Engaging sociopath mode now. My jaw clenches, and I want to be anywhere but here. That particular place at the moment is an office where I basically answer phones most of the time. I bite my tongue to avoid telling a woman on the other line that all her technical problems could be solved if she would just take a nice bath and drop a live toaster in the water. What the fuck am I doing here? It takes nearly an hour to drive here without traffic and twice as long during rush hour. I'm getting paid 9 dollars an hour, so why did I ever spend four years at a difficult college? I guess I shouldn't complain about having another job, but I could do better. To avoid the worst of rush hour, I end up eating dinner at a restaurant across the street. My immediate options are The Grill Room and Fuddrucker's. Unfortunately, I chose Fuddrucker's.
If you've never been to a Fuddrucker's, then let me save you the trouble. I admit their burgers are tasty, but it's not worth the mental damage of going inside. Anyway, I got the chicken tenders, and they sucked a big fat one. Once you place your order, the cashier gives you a beeper coaster that actual restaurants with reservations use. As I waited for my beeper to go off, I glanced at my fellow Fuddruckians. One guy in a wheelchair wearing a baseball cap over long, dirty hair was simply staring at his fries as if trying to muster up the will to care that they were getting cold. At least three other tables had white haired men picking at their burgers and sighing. There was not one attractive woman in sight. Did we come here to punish ourselves? To avoid that question I sent my girlfriend a text message:
"There was once a sad cloud that never spoke aloud. He made friends with a mountain but the mountain left him for a fountain. And the sad little cloud went bohoo."
I had to leave out an 'o' in boohoo since the text can only be 160 characters, but that pretty much says it all. Fuddrucker's is goddamned depressing. I was about to ask one of the old guys sitting closest to me if I could borrow his steak knife to slash my throat when my beeper coaster went off. My three flat chicken tenders and fries had arrived. Fuddrucker's does have a nice condiments station with fresh lettuce and jalapenos and many types of sauces. But no matter how much you polish a turd, it still remains a piece of shit. I polished my own with jalapenos, jalapeno cheese, and what may have been BBQ sauce.
To avoid looking at my food, I looked at the decorations. Pictures of celebrities are hung everywhere in a sad mockery of the Hard Rock Cafe. One picture has a handmade sign posted on the bottom that says "Chuck Berry." When the hell did Chuck Berry ever eat here? What the fuck am I doing here? I finish my fries and leave.
I'm 10 miles away in heavy traffic when I realize that I left my cell phone there. I start yelling loud enough to startle some poor woman on the sidewalk since my windows are open. Fuddrucker's is there waiting half an hour later, and my phone is still on the table along with the sad remains of my meal. I grab the phone and slip back into traffic.
An hour later, I was still in traffic and started smacking the dashboard. What the fuck am I doing here? To avoid killing the guy who just cut me off before putting on his brakes, I started compiling a list of everything I hate.
I hate people who are too smart to realize they're stupid and too stupid to realize they're smart. I hate it when people dress up their pets; if you want to do that, then make a baby. I hate it when people don't eat the crust on their pizza. I hate it when toilet paper sticks to my ass. I hate how most news channels consistently try to scare us into watching their otherwise uninformative crap. I hate it when people text while driving - I hope your thumbs wither and die. I hate it when people interrupt me while I'm thinking. I hate people who... I hate people.
Phew - OK, no more Fuddrucker's or crappy part time jobs for me. I love the deep blue the sky turns after sunset. I love it when the right woman picks the right summer day to not wear a bra and walks right past me. I love how people are capable of performing random acts of kindness for people they've never met and will never know. I love the way warm sand feels between my toes. I love how insanely ticklish my girlfriend is. I love how fast my new bike can go. I love knowing that there's always another type of food or drink out there for me to try. I love a good book. And fine, I suppose I love people sometimes.
Hopefully, that balances out some of the hate, but it's time to find a new restaurant and a new job.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Working for the Government
I'm working for the Government. I can't tell you what I do. Gosh. I've already said too much.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Apocalypse Training followup
Steel frame, ten speeds, brakes that more or less work, metal gear levers, and racing tires - allow me to introduce my new bike of the apocalypse.
After my near death minor inconvenience, I was bikeless for a few weeks. This would not do since it's harder to check out joggers on the lakefront trail unless you're on a bike or sitting still. I wanted a nice but affordable bike, and that meant several options. I could have waited outside the Redline stop next to my apartment where someone would eventually offer to sell me a bike. This wasn't really an option since that's probably what happened to my stolen bike. I don't condone such transactions, and I think there should be a bike marshal with too much time on his hands who questions these affairs. I looked at the selection at Target while avoiding the guards in red. They had an OK selection, but no possible bikes of the apocalypses. After careful meditation, I decided to Google 'used bikes in Chicago.' I thought I had found the perfect place when I read articles about how the shop embraced economic diversity - maybe I just came too late or maybe that was crock of shit or maybe it was just a place where hipsters gather to circle jerk. The used bikes that remained were 400 dollars and up.
I found another place called Working Bikes Cooperative, and it was perfect. It's a non-profit organization that keeps used bikes and their parts from getting thrown away. They construct badass bikes from these parts and sell some of these two days a week. The sales go toward shipping the rest of the bikes as donations to people in other countries who apparently are also training for the apocalypse. Supposedly this place is crazy when it opens with people jostling each other for bikes (they must just be really enthusiastic about helping someone overseas). To beat the rush, I got there 15 minutes before they closed. Because I have a great eye for detail and because there were only half a dozen bikes left (at least half of which would be worthy of an apocalypse), I found my dream bike in about two minutes for under a 100 bucks. I've already described it above, so please return to the top and reread this post to fathom the awesomeness of the events leading up to my new bike of the apocalypse. Also, if you want to hear about one apocalypse I'd want to avoid then read my book review on The Road.
After my near death minor inconvenience, I was bikeless for a few weeks. This would not do since it's harder to check out joggers on the lakefront trail unless you're on a bike or sitting still. I wanted a nice but affordable bike, and that meant several options. I could have waited outside the Redline stop next to my apartment where someone would eventually offer to sell me a bike. This wasn't really an option since that's probably what happened to my stolen bike. I don't condone such transactions, and I think there should be a bike marshal with too much time on his hands who questions these affairs. I looked at the selection at Target while avoiding the guards in red. They had an OK selection, but no possible bikes of the apocalypses. After careful meditation, I decided to Google 'used bikes in Chicago.' I thought I had found the perfect place when I read articles about how the shop embraced economic diversity - maybe I just came too late or maybe that was crock of shit or maybe it was just a place where hipsters gather to circle jerk. The used bikes that remained were 400 dollars and up.
I found another place called Working Bikes Cooperative, and it was perfect. It's a non-profit organization that keeps used bikes and their parts from getting thrown away. They construct badass bikes from these parts and sell some of these two days a week. The sales go toward shipping the rest of the bikes as donations to people in other countries who apparently are also training for the apocalypse. Supposedly this place is crazy when it opens with people jostling each other for bikes (they must just be really enthusiastic about helping someone overseas). To beat the rush, I got there 15 minutes before they closed. Because I have a great eye for detail and because there were only half a dozen bikes left (at least half of which would be worthy of an apocalypse), I found my dream bike in about two minutes for under a 100 bucks. I've already described it above, so please return to the top and reread this post to fathom the awesomeness of the events leading up to my new bike of the apocalypse. Also, if you want to hear about one apocalypse I'd want to avoid then read my book review on The Road.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Apocalypse Training
So the government came through for me. The IRS gave me my tax return in time to pay rent. I'm going to send them an envelope filled with white sugar powder to let them know they're sweet. But what happens when there are no governments, no one left to lend a hand? Of course, I'm talking about the apocalypse and then living in a post-apocalyptic world. At this point, you can only rely on yourself.
I was reminded of this when my bike was stolen at Navy Pier. I parked my bike of the apocalypse and locked it up with my dinky cord lock. It had vanished when I came back 15 minutes later. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, I screamed to everyone and no one in particular. A bike is the number one transportation tool in the event of an apocalypse. They don't need gas or constant maintenance, and you don't have to worry about flat tires if you buy unbreakable inner tubes. I only had my apartment keys, so I had to jog the 8 or so miles back home. This is also good apocalypse training; you never know when you'll have to flee or pursue. Have you trained for the apocalypse lately?
If the answer is 'yes', then good, keep doing so. If not, then you are one of the soon-to-be-dead stragglers whose leftover possessions will fuel my ongoing struggle. Allow me to elaborate, elongate, and elucidate; apocalypse training does not include surviving the moment of apocalypse. This is unrealistic since end of the world scenarios can range from zombie viruses to nuclear holocausts to alien invasions. Rule #1 is don't expect some random guardian angel farting out hymns to save your ass. You either make it past this random tragedy or you aren't aware of what follows. Suppose you are one of the lucky (or unlucky) few to survive, then what skills will give you edge? Please tell me that you've been paying attention; the first thing you want is a bike.
Get used to the fact that it's a man eat whatever he can find world, so your bike might get stolen. Make sure you can move long distances on foot to track down the thief. Of course, there are other skills that you'll need to learn along the way. Holding your breath is a useful once, since you never know when you'll have to wade through some poisonous fumes to save a puppy who will become your only companion in a godforsaken wasteland. Find interesting ways to increase your lung capacity. I always hold my breath when I sprint up three stories to my apartment floor. At first it was hard to reach the third floor; now I can make it halfway down the hallway before almost passing out. My eventual goal is to make it up the stairs and unlock the three locks on my door before passing out. This is also good practice for unlocking and locking in quick succession. If you're trying to outrun radiation junkies hungering after your last gamma apple, then you don't want to be fumbling for your keys.
You want more apocalypse training tips? Hmmm I don't know if I want to give you those advantages since I may one day have to fight you to the death for a cache of Twinkies. Ok... so the obvious place to start is with your diet. Starve yourself but not for the awesome streamlined look. Do it for the long periods that may come in between meals. Next step is gorge yourself. You can practice this at any nearby buffet restaurant. This is key since you want to make the most of every meal. If you want to take this to the next level, then try eating expired food. How else are you going to work your way up towards consuming 9 pounds of roadkill while the night harpies are honing in on your heat signature? In addition to diet, there is hygiene - you should forget about this trifle. How long can you go without showering? Can you go two weeks? That's still not enough so keep it dirty.
So far, we've covered transportation, breathing, eating, and hygiene. The next step is relentless killing. Firearms seem attractive at first, but these still require maintenance. Plus, with no bullets, you just have a piece of metal that's nothing better than a club. Stick with blades - you should have a slicing knife and a stabbing knife. These will be great for killing bike thieves or just carving your name into trees so future entities will know that something managed to survive during those twisted times.
The final thing is get used to reading often. I have a sneaking suspicion that books will be one of the few things to survive most apocalypse scenarios. There will be no cable and no internet; there will only be you, the voices in your head, and some words on a page. Make friends! Follow these tips, and perhaps one day we can share a bike ride while we scour the desert for cactus folk and their precious water hoards.
I was reminded of this when my bike was stolen at Navy Pier. I parked my bike of the apocalypse and locked it up with my dinky cord lock. It had vanished when I came back 15 minutes later. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, I screamed to everyone and no one in particular. A bike is the number one transportation tool in the event of an apocalypse. They don't need gas or constant maintenance, and you don't have to worry about flat tires if you buy unbreakable inner tubes. I only had my apartment keys, so I had to jog the 8 or so miles back home. This is also good apocalypse training; you never know when you'll have to flee or pursue. Have you trained for the apocalypse lately?
If the answer is 'yes', then good, keep doing so. If not, then you are one of the soon-to-be-dead stragglers whose leftover possessions will fuel my ongoing struggle. Allow me to elaborate, elongate, and elucidate; apocalypse training does not include surviving the moment of apocalypse. This is unrealistic since end of the world scenarios can range from zombie viruses to nuclear holocausts to alien invasions. Rule #1 is don't expect some random guardian angel farting out hymns to save your ass. You either make it past this random tragedy or you aren't aware of what follows. Suppose you are one of the lucky (or unlucky) few to survive, then what skills will give you edge? Please tell me that you've been paying attention; the first thing you want is a bike.
Get used to the fact that it's a man eat whatever he can find world, so your bike might get stolen. Make sure you can move long distances on foot to track down the thief. Of course, there are other skills that you'll need to learn along the way. Holding your breath is a useful once, since you never know when you'll have to wade through some poisonous fumes to save a puppy who will become your only companion in a godforsaken wasteland. Find interesting ways to increase your lung capacity. I always hold my breath when I sprint up three stories to my apartment floor. At first it was hard to reach the third floor; now I can make it halfway down the hallway before almost passing out. My eventual goal is to make it up the stairs and unlock the three locks on my door before passing out. This is also good practice for unlocking and locking in quick succession. If you're trying to outrun radiation junkies hungering after your last gamma apple, then you don't want to be fumbling for your keys.
You want more apocalypse training tips? Hmmm I don't know if I want to give you those advantages since I may one day have to fight you to the death for a cache of Twinkies. Ok... so the obvious place to start is with your diet. Starve yourself but not for the awesome streamlined look. Do it for the long periods that may come in between meals. Next step is gorge yourself. You can practice this at any nearby buffet restaurant. This is key since you want to make the most of every meal. If you want to take this to the next level, then try eating expired food. How else are you going to work your way up towards consuming 9 pounds of roadkill while the night harpies are honing in on your heat signature? In addition to diet, there is hygiene - you should forget about this trifle. How long can you go without showering? Can you go two weeks? That's still not enough so keep it dirty.
So far, we've covered transportation, breathing, eating, and hygiene. The next step is relentless killing. Firearms seem attractive at first, but these still require maintenance. Plus, with no bullets, you just have a piece of metal that's nothing better than a club. Stick with blades - you should have a slicing knife and a stabbing knife. These will be great for killing bike thieves or just carving your name into trees so future entities will know that something managed to survive during those twisted times.
The final thing is get used to reading often. I have a sneaking suspicion that books will be one of the few things to survive most apocalypse scenarios. There will be no cable and no internet; there will only be you, the voices in your head, and some words on a page. Make friends! Follow these tips, and perhaps one day we can share a bike ride while we scour the desert for cactus folk and their precious water hoards.
Friday, March 26, 2010
How to live on 50 dollars for the next two weeks (and still pay rent)
I had a wonderful Tuesday night out that involved a sweet dinner ( thank you groupons) and a strip club. The strip club was somewhat disappointing because all the dancers had some weird latex covering their nipples. My girlfriend informed me that this is probably because buying a liquor license and having fully nude dancers is more expensive in Chicago (take me there - i'll pay more!). Nevertheless. two of the dancers were gorgeous and fun despite the others (I don't care about the background story; I detest lazy and indifferent strippers). All in all plus some, it was a good night.
I awoke next morning to my beautiful Nubian princess going "oh, crap." We had forgotten to turn in both of our hours last week to a reliable employer. "Oh God, oh God. How could we... why... what?" I gasped as I realized that we had forgotten to turn in our month's rent to pay them bills. Rent, crap, rent, fuck, rent, time to try to sleep for another hour.
I couldn't sleep, so I hopped on my newly refurbished bike and cruised down a track that parallels Michigan lake. I saw a few homeless people sleeping under bridges and then came across a young androgynous woman dressed as the statue of liberty. In between deep breaths, I realized that she was holding a sign for a tax return agency (Liberty Mutual maybe?). I remembered that I hadn't yet filed my tax return for 2009 (to be truthful, I remembered this 10 minutes after waking, but the liberty girl helped drive the point home). I should get some of them dollar bills from that return, right?
After returning from biking, I used TurboTax to file my return. In 2009, I worked two different jobs. One was a crappy minimum wage job for Staples, and the other was a teaching gig for Kaplan . My return ended up being more than two times the month's rent.
Stellar! The only issue is that I'm supposed to get that return within 8-14 days time. I filed the return on March 24th and the rent is due on April 5th. I'm hoping that some new IRS agent is getting his wings on this job. If not, then my beautiful girlfriend has stocks in Ford, which she bought when they weren't doing so well. However, she bought this with money that her grandfather, who passed away recently, left her. This is a last option that I don't want to use. I guess I'm supposed to say something funny here, but I'd rather have someone stuff my open mouth with them dollar bills.
I awoke next morning to my beautiful Nubian princess going "oh, crap." We had forgotten to turn in both of our hours last week to a reliable employer. "Oh God, oh God. How could we... why... what?" I gasped as I realized that we had forgotten to turn in our month's rent to pay them bills. Rent, crap, rent, fuck, rent, time to try to sleep for another hour.
I couldn't sleep, so I hopped on my newly refurbished bike and cruised down a track that parallels Michigan lake. I saw a few homeless people sleeping under bridges and then came across a young androgynous woman dressed as the statue of liberty. In between deep breaths, I realized that she was holding a sign for a tax return agency (Liberty Mutual maybe?). I remembered that I hadn't yet filed my tax return for 2009 (to be truthful, I remembered this 10 minutes after waking, but the liberty girl helped drive the point home). I should get some of them dollar bills from that return, right?
After returning from biking, I used TurboTax to file my return. In 2009, I worked two different jobs. One was a crappy minimum wage job for Staples, and the other was a teaching gig for Kaplan . My return ended up being more than two times the month's rent.
Stellar! The only issue is that I'm supposed to get that return within 8-14 days time. I filed the return on March 24th and the rent is due on April 5th. I'm hoping that some new IRS agent is getting his wings on this job. If not, then my beautiful girlfriend has stocks in Ford, which she bought when they weren't doing so well. However, she bought this with money that her grandfather, who passed away recently, left her. This is a last option that I don't want to use. I guess I'm supposed to say something funny here, but I'd rather have someone stuff my open mouth with them dollar bills.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Beeeeer(d)s
A few weeks back, my girlfriend gave me this sweet turnaround Valentine's weekend. Beer was the theme, and Saturday involved visiting 2 breweries. The first brewery was Half Acre and they had 3 beers on tap (Daisy Cutter, Ginger Twist, and Gossamer). We ended up buying a sturdy pint glass and a 6 pack of lager not on tap. I also learned that at most breweries you can buy beer by the half gallon; it comes in this bottle called a growler that looks it should belong to some toothless old guy taking swigs in the Appalachians. It's actually not the best deal per ounce but still a sweet concept. A second fact that I learned - in both this and the next brewery - is that most beer enthusiasts have beards. I would say that roughly 40% of the room had some impressive facial hair action.
At the next brewery, called Metropolitan, we got an actual brewery tour while our plastic cups were generously refilled. It's run by a husband-wife team (the husband had a cool biker beard tuft), and I think one of them has a background in Microbiology since the technical aspect of the brewing process was wonderfully detailed. My favorite beer there was Krankshaft; it was unbelievably smooth and made for chugging. There was a question and answer at tour's end, and the guy next to me - the one with a beard - asked about beer pairings. Ever heard of a Sommelier for wine? They have their counterparts in the beer realm, and they're called Cicerones. As I tried out the word 'cicerone', I noticed that nearly 60% of the room had beards.
Is there some connection between beer and beards? I have several hypotheses.
Perhaps the words 'beer' and 'beard' sound so similar, that everyone growing a beard forms a linguistic connection to drinking beer and vice versa. The German word for beer is bier and bart for beard; I'm not sure about the pronunciation, but they could be similar. However, the Spanish word for beer is cerveza and barba for beard, not similar sounding at all. This linguistic hypothesis could still hold if one could prove that there is no connection between beer and beards in Spain as there seems to be in the U.S. One could only be certain if they traveled the world, observing beards and drinking beers.
My second hypothesis was easily defeated. I thought that both beards and beers could be seen as a sign of manliness. But there are so many beard styles that I'm convinced it's not the beard that makes the man; the man makes the beard, and the same goes for beer. Plus, I know lots of girls who like beer just fine.
Hypothesis number 3 deals with the concept of linked genes. Did you ever get that kid in high school, who somehow has a full beard at the age of 14, to buy you beer at the gas station? Every high school has at least one. On one hand there is a social factor; the kid with a beard who buys the beer is also likely to try some of this beer. I believe a biological analysis takes this deeper; this social pressure for the bearded child may be guided by biological constraints. If you have long pieces of hair in great quantities all over you face, then it's likely that more food particles from every meal will remain around your facial region for longer. Bacteria eventually find these food particles and spread mouth plague. A surefire way to prevent this is to douse your hair in large quantities of sterilized liquid, or beer. Thus, the man gifted with facial hair at an early age also has a natural inclination toward drinking beer regularly. Further molecular analysis is needed to confirm this hypothesis.
My last hypothesis deals with sensation. Perhaps drinking beer with a beard is simply more pleasurable. The cool liquid and froth tickles facial hairs and prolongs the aftertaste. Sadly, I will not be able to test this hypothesis for about another decade; I'll probably be over 30 by the time I can grow a decent beard.
At the next brewery, called Metropolitan, we got an actual brewery tour while our plastic cups were generously refilled. It's run by a husband-wife team (the husband had a cool biker beard tuft), and I think one of them has a background in Microbiology since the technical aspect of the brewing process was wonderfully detailed. My favorite beer there was Krankshaft; it was unbelievably smooth and made for chugging. There was a question and answer at tour's end, and the guy next to me - the one with a beard - asked about beer pairings. Ever heard of a Sommelier for wine? They have their counterparts in the beer realm, and they're called Cicerones. As I tried out the word 'cicerone', I noticed that nearly 60% of the room had beards.
Is there some connection between beer and beards? I have several hypotheses.
Perhaps the words 'beer' and 'beard' sound so similar, that everyone growing a beard forms a linguistic connection to drinking beer and vice versa. The German word for beer is bier and bart for beard; I'm not sure about the pronunciation, but they could be similar. However, the Spanish word for beer is cerveza and barba for beard, not similar sounding at all. This linguistic hypothesis could still hold if one could prove that there is no connection between beer and beards in Spain as there seems to be in the U.S. One could only be certain if they traveled the world, observing beards and drinking beers.
My second hypothesis was easily defeated. I thought that both beards and beers could be seen as a sign of manliness. But there are so many beard styles that I'm convinced it's not the beard that makes the man; the man makes the beard, and the same goes for beer. Plus, I know lots of girls who like beer just fine.
Hypothesis number 3 deals with the concept of linked genes. Did you ever get that kid in high school, who somehow has a full beard at the age of 14, to buy you beer at the gas station? Every high school has at least one. On one hand there is a social factor; the kid with a beard who buys the beer is also likely to try some of this beer. I believe a biological analysis takes this deeper; this social pressure for the bearded child may be guided by biological constraints. If you have long pieces of hair in great quantities all over you face, then it's likely that more food particles from every meal will remain around your facial region for longer. Bacteria eventually find these food particles and spread mouth plague. A surefire way to prevent this is to douse your hair in large quantities of sterilized liquid, or beer. Thus, the man gifted with facial hair at an early age also has a natural inclination toward drinking beer regularly. Further molecular analysis is needed to confirm this hypothesis.
My last hypothesis deals with sensation. Perhaps drinking beer with a beard is simply more pleasurable. The cool liquid and froth tickles facial hairs and prolongs the aftertaste. Sadly, I will not be able to test this hypothesis for about another decade; I'll probably be over 30 by the time I can grow a decent beard.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Lake jump
I live in Edgewater, which, coincidentally happens to be right on the edge of lake Michigan. I've also been trying to run at least every other day, and I more or less follow the same route to the lake. Sometimes when it snows very heavily, I can't really tell if the lake is still a lake or a frozen tundra. I like to imagine polar bears as big as tanks and ice wizards battling for control of Chicago somewhere on the horizon.
Anyway, Chicago is really nice in that it has this park with running and biking paths that stretches along most of lake shore drive. I should know the name of the park by now, but I'm not good with names or locations; I prefer to think of it as "that park where I run." Sometimes I take a break and walk out on the long, icy concrete piers with lighthouses on the ends. I like thinking of how goddamned cold that water must be and whether not I'd jump in to save someone if I saw them floating past.
A couple days ago, I'm running and I hear shouts. There's this guy standing on a rock outcropping about 10 feet from the shore, and he's waving at me while the waves are crashing up to his knees. Two middle aged women walking their dogs got to him first (I'm not the fastest runner anymore). He's standing on this square rock and looking up at us - where there isn't beach to meet the lake, there is a raised concrete wall about seven feet high. This guy looks like he's in his late 20s but I can tell that this hair is already receding even though his head's shaved. He's trembling and his hands and ears are bright, bright red.
The two women and I try to convince him to walk to the wall so we can pull him up. There is a ridge of oxidized iron that he could use as a banister to make his way there. All the while, both of their dogs keep barking at me, at him, and at everything. The guy won't move and he somehow manages to shake his head through all that shivering. One of the ladies, a Korean woman whose barking dog is black and white but mostly black, asks him how he got in the water. He says that he jumped, and I believe him since he still has his shoes and jacket on. The women look at me and we shake our heads. "These things happen," one of them points out. The other lady, a Hispanic woman whose barking dog is mostly brown and wearing a dog sweater, takes out her phone and calls 911.
"That won't be necessary," I tell her as I cup my hands to my mouth to talk to the trembling guy over the roar of the water. "Hey Knucklehead, why'd you jump? Is it because you're going bald? More importantly, why didn't you go through with it? Couldn't take the heat ummm... I mean cold?" He tries to stammer out a reply but things have already been set into motion. I set the toes of both of my feet on the concrete wall and do a back flip so that I land directly behind him. I put both my hands under his armpits and lift him over my head. "Do you want to go back in the water or on to dry land? Either way, it looks like you need some help." He's shaking even more violently now and trying to say something. "I can't hear you," I say as I dangle him over the water. "NO - Jesus Christ on a fucking bicycle - NO!" he yells in a surprisingly deep voice. So I throw him over the concrete wall. He lands on one of the barking dogs, the one with the dog sweater, and crushes it. I do a run jump back over the wall, and by this time both of the women up there are screaming."Shhhh - these things happen," I tell them before stretching and continuing my run.
Actually, we just waited while the Hispanic lady continued her phone call. I tried not to stare too much at the man below, but I had all these questions that I wanted to ask him. I kept having to spit for some reason. The cops, the ambulance workers, and the fire department all showed up 16 minutes later. I know that it was 16 minutes because the lady who made the call was arguing with an officer who said that they had got the call only 3 minutes ago. At least 2 dozen people in uniform showed up and a firefighter threw him a life line with a lifesaver attached. Several other guys came up with a steel ladder and a couple tried to go down. One of the senior officers told them that only one could go down, and the lucky guy turned out to be the firefighter who had thrown the life line. He was halfway down when another guy trotted up wearing a wet suit and carrying flippers. Yes, the Chicago fire department has a scuba division. Someone patted the scuba guy on the shoulder, and I felt so bad for him that I almost offered to jump in the water. They convinced the guy who had already jumped to climb up the ladder and ushered him off to an ambulance parked next to a half a dozen other emergency response vehicles. I ran back home and thought about how nice it was to be in a warm kitchen enjoying my coffee
Anyway, Chicago is really nice in that it has this park with running and biking paths that stretches along most of lake shore drive. I should know the name of the park by now, but I'm not good with names or locations; I prefer to think of it as "that park where I run." Sometimes I take a break and walk out on the long, icy concrete piers with lighthouses on the ends. I like thinking of how goddamned cold that water must be and whether not I'd jump in to save someone if I saw them floating past.
A couple days ago, I'm running and I hear shouts. There's this guy standing on a rock outcropping about 10 feet from the shore, and he's waving at me while the waves are crashing up to his knees. Two middle aged women walking their dogs got to him first (I'm not the fastest runner anymore). He's standing on this square rock and looking up at us - where there isn't beach to meet the lake, there is a raised concrete wall about seven feet high. This guy looks like he's in his late 20s but I can tell that this hair is already receding even though his head's shaved. He's trembling and his hands and ears are bright, bright red.
The two women and I try to convince him to walk to the wall so we can pull him up. There is a ridge of oxidized iron that he could use as a banister to make his way there. All the while, both of their dogs keep barking at me, at him, and at everything. The guy won't move and he somehow manages to shake his head through all that shivering. One of the ladies, a Korean woman whose barking dog is black and white but mostly black, asks him how he got in the water. He says that he jumped, and I believe him since he still has his shoes and jacket on. The women look at me and we shake our heads. "These things happen," one of them points out. The other lady, a Hispanic woman whose barking dog is mostly brown and wearing a dog sweater, takes out her phone and calls 911.
"That won't be necessary," I tell her as I cup my hands to my mouth to talk to the trembling guy over the roar of the water. "Hey Knucklehead, why'd you jump? Is it because you're going bald? More importantly, why didn't you go through with it? Couldn't take the heat ummm... I mean cold?" He tries to stammer out a reply but things have already been set into motion. I set the toes of both of my feet on the concrete wall and do a back flip so that I land directly behind him. I put both my hands under his armpits and lift him over my head. "Do you want to go back in the water or on to dry land? Either way, it looks like you need some help." He's shaking even more violently now and trying to say something. "I can't hear you," I say as I dangle him over the water. "NO - Jesus Christ on a fucking bicycle - NO!" he yells in a surprisingly deep voice. So I throw him over the concrete wall. He lands on one of the barking dogs, the one with the dog sweater, and crushes it. I do a run jump back over the wall, and by this time both of the women up there are screaming."Shhhh - these things happen," I tell them before stretching and continuing my run.
Actually, we just waited while the Hispanic lady continued her phone call. I tried not to stare too much at the man below, but I had all these questions that I wanted to ask him. I kept having to spit for some reason. The cops, the ambulance workers, and the fire department all showed up 16 minutes later. I know that it was 16 minutes because the lady who made the call was arguing with an officer who said that they had got the call only 3 minutes ago. At least 2 dozen people in uniform showed up and a firefighter threw him a life line with a lifesaver attached. Several other guys came up with a steel ladder and a couple tried to go down. One of the senior officers told them that only one could go down, and the lucky guy turned out to be the firefighter who had thrown the life line. He was halfway down when another guy trotted up wearing a wet suit and carrying flippers. Yes, the Chicago fire department has a scuba division. Someone patted the scuba guy on the shoulder, and I felt so bad for him that I almost offered to jump in the water. They convinced the guy who had already jumped to climb up the ladder and ushered him off to an ambulance parked next to a half a dozen other emergency response vehicles. I ran back home and thought about how nice it was to be in a warm kitchen enjoying my coffee
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