Real connections between people in Chicago
I park on the side streets near Lincoln Park now and then, and my rule is to read the sign on the pole every time, even on a street I used yesterday. Street cleaning and parking rules here are strict, and they can differ between blocks. I do not know the whole system and I will not pretend to. What I know is that the sign on that block is the answer, and my memory of yesterday is not.
The power went out in a block of the Loop at lunchtime on a Wednesday and hundreds of us ended up on the pavement saying nothing, looking at our phones, then at each other. A man began to hum. Someone joined in. Nobody knew the song but we all hummed it. It lasted fifteen minutes. When the lights came back we clapped, and went back to our desks, and I did not see any of them again. I still hum it sometimes at that corner.
In my first week I stood at a counter in Wicker Park, tapped my card, and the screen turned to face me with tip buttons. The coffee had not been made yet. Back home I would have tapped away and thought nothing of it. Here, a tip of about 20 percent is simply what people do, and I spent the walk home wondering how an owner sets wages when the customer covers part of them. I did not enjoy the arithmetic, but I understood the screen better after that.
You stood on the Blue Line at rush hour holding a trombone case and a bag of oranges, as if there were no other way to travel. When the train jerked, the trombone case leaned on a man in a suit, who held it steady the rest of the way without speaking. Nobody said a word. You got off at Logan Square. The man in the suit looked at his hands, then at the door. He looked proud. I do not know if he was thinking of the trombone or the oranges. I have been thinking of both.
I was riding badly down a bike lane in Pilsen on a summer evening when another cyclist matched my slow speed for ten blocks without saying anything. When we reached the red light he said, I thought you needed company. We have ridden together every Thursday since. He is much faster than me and slows down on purpose. I think that is called friendship. Last Thursday I rode a block faster, to see what would happen. He sped up to match me. I think we both lost.
It was snowing sideways in Millennium Park at 9pm, and nobody was around except me, a man with a trumpet case, and a very large silver bean. He opened the case, tapped the valve twice, and played four slow bars that made the snow look like it was following the tune. Then he packed up and walked toward the L. I stood another five minutes. Best concert I have ever been to alone. I have not found the song. I have not looked. I think it was written for one evening.
I woke up to ice on my steps in Logan Square and a small pile of salt beside the door, with the shovel leaning on the railing. I looked up and down the block but the street was empty. The steps were dry in ten minutes. I left a note on the shovel that said, thank you, whoever you are. The next morning there was a note back. It said, you are welcome, bring bagels. I brought bagels. The shovel is still on my railing. It has become a messenger.
It was after midnight near Wicker Park and I had a dead phone and a very light jacket. A man coming out of a pizza place looked at me and said, Blue Line? He walked three blocks with me in the cold, pointed at the stairs, and went back to his friends. I got home with feeling in my toes and a small lesson about how to talk to people in the dark. I do not have his name. I have a slice of pizza that I bought the next day, in his honour, at the same place.
It was minus fifteen at 7am in Lincoln Park and you were walking toward the lake with a coffee the size of a small bucket and ice crystals on your scarf. I was going the other way, shuffling in a puffer jacket like a rolled sleeping bag. We nodded, the way people nod in extreme weather, like soldiers. It was the warmest nod I have ever received. I have been in the park at 7am for six days. I have received two more nods. One was from a squirrel.
