(One-Sided)Rumble on Wabash

Stop me if I’ve told you this one before.

One gray and drab Sunday afternoon, my mother, my baby sister and I decide to go out for a nice family-style lunch at (the now defunct) Bennigan’s, our favorite restaurant of the moment.  We could have easily gone to the Bennigan’s located at Chicago Ridge Mall, which was literally a ten minute drive from home.  But we wanted to take an expedition, which led us to our second favorite Bennigan’s: downtown on the corner of Michigan and Adams.  The meal itself was pretty simple: it was delicious and I enjoyed the company of my family.

It was the trip home that would prove ZOMG! eventful.

We’re walking down Adams towards Wabash.  The street is otherwise empty except for a group of tourists/suburbanites who have reached the corner before us.  Everything around us was fairly silent; even the El tracks above Wabash were as quiet as a classroom on the day of the SATs.  While we’re waiting for the light to change for us to cross Wabash, an older man in a bright yellow coat starts to cross before the light officially changes, as there’s really no traffic to contend with.  By the time he reaches the middle of the street, the north/south light on Wabash turns red and this piece of shit car comes to a stop, much like he’s supposed to.  What happens next, however, defies explanation.

I don’t see it.  In fact, I don’t think anyone sees what Mr. Shit Car claims happened to spark the chain of events that would unfold.  But, I can guarantee that we all saw what happened next.  Before any of the rest of us on the corner could take a step out into the street, Mr. Shit Car gets out of his car, yells something inaudible to Mr. Yellow Coat, and proceeds to shove him HARD to the ground.  And then nothing.  Mr. Yellow Coat doesn’t move.  Mr. Shit Car proceeds to yell some more, something to the effect of “GET UP!  GET THE FUCK UP!”  But Mr. Yellow Coat wasn’t getting up.  And, though I can’t be entirely sure, it’s most likely because Mr. Yellow Coat is knocked out cold. 

Everyone standing on the corner is pretty much standing there in a “what the fuck did we just see?” silence.  However, aside from my mother, my sister and myself, no one was interested in finding out, as the crowd just crossed to the other side of Adams and then crossed Wabash and continued on their way.  Why do we stick around?  Well, we’re still trying to figure out WTF?  Also, I grew up around drama.  This was small potatoes to what I was used to.  Lastly, I wanted to make sure I didn’t just see a dude get fatally assaulted.

Not getting immediate results, Mr. Shit Car starts to turn Mr. Yellow Coat over- at least, he tries to.  When he can’t budge him, he yells out, “someone help me turn him over!”  To which my mother replies, “no one helped you push him down!”  So he finally successfully turns him over on his own and there is a considerable amount of blood on the front of his bright yellow coat.  This is when bravado gives way to “oh shit, what the fuck did I do?” mode.  Noticing this, his buddy gets out of the car and tells him that it’s time to go.  However, at the same time, a CTA employee, having witnessed the entire incident from the El platform above Wabash, yells down to Mr. Shit Car that she saw the whole thing and has already called the cops.  Freaking out, Mr. Shit Car yells out, “but he touched my car!  He hit my car!”  As I mentioned earlier, absolutely NO ONE saw this alleged assault on his automobile.  And, given the eerie silence of the day, we certainly might have heard him hit the car hard enough to warrant such a senseless attack.  This was clearly an instance of a dude in a shitty car with a shitty attitude whose day was about to get even shittier once the cops showed up.

As much as I wanted to see the rest unfold, my mother decided that my little sister had seen enough and that it was time to go home.  So, much like the group several minutes earlier, we crossed Adams, finally crossed Wabash, and walked towards State St. to take the Red Line home.

I never heard anything more about it.  It didn’t make the news and we were down in the subway before the cops arrived.  We could see Mr. Yellow Coat’s chest swell and fall, so we knew he was still breathing.  To this day, I hope Mr. Yellow Coat made a full recovery & that Mr. Shit Car got the justice he deserved.  There was no reason for such a violent display and I always use this incident as a reminder that human nature can be a cruel bitch sometimes and that “expect the unexpected” can be terrifyingly more than just a cliché.

North Side Mourning.

My next trip to Chicago’s North Side would come two months after 9/11.  The city (and the rest of the country) was understandably on edge and nervous about every move they made in the heart of the metropolis or on public transportation.  At the time I was working at the United Center and all of the events at the arena were cancelled for a month as it was assumed that people still needed time to feel comfortable gathering in large, confined spaces.  People in Chicago never stopped taking public transportation, as people still needed to get to work.  I, however, stopped going downtown to do any shopping or hanging out for that month as I just couldn’t bring myself to sit on the train, taking the Red Line down into the darkened tunnel, hoping and praying that a “problem with the tracks” was our only concern.

In November, a friend was going to the North Side to audition for a music video and, as it was a day off of school, asked if I would ride with her for moral support.  Having nothing else on the agenda, I readily agreed.

This day, November 12, 2001, couldn’t be a more wrong day for trying to alleviate my fears.

After riding the Red Line to the North/Clybourn stop, I accompanied my friend to the building where her audition was being held.  At the audition I was informed that, unless I was family or a parent, I wouldn’t be able to stay and wait for her.  I wished her good luck and headed back towards the train station.  I checked my phone and saw that my mother had called.  She left a message telling me that I needed to get home right away.  Confused, I continued to the train, not fully aware of the events unfolding in New York City that morning.  It was only when I happened to eavesdrop on a conversation taking place on the train that I felt afraid.  Why today?  I had finally worked up the courage to ride the train again.  Is this another attack?  Would they shut down services?  Would I be trapped on the train until it was safe?  I nervously listened to music on my Discman, half hearing the music, half listening for any announcement that may come over the intercom.  As the train proceeded along the route unfettered and deposited the remaining passengers at the final stop at 95th/Dan Ryan, I calmed down enough to ride the bus home and immerse myself in my music and completely forget the world- for a few minutes, at least.

Arriving home, I turned on the news and watched the coverage of the crash.  People were just starting to come around, to feel comfortable enough to fly again so close after 9/11 and then this.  Even though it was ruled an accident, we were all on edge.  So many of us were out, finally putting our lives back in order, learning how to relax and enjoy ourselves again, while the world was falling apart around us.  I remember feeling sadness & anger & frustration & a yearning to be a kid again, to be shielded from the pain of tragedy, to go to sleep and wake up and have everything back to normal again.

But it wasn’t back to normal.  So many lives were lost.  And I mourned.

My first day back at work was for a U2 concert.  To see so many people come out and say, “we’re not afraid”, to show up and gather for their mutual love of music- it helped to heal the fear and the sadness, in its own way.

I still have a little fear left in my heart, but I love to fly.  I love the Red Line.  I love going to concerts.  And I still love the North Side (and my home, the South Side).  Because I can’t predict the bad stuff; but I will surround myself with all of the good stuff (even if the “good stuff” involves a smelly train car…because I’ll take that as the smell of freedom…or something).

North Side Dreamin'...

My first time on the North Side of Chicago was during a trip to a reggae club.  I was 11 years old.

Let me explain.

In my childhood, I had never traveled north of the Loop in Chicago.  Any expeditions outside of the south side involved the Eisenhower, the Dan Ryan, the Bishop Ford…highways designed to take me outside of and around the city without having to actually suffer the stress of having to drive through it.  Of course it wasn’t me doing the driving, but rather my mother, but let’s not get into semantics.

Any trip involving driving through downtown Chicago was like an Alice in Wonderland moment for me.  The cars were different, the people were more diverse, the lights were brighter.  I remember riding along Michigan Avenue with my unfortunate step-mother and her pointing out a Porsche being driven by Scottie Pippen.  That red car is still tattooed on my brain.  We didn’t get too many celebrities driving flashy cars on the far south side of Chicago.  So it was a momentous event.

As a pre-teen girl becoming increasingly into alternative culture (or, as my peers and friends would dub it, “white people stuff”) Chicago’s North Side held a special mythical place in my heart.  The North Side was where one could watch movies that weren’t readily available at my local Cinemark on 87^th and the Dan Ryan.  The North Side was where my favorite alternative bands were playing shows that I couldn’t attend.  The North Side was where people with funky hair and tattoos and cool jobs in bookstores and coffee shops lived.  The North Side represented everything I saw on MTV and wanted to be a part of.  Very few (read: none) of my friends shared my love of alternative culture.  My school friends watched The Real World and Road Rules because it was always on whenever they spent the night at my house.  My neighborhood friends quoted Alanis Morissette lyrics because I was always listening to her on my Discman.  Yet, I always felt surrounded by people who didn’t really “get” me.  My one ambition, other than becoming the girlfriend of a baseball player, was to live on the North Side with my alternative brethren and write about it for Chicago Magazine.

At the same time, the North Side frightened me.  What if they didn’t accept a black girl from the far south side?  Wouldn’t I stand out, with my Wal-Mart clothes and my Pippi Longstocking pigtails and my young age?  While I felt that the North Side was where I inevitably belonged, I also knew that I wouldn’t fit in. 

And so it remained a fantasy of mine- a daydream I would play out in my head day after day: my favorite band (most likely R.E.M. at the time), coming into town to play a gig at (insert North Side venue here).  Me, in the crowd, singing along with my alternative friends.  Us, being asked to hang out backstage.  Rock star events taking place thereafter. 

Without anyone to confirm or deny the actual existence of the North Side for me, I was able to keep this Xanadu image in my head.

And then, my mother took me there.  To probably the biggest identifier on the North Side.  No, not the reggae bar.  But, the reggae bar just happened to be less than a block away from Wrigley Field.

No, my mother wasn’t one of those irresponsible types- far from it, actually.  At the time, I was a straight-A student at my parochial school and well-liked by most everyone I encountered.  My mother worked hard to keep me in private school and would often go without just so my sister and I could have. 

As it happened, my mother’s childhood friend had a sister who owned said reggae bar and, during a visit to her friend’s house one evening, the friend remarked that she needed to visit her sister at work.  Why?  I don’t remember.  All I remember is that we were going for a ride, on a school night, and that was good enough for me.  Any opportunity to get out of the neighborhood was welcomed. 

And so we drove onto the Dan Ryan Expressway, passing all of the familiar landmarks: Comiskey Park, the Sears Tower, that fucked up entrance from the Dan Ryan to 290 (the Eisenhower), the Morton Salt factory with its familiar “when it rains, it pours” slogan glowing onto the highway.  I remember the rush of thinking, Wow, I wonder where we’re going!  I’d never seen that part of the expressway at night and since I knew we weren’t going out of town (as we usually do when that road is involved) I was doubly intrigued. 

We exited, a whirl of businesses and cars and apartments and houses and I knew nothing of my surroundings.  Finally we park on a random street and enter through the alley a dark, sort of depressing building with loudly blaring reggae music.  Obviously, being underaged, I can’t stay, so my mother ushers me quickly through the club to the front door.  Once outside, she points north and says, “there’s Wrigley Field.”  Oh so nonchalantly. 

I look and I see it.  The giant marquee.  That iconic stadium.  Well, I see part of it.  My mother lets me walk to the end of the block, the corner of Addison and Clark, so I can have a better view.  Wrigley Field.  Although I grew up on the South Side, I was semi-raised by my great-uncle, who was a hardcore Cubs fan.  But my father was an American League follower, so my heart was torn between two loyalties.  But to see Wrigley Field.  To have confirmation that I was finally on North Side soil.  My first kiss, my first “A”, my first roller coaster ride- nothing would ever compare to the rush I felt to finally be in the place I’d felt I belonged all along.  There was nothing special going on- no Cubs game, no concerts, no alternative people just hanging out.  It just felt different.  It felt right.  I felt happy.  My happiness lasted all of ten minutes as, much like Chicago’s south side, there were shady characters out and about and my mother needed to protect her curious and happy child.

A few minutes later we were back in the car and heading back to our south side home.  And I spent the entire ride back smiling.  It would be years before I would make it back north (try seven years) but my curiosity had been satisfied (in my mind) and I knew that, if I wanted to go, the North Side was easily and readily available.  It really existed; I was there.  And it felt right.

Of course, when 18-yr-old me made it back, I had a rougher, less magical time…