Gangway

The dispatcher directed me to an address off Fullerton near Logan Square. I pulled up and a woman with ratty bleach-blond hair and a tie dyed shirt came out carrying a bunch of plastic bags. Placing the load in the back seat, she gave an Oh-Well kind of look and shrugged before shivering against the chill and retreating back toward the house. A heavily made-up Latina was next out. She seemed more intent on her phone conversation than actually making it from the doorway to the cab, but gradually that gap narrowed, then closed...

"43rd & Western, you can take the highway," she directed before lapsing into silence. Her curly hair shone slick with oily product, lipstick applied and reapplied generously to a sort of patina, enough mascara to cause a raccoon envy, and various other tinctures to alter or hide the true nature of her visage. She had those long acrylic nails. The ones encrusted with fake diamonds. The parts that were unadorned were a Day-Glo teal shade...

As we sped past Downtown she quietly intoned into her cell, "C'mon baby, I know you can do it...I believe in you, you make me so proud...you the MAN, don't be a negative, baby...just the way we talked about, I love you sooo much..."

We got off the Stevenson and she directed me up Archer toward Western. McKinley Park was dead-still at this hour. As with most neighborhoods in the city, 1AM on a Sunday was a time to quietly gird for the coming work week. We sped down the avenues, unchecked by other vehicles, hardly slowed by traffic lights, before coming to rest on a narrow one-way street in front of a neatly appointed single-family abode. She hurriedly rechecked her make-up in the mirror, "...so tired," she murmured under her breath while counting out the price of the fare...

"Do I look OK?" she asked, making eye contact for the first time, revealing the faint, mostly-healed bruise on her left cheek. She gathered up her belongings and dragged them to the black metal gangway gate on the side of the house. She'd asked me to stay until she made it inside, so I sat there, watching her fumble with the lock. The motion detector lit and darkened the porch light every other minute. Giving up, she came back to the cab, "My key won't work, I need to call my fiance to come out and unlock it. Don't leave please"...She argued her case into the cell for what seemed like eons before a guy in a hoodie and shorts appeared and grudgingly unlocked the gate. They disappeared between the two houses without looking back...

Lost Souls

Making countless passes up and down the thoroughfares of the city, one begins to seek out the landmarks as a way of reconfirming one's own place in it. Some of them turn out not to be prominent structures, but characters that make an area their own through persistence and stubborn refusal to fade away. Most of them wouldn't exactly be considered pillars of the community. In fact, they aren't part of it, yet their presence marks the mental image of the locale they haunt more than any neighborhood booster ever could...

The double-amputee at Dearborn & Congress waits patiently for the light to go red before wheeling up to the stopped vehicles, looking for alms. He's been here for years and doesn't hurry. He seems to know the precise second to hit the sidewalk, avoiding injury and dirty looks...From the Magnificent Mile to Wacker Drive, a regular visitor will spot him sooner or later. He's got brushed long grey hair and clothes that hang off him in that coat-hanger way, as if to prove that they were given to him rather than chosen. From a distance, he reminds of Daniel Day-Lewis with the prominent nose and deep-set eyes; up-close, the blotchy skin and bad teeth won't recall a movie star of any kind. He isn't dirty and his clothes, while not his own, are always clean and I've never seen him ask for money or much of anything. Mostly, he fills his days crossing and re-crossing major Downtown streets. It's as if he's been put out there to wander, cleaned up and re-dressed overnight, then told to do it again and again again...

She's made Chicago & Western hers. Any of the bus shelters or benches in the vicinity are liable to hold her bundle of bags and rags. Her hair dreaded into one ugly grey-brown clump to the side of her bent-over head as she makes her way glacially down the sidewalk. The object is to transport one or another of the many pieces of her self-styled luggage from one spot to the next. Sometimes it's all gathered together to board the #49 or #66 to the great annoyance of the passengers on board; the operation takes many minutes and she's years past caring about any kind of recrimination. The picking up and putting down of all those worthless bits is just another way to bide away the years 'til the sand in the hourglass runs out...

She patrols the six-way intersection of Damen, Fullerton, and Elston. Walleyed and slight, she staggers toward cars, holding out an over-sized plastic cup. Her mouth hangs open and to the side at an unhealthy cant and the sounds she makes can't truly be classified as words. It's customary to make oneself pitiful to elicit sympathy and remuneration, but she takes it to an absurd extreme if indeed it's any of her own doing. That face wouldn't be out of place in one of Bosch's tableaus of Hell. Her replacement is a black man who's limbs all move the wrong way as he walks; a worthy substitute to play her part on that stage...

These, and many others less memorable, serve a signposts all across this town. There's some kinship as these forgotten shades serve as the only constant company on deserted streets at any hour of the day or night. Their presence reaffirms one's own while also reminding of the merciless repetition of this work. Like them, we must return again and again to the same intersections, to seek just enough fortune for the chance to do it all over once more...

Sleepover

Halloween Night, sometime late...

A few nights a year stand out: New Year's Eve, 4th of July, St.Patrick's Day, and, more and more, Halloween. Seems that the kiddie candy-gathering aspect of it is eclipsed by the nocturnal masked bacchanale with each passing year. The packs of chaperoned, orderly children hauling pumpkin-hued plastic bags of sweets disappear with the setting sun to be replaced by more or less creatively disguised hordes on the prowl for new ways to forget whatever it is that needs forgotting...

This year, to add to the hijinks, the time-change fell on the same night, adding an extra hour of imbibing to the delight of the reveling masses. No chauffeur of any standing would pass on it. Nevertheless, after a time, the marauding crowds spilling from all directions make for a chaotic and exhausting work environment. We truly earn it on these nights...

There was no shortage of funny get-ups; Forrest Gump giving me chocolates and debating the dubious merits of the film that spawned him; two pretty girls dressed as Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum; half a dozen mostly mediocre Fred Flintstones; the guy in the very professionally-constructed Whoopee Cushion costume...She didn't stand out for what she wore but more for her approach...

It had to be past the second 2AM, the one that was really 3AM, that I picked her up. She was in a short black dress, fishnets, and very red lipstick and nails. Plopping in the back seat, she immediately asked whether it was OK to smoke, then, if she could sit up front. This is normally a big no-no; unless there's no room in the back, no one sits in the passenger seat. Besides the possible safety concerns, it implies a familiarity that few drivers would welcome when confronted with the average passenger. These are not our friends, we aren't giving them a lift, no matter how casually we're often addressed this is still a business transaction. For whatever reason I let that all go...

"Thank you for taking me home", she smiled, a bit bleary-eyed, "So I invited him to a slumber party and he turned me down. I said, Wanna come over for a sleepover, just you and me?, and he said no...What's up with that?" In response to the half-assed comforting cliches offered, she wasn't having it, "You don't know me, I'm not that kind of girl. This is the one for me. He's only thirty and a partner in a law firm. He's everything I ever wanted. I'm straight-up small-town. I just wanna be taken care of, you know? He opens doors for me, it makes all the difference..."

She'd been at a girlfriend's party texting her dreamboat, making arrangements, and when it didn't turn out as she'd hoped, she was in no mood to celebrate any longer. "Anyways, she's moving to Mexico ON MY BIRTHDAY! So fuck her...So, what about you?" She refused to believe that her driver had no personal life, but unable to glean any details, she let it go to blow clouds of smoke out the window...

"I can tell you're a decent guy or I wouldn't have sat up front," she said as we slowed at her doorstep, "Will you give me a hug?"...I do...

Supernumerary

She bounded toward the cab from the Lyric Opera House. A thin middle-aged woman in white turtleneck, pants, and Bears cap. "I got the part!"

"This was my fifth try and I finally got it. I'm going to be on stage in the opera!...No, I won't be singing. Know what a supernumerary is? It's like an extra. They need them for every production and it's an exclusive club; once you're in, you're in!" Her eyes glowed as she looked out the window, pondering the suddenly-bright future...

"This was one of my life's goals. To be near the divas when they sing. When I turned fifty I told myself, I'm going to learn to appreciate opera. It took a few years but I just love it now...Can't help thinking that this is a reward for surviving breast cancer...Boy! How am I gonna be able to teach tomorrow? Probably won't sleep tonight!"

She taught computer science at Northwestern and a pop quiz would have to do because she wouldn't be capable of more under the circumstances. She talked of climbing Kilimanjaro, of riding her Harley all over the West, and of how this day ranked right up there with the high points...

"I'll have to wear a ring to discourage the men. Not doing it for dating, not ready for that with the cancer and all, you understand?...Already see Joe sniffing around, being extra friendly. Got a plain gold band, it'll do. Can't blame them for trying. They see a fifty year old woman jumping around like that, they think, WOW look at her! She's like a twenty year old!"

I confessed that I had no patience for opera, could never understand why they had to make those awful sounds come out of their throats, to which she insisted that I hadn't given it enough time, "It's a stylized, artificial art like ballet and there's nothing more beautiful when done right." She was impressed that a family friend had actually starred at the Lyric, even though I admitted to barely making it to intermission when seeing her sing. Nothing anyone could say could dampen her euphoria.

"Oh, I can't wait to see what Daryl the doorman will say! When you see the banner for the Lyric's next season, think of me!" She beamed, then turned away toward the glass revolving doors of her high-rise, just off Lakeshore Drive. The sun was setting and my goals were more modest than hers. To play a bit part in others' lives and be compensated accordingly...

Gypsy

He jumped out into Chicago Avenue from a side street, waving his meaty hands like a refugee from a sinking ship, giving it a last desperate try before going under..."Take me to the W Hotel", he said, catching his breath a bit. Told that there were two of them in town, he wanted to be taken to the nearest. So we shoved off toward the Loop...

"I'm not from around here. Came in to hang with my girl and her car broke down...Know anything about Gypsies?" He was a big fella with carefully styled hair and a striped shirt buttoned up all the way. He asked if he could smoke, then puffed out clouds as if he'd been holding them in before getting permission to let'em out..."There's no, like, dating for us. It's real old-school. We marry at thirteen, fourteen. So the boy's father comes to the girl's and offers him money and if they want a wedding then we gotta pay for that too."

What happened was that he was sneaking around with a girl from the tribe. Her car broke down and he waited with her for hours until she called Daddy. "He catches me with her and I owe him $25,000 plus the price of a wedding." This was the point at which he hauled ass out of there and crossed my path..."So since I'm in the city, I'll meet a buddy at the W," then he got on his cell to give the address he'd had to ask for, to his friend, "He's coming in from Indiana."

"Her father's fucking with me now. He knows something's up, but he's pretending like he don't. I'm only twenty years old. I wanna have a life. Be ready to settle down like next year..." He paid up, making a big show of leaving a two dollar tip, and went into the W. Never did explain why it had to be that hotel and no other. Maybe he'd seen an ad that made it seem like the right place for a last hurrah...

Crack

Double-parked by the darkened courtyard in Garfield Park, I key in the Auto Callout code to summon my passenger. A group of young men loiter about the chain-link that surrounds the liquor store next door. They play-punch one another and otherwise horse about to break the monotony and keep the chill out of their bones. The minutes lurch forward with no sign of my guy and I put in the code for a 'No Show'...

Before I can pull away, a woman runs out from the furthest doorway and begs me to wait, "He's comin' it just take him a while", then disappears back into the murk. A man in a red and white track suit edges into view, moving along the wall of the building, stopping every few feet to gather himself before going on. Cracking the back door, he sucks the air in like a landlocked carp. He wheezes for me to stay put. "Alright, I need you to take me to the hospital to get a new oxygen tank, then take me back, cool?...First, though, we got to find this guy, he's got somethin' of mine. Just go ahead, I'll tell you where."

We go west, slowing at alleys for no apparent reason, on a hunt with rules beyond comprehension. Occasionally he barks out at passing men, their faces obscured by oversized hoodies, "Hey, where D? Know where he at?", with no satisfactory answers forthcoming...After about twenty minutes of this futility, I tell him that I've got places to be, that rolling around with him all night's not an option. He seems to understand and agrees to just go to the hospital and grab another cab back, "Let's just check this one place first..."

The 'one place' is another slum a couple miles south-west of where we'd been foraging. Pools of broken glass collect near the curbs and reflect the headlights' beams as we turn from one broken-down block to the next. Past unmarked squad cars out for bigger game, past pedestrians likely out looking for that elusive prize, past loiterers leaning on vehicles stilled for good...Protesting again about time lapsing, I manage to get us steered back homeward. Just then, he sees some invisible sign in the sidewalk that commands him urgently down the next unlit street, "This is it, I swear!"

We pull up to a two-flat and he rolls down the window, summoning someone from the rocking chair on the porch. After some whispered negotiations the new guy gets in and gives the street corner they want. Cop cars and paddy wagons whiz by at break-neck speeds, "Somebody got they asses shot for sure", is the verdict from the back seat. We turn off California a block from where all the sirens have come to rest. Here, a group based on a stoop of a boarded-up brownstone is doing a brisk business, passing baggies in exchange for bills to all comers. The loudly-marked taxi causes the young captains of industry a bit of pause, assuaged quickly by the crumpled fives passed through the rolled down window, and then we're off...

After splitting the spoils, we drop his partner off and head back to his place. The trip to that hospital's no longer necessary, in fact, he wants to double back for another hit of the medicine doled from the stoop. He doesn't protest much when I refuse...We end up back at that courtyard, same fellas still hanging around, apparently unable to meet my customer's discriminating needs. On his way out, in appreciation, he offers, "You're the type'a guy, people can't help but like ya!", and with that he creeps away, hugging the bricks back to entryway to his abode...

Worker

Stopped at a red on a quiet Sunday night. The kid in the bulky sweatshirt and spiky hair stood waiting at the bus stop, peeking through the cab's window tentatively before reaching out a palm to ascertain whether it was available..."Thanks, man. Cold as shit out there. Was nice and sunny, then 6 O'Clock hit and it dropped like a motherfucker...See, I was hangin' with my girl and she's the kind that likes to go walk outside after a meal. Course she didn't bring no sweater, so I gave'er mine and near froze my ass off..."

He wanted to know if the Bears had won and, hearing that they had, explained about how his friend knew this site where you could watch all the fights and games for free, "...he's got it hooked up to his plasma, it's all hi-def and you don't have to pay nothin' "...He wanted to know how late my shift ran, "Wow, that's so late, and I bitch about my hours. Gotta be there 4AM and stay 'til 10"

He took care of the lawns of repo'd houses, "It's easy, we just go in there with a weed-wacker one, two, three we're done. There's like seventy-two in Chicago, then a shitload more in the 'burbs, they're adding more all the time", he got the job because his uncle, who ran a fence company, was asked by a real estate pal if he knew anyone who could help with the maintenance of all the seized property piling up on his plate. Recognizing a payday when he saw it, he brought the nephews and cousins in to share a piece of the action. "It's alright I guess. I applied at that new La Quinta Inn Downtown, there were like thousands waiting, I was there six hours but I thought it'd work out cuz I had an in. I was gonna be a mini-bar attendant, $13-an-hour, but they wouldn't give it to me since I ain't twenty-one..."

He was just out of high-school and the only one of his friends with a steady job, "I'd rather be working. They have side jobs, this and that, but it's mostly just hangin' around", he wanted to keep talking but we were at his house, so he paid up and darted out. There's always more, but the story hardly ever continues past the allotted time, the length of the ride is all that's offered. Often, though, it's more than enough to get a glimpse into another's world...