I sat down with Josh and his girlfriend Bridget - whom I was meeting for the first time - and told them in the plainest terms that the best part of my day had already happened. Whatever was about to happen couldn't compete. It was a good conversation starter.
We had agreed to meet that evening for a drink in Andersonville - a happy neighborhood that sits happily between our respective ones. I had left Rogers Park early and on foot in order to get both exercise as well as to sit reading for a while. Of course I forgot to bring anything to read, so walked along Clark Street looking for something. The box holding Chicago Reader magazines was empty, as was the next one. Not great for my attitude. The weather was cool, overcast, and suggesting rain: typical of this June. This is Pride Week in Chicago, something easily forgotten given the tiresome Autumn-like weather interrupted by a handful of days of choking heat. Irritated with myself, I strolled around looking through store windows. The stores there have a good reputation both for supporting the neighborhood brand (its Swedish heritage as well as its present gay-friendliness) and for selling things that Target doesn't: local art, original crafts & designs, good-looking furniture, etc. The bad side of that exclusivity means that the stuff grabbing my attention also carries a price tag outside of my reach.
I abandoned all hope of getting a free magazine moments before walking up to the feminist bookstore. Josh and Bridget were not expecting me for another 45 minutes, so I went inside the store to kill time reading back cover descriptions but buying nothing. That was a pre-announced failure, and at one point I carried around four books. I bought two. A really handsome guy was milling around the area where the store kept the best sellers on a large wooden table. I regretted not having a reason to wander back over there so walked out onto the sidewalk.
There's a bench on the southwest corner of the intersection where we were to meet. Usually it's taken with folks waiting for the bus but at that moment it was wide open. It was a perfect place to enjoy -- alone -- the last bit of that day's sunshine while watching the crowds of people. Then, a bus pulled up to its stop. I silently prayed that nobody would sit down at the bench. I had mentally called dibs, so anyone disrespecting the dibs rule would have received a serious scowl. Nobody sat down, so I made a little sprint across the street after the bus pulled away heading east on Foster. Sitting down felt really good. I felt really lucky to have the bench to myself. The feeling didn't last. The sun went behind a building on Ashland Avenue as I read the second page of Anne Lamott's book in which she described a terrible depression on the day after GWB's re-election in 2004. Great. Just fucking great. At least I would have the bench to myself.
Nope.
A woman, about 5'5", walked behind me, then pivoted to the right in order to sit down two bags of stuff. I looked at her and felt irritated. First I had lost the sunshine, then I had begun a new book that started with a depressive slog, and finally I had lost the luxury of sitting alone on the bench at Clark and Foster.
"Was that the 92 bus?" she asked.
"I'm afraid so," I replied.
"Oh, I hate when that happens. I just missed it."
She then settled her bags in the left-most part of the bench. I looked quickly and saw that it wasn't food but things. I didn't notice anything in particular but they gave me the impression of dollar store goods. "Are you waiting for the bus too?" she asked. I explained that no, I wasn't waiting for the bus but instead passing time until meeting my friends. "Oh that's very good," she said. The last two words trailed off, catching my attention. That's when I looked at her. She seemed around 80 years old. Her clothes made sense for Autumn, not June -- but I remembered how unlike June this one was. It made sense to wear a light scarf and overcoat. "They usually run every 15 minutes or so," I said, adding "another one will be here soon." She nodded and adjusted her shopping bags.
A few moments passed and I returned to the book. Out of the blue she said "I think that this Starbucks makes the best coffee." Now, say what you will about coffee elitism and corporate dominance -- but I've been alive for nearly forty years and have never encountered that sentence. This was something to follow. It was certainly something better than the book, so I succumbed to the present moment and stowed the book into my backpack to ask why she thought that the Starbucks (further north on Clark Ave) was so good. "Well, I don't know why the flavor is much better here but I can tell you that the taste gets worse the further you go that way," gesturing to the south. I asked had she been in the café directly behind us and she either didn't hear me or ignored me, because she began telling me about the grocery store up the street that sold high-quality steaks at excellent prices. "I'm older and don't have a lot of money you know. Eating right is important. I'm almost 90. Did you have any idea? I don't look it do I?" I had to admit that she was right. She clearly had some opinions to share during our stay there on the bench so I stuck to the theme by asking where else she likes to go.
"Well there is a Chinese place back that way (gesturing to the west) where the people are very decent. They make a shrimp fried rice that comes with a lot of shrimp. And big ones. Not just a handful of tiny ones. I eat very well there. It's healthy food. People don't think much about diet but it's important especially at my age. I don't know how they stay in business but hope that they do for a long time. At least as long as I am alive, hahaha."
I found myself smiling. In fact, my body had re-oriented itself in a pose of complete attention. She had hooked me. I suggested that she write a food advice column for one of the local papers. She laughed and waved her hand as if batting away a fly, saying "oh no the papers are terrible. It's all fake. It's fake news. I'm a conservative and I tell you, reading the news here is terrible. It's all just so fake you wouldn't believe it." And there I sat, listening to and watching this rarest of people: a Trump supporter in Chicago. I felt as though I had been graced by the presence of a giraffe. She talked in kind terms about her various conspiracy theories and general complaints about modern life, couching each example with a shrug -- either physical or rhetorical. And I couldn't stop smiling. I couldn't believe my luck.
Eventually, I looked at my phone for the time as well as to check something. It was nearing 7p, so I had to get going to the bar to meet Josh and Bridget. I thanked the woman for spending time with me on the bench. She reciprocated, saying that she had a lovely time talking with me. The truth was that I listened while she spoke... but, it really didn't matter. We each played our part on the stage. I stood up, flung the bookbag over my shoulder, and wished her a good evening. "The 92 bus will be here in 2 minutes," I said as I readied to walk away. She thanked me, adjusted her scarf, and wished me a good night.
And it was.
We had agreed to meet that evening for a drink in Andersonville - a happy neighborhood that sits happily between our respective ones. I had left Rogers Park early and on foot in order to get both exercise as well as to sit reading for a while. Of course I forgot to bring anything to read, so walked along Clark Street looking for something. The box holding Chicago Reader magazines was empty, as was the next one. Not great for my attitude. The weather was cool, overcast, and suggesting rain: typical of this June. This is Pride Week in Chicago, something easily forgotten given the tiresome Autumn-like weather interrupted by a handful of days of choking heat. Irritated with myself, I strolled around looking through store windows. The stores there have a good reputation both for supporting the neighborhood brand (its Swedish heritage as well as its present gay-friendliness) and for selling things that Target doesn't: local art, original crafts & designs, good-looking furniture, etc. The bad side of that exclusivity means that the stuff grabbing my attention also carries a price tag outside of my reach.
I abandoned all hope of getting a free magazine moments before walking up to the feminist bookstore. Josh and Bridget were not expecting me for another 45 minutes, so I went inside the store to kill time reading back cover descriptions but buying nothing. That was a pre-announced failure, and at one point I carried around four books. I bought two. A really handsome guy was milling around the area where the store kept the best sellers on a large wooden table. I regretted not having a reason to wander back over there so walked out onto the sidewalk.
There's a bench on the southwest corner of the intersection where we were to meet. Usually it's taken with folks waiting for the bus but at that moment it was wide open. It was a perfect place to enjoy -- alone -- the last bit of that day's sunshine while watching the crowds of people. Then, a bus pulled up to its stop. I silently prayed that nobody would sit down at the bench. I had mentally called dibs, so anyone disrespecting the dibs rule would have received a serious scowl. Nobody sat down, so I made a little sprint across the street after the bus pulled away heading east on Foster. Sitting down felt really good. I felt really lucky to have the bench to myself. The feeling didn't last. The sun went behind a building on Ashland Avenue as I read the second page of Anne Lamott's book in which she described a terrible depression on the day after GWB's re-election in 2004. Great. Just fucking great. At least I would have the bench to myself.
Nope.
A woman, about 5'5", walked behind me, then pivoted to the right in order to sit down two bags of stuff. I looked at her and felt irritated. First I had lost the sunshine, then I had begun a new book that started with a depressive slog, and finally I had lost the luxury of sitting alone on the bench at Clark and Foster.
"Was that the 92 bus?" she asked.
"I'm afraid so," I replied.
"Oh, I hate when that happens. I just missed it."
She then settled her bags in the left-most part of the bench. I looked quickly and saw that it wasn't food but things. I didn't notice anything in particular but they gave me the impression of dollar store goods. "Are you waiting for the bus too?" she asked. I explained that no, I wasn't waiting for the bus but instead passing time until meeting my friends. "Oh that's very good," she said. The last two words trailed off, catching my attention. That's when I looked at her. She seemed around 80 years old. Her clothes made sense for Autumn, not June -- but I remembered how unlike June this one was. It made sense to wear a light scarf and overcoat. "They usually run every 15 minutes or so," I said, adding "another one will be here soon." She nodded and adjusted her shopping bags.
A few moments passed and I returned to the book. Out of the blue she said "I think that this Starbucks makes the best coffee." Now, say what you will about coffee elitism and corporate dominance -- but I've been alive for nearly forty years and have never encountered that sentence. This was something to follow. It was certainly something better than the book, so I succumbed to the present moment and stowed the book into my backpack to ask why she thought that the Starbucks (further north on Clark Ave) was so good. "Well, I don't know why the flavor is much better here but I can tell you that the taste gets worse the further you go that way," gesturing to the south. I asked had she been in the café directly behind us and she either didn't hear me or ignored me, because she began telling me about the grocery store up the street that sold high-quality steaks at excellent prices. "I'm older and don't have a lot of money you know. Eating right is important. I'm almost 90. Did you have any idea? I don't look it do I?" I had to admit that she was right. She clearly had some opinions to share during our stay there on the bench so I stuck to the theme by asking where else she likes to go.
"Well there is a Chinese place back that way (gesturing to the west) where the people are very decent. They make a shrimp fried rice that comes with a lot of shrimp. And big ones. Not just a handful of tiny ones. I eat very well there. It's healthy food. People don't think much about diet but it's important especially at my age. I don't know how they stay in business but hope that they do for a long time. At least as long as I am alive, hahaha."
I found myself smiling. In fact, my body had re-oriented itself in a pose of complete attention. She had hooked me. I suggested that she write a food advice column for one of the local papers. She laughed and waved her hand as if batting away a fly, saying "oh no the papers are terrible. It's all fake. It's fake news. I'm a conservative and I tell you, reading the news here is terrible. It's all just so fake you wouldn't believe it." And there I sat, listening to and watching this rarest of people: a Trump supporter in Chicago. I felt as though I had been graced by the presence of a giraffe. She talked in kind terms about her various conspiracy theories and general complaints about modern life, couching each example with a shrug -- either physical or rhetorical. And I couldn't stop smiling. I couldn't believe my luck.
Eventually, I looked at my phone for the time as well as to check something. It was nearing 7p, so I had to get going to the bar to meet Josh and Bridget. I thanked the woman for spending time with me on the bench. She reciprocated, saying that she had a lovely time talking with me. The truth was that I listened while she spoke... but, it really didn't matter. We each played our part on the stage. I stood up, flung the bookbag over my shoulder, and wished her a good evening. "The 92 bus will be here in 2 minutes," I said as I readied to walk away. She thanked me, adjusted her scarf, and wished me a good night.
And it was.