The Tie-In that Binds.

There are a few intersections in Chicago that present a geometrical nightmare to someone who spent his sophomore year in high school math pining after a POE-crazed, Kool-Aid hair dyed, near drop-out, Geo driving, pot smoking skinny girl who was in love with a bad boy named Billy. Billy was so bad he vomited on the carpeted floor that year. Twice.

I'm always reminded of the time I wasted skipping class to get high and go to Denny's with a girl I knew I could never attain when I'm on the verge of being hopelessly lost. The correlation my brain makes between my usually trustworthy sense of direction and my occasional poor choice in women is a palpable example of my mind's penchant for torturing me with cruel analogies at the most inopportune moments.

Spinning in concentric circles looking for a familiar Burger King or Taco Bell at the most obtuse of triangular intersections is not the best time to begin ruminating on the theorem (the reader will note my rudimentary use of geometrical terms in this essay) that had I been only a year older, that misguided 17 year old, late 90's burnout in a 16 year old's class (for the second time) could've been mine. No, that would be the time to buckle down and find out where the fuck you're supposed to be going.

Although, I suppose this action, this diversionary tactic, that my brain presented to me at this particular moment was not completely irrational, and my brain should be given some credit for trying to take itself off the slew of information and experience it had running through itself at this particular moment. I mean, I had just walked nearly 15 minutes out of my way only to realize that I was heading in the opposite direction of my house, after exiting the train station at an unfamiliar location in the hopes of saving time, after having to leave my bike locked up to a bike rack, since my lock decided to stop working, forbidding me from riding home, which occurred directly after having a meeting at the place of employment I was fired from five days ago for a karaoke performance the night before.

And, while the above statement may appear ludicrous, were one to know my history, one might not be so surprised at the eventualities that led me to the situation I found myself in on this quickly cooling Chicago winter's day. (I hasten to add that the glossed over nature of the above paragraph will not stand for long. You have all asked, and I will be reporting on it fully, as soon as certain obligations permit me to do so. Wait for it..)

A light snow had begun to fall, but was no match in the race it and the temperature were having. Watching the breath float out of my nose and into the noisy din of the rush hour bustle, I thought momentarily that it might be in my best interest to cross the street, to walk, somewhere, anywhere, rather than stand on the curb for another five minutes. I knew I'd find my way eventually, even if a 20 minute walk took two hours. Who gives a shit- it's not like I have a job to get to, I thought.

Having resolved to let the genius of The Frogs, which was blaring through my headphones, carry me wherever it deemed necessary, I stepped into the street. Where I was headed didn't matter at this point. I had already let pride win out over basic survival by deciding not to ask anyone for directions. I slushed through the first puddle of my sojourn into the unknown when I heard a muffled "Hey!" through the lyrical gold on the "It's Only Right and Natural" record (Lotta cute guys in the club tonight. Lotta juicy asses hangin' out!). I continued walking, and only briefly turned to see where all the yelling was coming from when I heard "HEY, MAN!" again.

Shooting a sidelong glance over my right shoulder, I saw a rather large dude in an even larger red windbreaker staring at me. And, though I've never seen a fat kite before, I feel like I have a better grasp on what one might look like now. He wore clear sunglasses. I assumed that these were safety goggles for the fashion-savvy construction worker, but who knows, maybe he had a deathly allergy to UV rays that only dumb looking, wrap-around, clear shades could prevent. Having never seen this strange man, and fearing the worst, I gave him the universal "Whaddup." nod to allay any doubts he may have had about my downness.

"What's up dude?," he exlcaimed. "How you doin'?"

Shaking my head slightly, pulling my headphones off, I said, "Hey... man. What's goin' on?"

"Ah man, shit! You remember me from the other night at the bar? Fuck, when was that, Tuesday? Yeah! Tuesday! Remember me? Holy shit!"

"Uh, what?," I asked. "Where?" I knew my short term memory was terrible.

"The other night, dude! At the, at the fuckin'... bar! Down the street!"

"OH, yeah! What's up, man?" I hadn't been to a bar since Saturday, and it certainly wasn't down the street from where I presently found myself.

"Damn, dog, I knew I recognized you! That shit was CRAZY the other night, huh?"

"Yeah, man.. yeah! I was wasted. I was all, Who the fuck is this guy talkin' to me, then I remembered that crazy night at the bar! Haha! Sorry, dude," I lied. "So what're you up to, just coming home from work?"

"Fuuuck yeah, man- I'm working down at Shedd Aquarium, replacing all the tile in the new exhi-"

Who is this person, and why are we friends?, I wondered, as the Kite told me about his day.

"So, what're you up to, man?," he asked, snapping me out of my inner dialogue.

"Oh, man, I'm just walking." Wait- benevolence! Why stop a stranger to ask for directions when you can just ask your good friend from the bar?

"You know where Fullerton is?"

After beautifully detailed instructions and the benefits of taking said beautiful directions over much less convenient ways, I gave the Kite daps and turned to walk towards home.

As I thought to myself, The City, she does provide, I heard a bellowing "See you Tuesday, homie?"

"Oh, hell yeah, man!," I returned, walking backwards and waving. "See you there!"

Thanks, City, I thought, and made my way home, beating the severe cold front by mere minutes.

I retired to my apartment and decided to make a bowl of chili with corn and potatoes- a perfect, if not wholly cliched, end to my icy walk. I gathered the necessary cans out of the pantry, wondering, momentarily, why it was that these cans were wet. Perhaps some condensation from the cold, I thought. Wait, why.. what.. what the fuck is that smell?

"Oh, goddamnit. Awesome."

Clearly, the city does giveth, but she also taketh. Pantry Cat, also referred to as Gordie, whose theme song is "Can I Play with Madness," by Iron Maiden, decided that this would be the perfect day to piss all over my food. Hanging my head in acquiescence to the City's fickle finger, I switched off the pantry light, and just laughed.

My bicycle and Dave, the friendly, if not grossly misinformed, homeless man.

Today, my bike got caught in one of these:



See, I've read the rules(#2, second paragraph). I know what's up. I knew better, seriously. I definitely knew better than to try to put an awkwardly shaped piece of metal and rubber through a labyrinthine, even more awkwardly shaped gate constructed of hundreds of metal poles and flaking paint.

But, you need to understand the circumstances surrounding that which, at first, appeared to be a comical snafu, but which quickly deteriorated into the kind of human traffic jam you only read about (here), the disgusted eyes of the carless rabble heaping shame and humiliation onto me as they trudged back up two flights of stairs to find alternate exits.

Also, you need to stop judging me.

If I preface this story by saying I was in a not-so-great part of town when this tragic mishap occurred, would that do anything to quell your heartless cackles? I doubt it. You cruel fuckers.
Well, I was. And now, I'm not even going to tell you exactly where I was, because you don't deserve to know. Also, I don't need any more heartless cackles added to the mêlée when you call me a pussy for thinking the Green Line at California and Lake is a bad part of town. Heartless cackles. Heartless cackles. I'm really into that phrase right now. Heartless cackles.

Thing is, I'd never been to this particular stop before today. When I tell you that the reason I found myself at this particular place in the universe is that I had just finished walking a pair of dogs downtown- one that was in its third year of remission from lymphoma, and one that had IBS and incontinence, and was required to wear what amounts to a doggie diaper (affectionately referred to as a belly band) on its way from the apartment to the outside- and was on my way back to a saw blade factory to wash and dry over 1,500 wine glasses, well, you'll just have to trust me. Because that is what I was doing. And also scoring a shitload of crack.

So, where I might normally know the access points of bicycle friendly exits at any number of my regular, more gentrified stops, today I did not. I merely hustled off the train with the lunchtime herd and headed to the nearest exit, where I was being corralled. It wasn't until I reached the halfway point of the trip down that I espied the forbidden gate ahead, but by then it was too late. Not too late to turn around and find the correct exit, mind you, but too late to avoid being seen by Dave, a streetwise tough that looked as bright and sharp as the pile of broken glass he stood in, but not nearly as shattered.

"C'mon man! We can get that shit through here! I done it befo'!," he hollered at me as I faltered in step on the platform, eyeing the gate nervously.

"Nah, I don't think so, dude. It looks pretty narr-"

"It's cool, man! C'mon! Fuck it!"

Yeah, I thought, yeah! It is cool! AND fuck it! This guy knows the score!
________________________

Minutes later, my bike now punishingly wedged in CTA purgatory, neither in the train station, nor out, Dave, safely outside the train station, looks at me, safely inside the train station, and says, "Shit, man. I fucked up."

"I don't know, man. I thought it would go, too. How're we suppposed to get it out?!"

"Fuck.. man I don't know! A damn saw? Shit," Dave mused.

By now, the initial crowd of onlookers and angry passengers had diminished, and we found ourselves quite alone in this predicament. I fully expected at any moment that Dave would grow weary of this absurd task, this extraction of a fucking bicycle from a fucking turnstile, and wander away, leaving me to my own devices and fulfillment of so many existential nightmares.

But Dave stayed. Whether it was pride, boredom, or maybe just working off a buzz before returning to the halfway house (I will note my own unfair characterization of the homeless, thank you.), Dave stayed. And we solved our problem together. And it did not include the destruction of any city or personal property, I can proudly say.

Did we alter any chemical properties, perhaps? There is no way to know for sure (except for any number of blood and DNA tests, MRI's, etc., but must we bog ourselves down with such minutae?), but I can safely say that we were different men when we met on the outside of that gate, bike intact, shaking hands heartily in acknowledgment of our shared triumph. Could there be a more apt physical manifestation of not being kept down by The Man, not letting The City win yet again?

As we stood there exchanging accolades, reminiscing about the experience we literally just had, and smoking drugs, Dave said, "We all fuck shit up sometime, man." He's right, you know.

Then he said, "Got any change, man?"

A heartless cackle* flew past my lips as I handed him a dollar and rode down the street, onward to all points wine and saw.

*Heartless cackle, in this context, can also be taken to mean "Here ya go, man."