Part II - The Second Month in The Second City

Chapter 1 - The Secret

I've noticed that Chicago has a unique attitude towards the homeless. Maybe it's because the winters are ridiculous, and as people pass each other on the street, they share a glance similar to that of a group of people hesitantly walking into a haunted house. They know it's coming, and no matter how they prepare for it, it still scares the Ba-jesus out of them. To prepare for my first full tastes of the gentle Lake Michigan zephyr, Pat guaranteed that I have enough coats to both literally and figuratively cover my ass. I get giddy thinking about the first time I'll go down Clark St. to test out these coats and chuckle a muffled Kenny-from-South-Park chuckle at those trying to look fabulous and edgy in their windbreakers and knit gloves.

As I walk through The Loop, I see fewer people ignoring the homeless or walking past with their hands in the air, as if asked how to do advanced algebra, and instead tossing in change and even dollar bills. Maybe in Denver, with the programs for the homeless put forward by Hick, the attitude is that there is a place helping, "so maybe just go there." Maybe the economy just sucks so bad that people have a softened attitude, since we're all a few bad months away.

I remember one time when Kevin and I decided to have a Double Quarter Pounder eating competition. After we picked up a 10lb bag of the good stuff, we went back and made our stomachs hurt in about 3 minutes. We still had 7lbs of food, so we just gave it to the most excited looking guy I've ever seen on a street corner...ok, legally excited guy on a street corner. I would occasionally throw in change to various charity organizations collecting money, but maybe it was when I was little, I heard that all homeless people are drug addicts and alcoholics, and that's what they spend their money on. This made me not want to be an enabler. A few years ago, the last time I gave a what-looked-like-just-a-kid a quarter to "call his parole officer so he wouldn't get arrested," I saw him stagger out of an alley a few minutes later, collapsing in the gutter. I called 9-1-1, and later learned that he OD'd. I gave him that last quarter so he could get the good stuff, and that's hung around for a few years...not really as guilt, but more as a lesson learned. A parable or Aesop Fable:

The cunning fox thought he could outwit everyone. One day, a monkey was helping other monkeys move their belongings from one tree to another. The greedy fox in search of a quick fix and a syringe approached the monkeys, adjusting his fur with his paws, as if straightening a tie. "Why, hello there, young monkeys." The monkeys were first taken aback, as they were told to never talk to the foxes. "Hello, Mr. Fox." "Why, don't be startled. I've only come over to inquire if, by chance, you have a quarter, so that I may make my fox parents the happiest parents in the world, and stay out of the zoo. The ol' zookeeper has been coming around lately, and if I don't make an important call now, why, I'll be snatched up." One monkey obliged, and the trickster fox took the quarter in both paws, holding them together as if he were praying in a rather sinister manner, and pounced away into the forest. Later the fox was found in a trap, barely breathing. He didn't see where he was going, because he was looking at the quarter that he coveted. Moral: Don't buy drugs that only cost a quarter.

There are a couple homeless guys I've seen in the same spots, everyday, for the last 6 weeks. I'll see them 3-4 times a day, depending on what I'm doing. One had the unfortunately standard, cardboard veteran sign, the other just a plastic cup; both with that lost, thousand-yard stare. Maybe because it's that I'm in a city I've wanted to be in for a while, and I couldn't have gotten here on my own. Maybe it's that I do believe in a little bit of karma. Or maybe, just maybe, The Secret is legitimate and I'll get everything I put on my metaphorical wishing cork board. While I was walking to work last week, as I approached the vet, I thought, "Ok, if I have anything in my pocket, I'll give him something." I rarely carry any cash, not since my days as a server. I actually had a dollar, so I dropped it in his cup. His thousand-yard stare quickly vanished, and a very alert, articulate voice surfaced, thanking me and to have a nice day. I gave a "you, too" back at him, and I don't know how loud it actually was. I was listening to my iPod. If you're like me, you hate when people talk to you while listening to music, not necessarily because it's rude, but because they don't KNOW HOW LOUD THEY'RE TALKING TO YOU. I try to adjust for this, and I think I come off as a mumbler.

Yesterday for lunch, I went to a place down the block called Perry's, forcing me to pass the other regular with a clanky cup. He asked for some change, and I mumbled a, "Sorry I don't have any..." and sort of faded out, in fear of yelling at him by accident. When I got my sandwich, I noticed that it was the biggest freakin' thing between two slices of bread. I know what you're thinking. "But what about the New York Deli, or Zaidy's, Dave? Huh? How about those??" I hear you. But hear me now, and listen to me later. This was the mother of all deli treats. It was the Megatron to your little coffee maker Decepticon. The Nirvana to your Fray. The Dick Van Dyke to your "that one guy from MadTV." After eating a solid brick of it, I realized I had an entire half to go. "Come on...do it. Do. It. Doitdoitdoitdoit." "No!" I rebelled, and as I ran out, I grabbed a piece of saran, a bag, and shouted back at my invisible self, the one who would eat it, then grab ice cream afterward, "Never!"

As I caught my breath, I casually fixed my sunglasses and strolled down the street. As I was approaching the dude, let's call him Otis, just because, well, it suits him, I had it all planned out in my head. "Here ya go, my man, here ya go." And someone big on the street would see me, rush over, and ask if I wanted to make a movie with Robin Williams, because "Robin only works with actors who are gracious and helpful." Otis was in his routine and asked if I had any change. I replied no, but would he want a sandwich. "Ah, yes. God bless you, man." I handed over the 4lb white bag of deliciousness. After feeling the weight of it he said, "Ah, yeah, man. God bless. Really. God bless." I'm just glad he meant it the second time.

I don't know why, but part of me feels really awkward whenever someone tells me "God bless," and I feel awkward saying it, even after a sneeze. Maybe it's my religiously and spiritually diverse family and upbringing...maybe it's too powerful a phrase to tell God to bless somebody else. I don't know. But I not only heard, I listened to Otis today. As I passed him going back to the train station after work, he was sitting on his milk crate that I think the 7-11 he stands in front of lets him have. He was lounging back, and gone was his usual distant stare. Taking its place was a comatose glaze that could only have been brought on by 1/3 of a cow on rye. I slowed and looked in his direction as I passed, selfishly hoping he would remember me, of the 1,000s of faces he had seen that day. He didn't move. He wasn't dead. He just didn't move. I took this as me being a few steps closer to my cork board.