers. 

“Need bus to O’Hare,” the phone read.

“Oh, are you going to O’Hare?” I asked the young man.

He looked at me but gave no answer.  Didn’t he speak even a bit of English? I wondered.  I recalled a few words from my first year of Spanish, hoping I wouldn’t make a fool out of myself. 

“¿Donde calle?” I asked, looking into his soft eyes.  Gee, I hoped those were the right words.  I also worried that my thick Chicago accent wouldn’t hinder his understanding.  I thought of my Spanish teacher, Senora Greensley, way back when at Morgan Park High School. 

She would be unimpressed with me right about now. 

Evidently, I did okay.  The young man started typing on his phone and turned it toward me once more.

“Addison Street,” it read.  My face must have shown my confusion.  “Addison and what?” I inquired. 

He punched in more details.  By this time, I figured we were old pals, so I watched over his shoulder.

“Take CTA O’Hare,” popped up on his screen. 

“Oh, okay!  You want the Blue Line, I explained, pointing toward the building behind me.  “In there,” I instructed, pointing even harder now with my finger.  As if that would help the situation. 

I received another blank look.  I couldn’t let this kid walk away without helping him.  He seemed so vulnerable, carrying his backpack, still looking lost as he took in the downtown scene around us. 

“C’mon with me,” I instructed.  This much he understood.  He followed, as I quickly walked back to Lake Street, turned west and walked the ¼ block toward the side entrance.  I thought about my Metra train that was another 9 blocks ahead for me.  We’d have to make this quick. 

“The signage here is terrible,” I noted, looking his way.  “They need to do something about this for travelers.”  He gave a half-hearted grin, and I could see relief washing over his young face.  I kept up my remarks, figuring that if I kept speaking, he’d somehow understand me.

Inside the station, I pointed at the O’HARE sign.  “Blue line,” I indicated.

Another blank stare.

“Azul,” I tried again.  Hey, I remembered more than I thought. 

Except he didn’t approach the turnstile.  Once more, his phone came out.  He typed his question into the app and showed me the translation.

“Need a ticket,” it read.

I glanced over at the electronic ticket booths.  Did I have time to go through the screens, read all the prompts and then somehow translate them for this young man?

I did not. 

I had an idea.  “Here you go,” I offered, digging into my purse.  I fumbled through several pockets, before pulling out my transit card.  It had at least $20 value on it.  I swiped the card at the turnstile for him, indicating that it was clear for him to go through.

“Azul,” I called out once more, pointing toward the sign on the wall, where an escalator took passengers to the Blue Line.  I gave him an encouraging look. 

He looked toward the signs, still a bit confused.  “Thank you,” he called back, again showing me his grateful smile. 

He really was a cute kid.  I hoped he’d figure it out from where I left him and that he’d successfully find whatever it was on Addison that he was looking for.  I waved once more before he walked away. A sense of pride washed over me… almost like sending my little one off to the big city for the first time.  I thought I felt a tear coming on.

I headed out toward Lake Street, turning right to continue along Clark Street. My good deed for the day was done.  Now, I had my own train to catch.

Memo to file:  call CTA and ask if they’ll put me on retainer. 

THANK YOU FOR READING – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST