Maybe some people don’t have enough problems. Maybe they can’t think of all the helpful and useful things they could be doing with their time. Maybe their lives are so boring and confused that they need hypothermia to make it interesting.
Okay, fine. I’m ‘a say it.
White people crazy.
After twenty minutes, I exit Lake Shore Drive and take an off ramp heading past the Loop—downtown Chicago, where the tallest buildings are.
It’s still kind ofbugging me out—the polar bear club people— so I try to busy myself worrying about Ms. Washington.
The first thing to know about her is that she’s one of the only members of my flock who left South Shore but still comes back for church. Ms. Washington moved up north a few years ago when she inherited a place from her sister who passed. The neighborhood is called Logan Square, after John A. Logan. (He ran for vice president 150 years ago and lost, is my understanding. Apparently, that’s good enough to get a neighborhood named after you.) Forty years ago, Logan Square was as dangerous as South Shore; more dangerous maybe. Latin street gangs fighting for turf and shooting up the residents. Now it’s better, and white people have moved in. That’s how the neighborhoods generally evolve in this town—how the gentrification runs. White people pushing out Latinos. The Loop inexorably pushing its way west and south to where blacks live.
Too often, my Latin brothers and sisters are the buffer between the blacks and the whites. I do not envy them. They bear the brunt of the gentrification—having to make a choice every generation between staying in a neighborhood that no longer feels like home or uprooting to move a mile west if they still want the signs on the stores to be in Spanish.
God help them—for I, certainly, cannot. Dios mío. Dios mío, indeed.
But Ms. Washington . . . she is a firecracker. I like the fact that she’s chosen to make her stand up in Logan Square. So what if she could sell the place and live out her final years high on the hog in South Shore? It’s in the family, and she’s gonna take it over. Amen.
Driving through neighborhoods and watching the demographics change like this has always made me wonder—what does “success” look like for Chicago? What are we all working toward?
I mean, The Church of Heaven’s God in Christ Lord Jesus needs a new roof and a new pipe organ. That would feel like s uccess to me. A roof that doesn’t leak when it rains and organ music that people can hear back in the last pew would be a little bit of success. But think bigger, Pastor Mack . . . what about the whole neighborhood? What about the whole city?
These are the questions that nobody wants to answer.
Should there be no “ethnic neighborhoods” or Chicago-style segregation? Should the races all mix together like a true melting pot? Must we interbreed until the entire notion of “race” is lost?
Or should we instead proudly cling to ethnic heritages and neighborhoods—espousing how they enrich our cultural lives— but insist on economic equality? That is to say: Is success when there are still black and white and Latino neighborhoods, but they’re all equally wealthy, and they all have schools and firehouses and hospitals that are just as good?
There is no consensus upon these questions—within my own brain or within the highest echelons of city government. The only thing that the clergy and the politicians and the community development people can agree on is that things are not okay as they are. Things need to change.
But change to exactly what? Ladies and gentlemen, nobody has any idea.
Nobody.
Anyhow, I pull off the expressway and head a few blocks into Logan Square.
That’s when I start to hear the mysterious thumping noise coming from the back seat.
Maria Ramirez
So I decide he’s kind of cute . . . but also weird.
Those guys in their 30s who still dress like hipsters . . . they don’t lookkold, but they don’t look young either. It’s like plastic surgery. You’re not old but you’re not young. You’re this weird, third thing.
He has a wrinkled dress shirt with the top unbuttoned and a tie hanging low on his neck. He’s tall—which I like—but also a little thick around the middle. Not exactly Stewart Copeland. But then he does have the thick black Stewart Copeland-style glasses. I have to admit I like that.
And it turns out he actually does know a little about zombies. At least he’s less cynical than what they were saying on Gawker and Drudge Report. That they may be a prank, or some new medical condition. That the stumbling, decayed people in the clips are mutated residents of a nuclear accident in some former Soviet republic. (A lot of the newer zombie videos are from Eastern Europe.)
He isn’t calling them zombies though. He says he thinks that if they are real, that they’re people. Maybe deformed. Maybe sick. He also thinks it could just be a giant internet joke though, or a hoax by a company to promote a product. (Stranger things have happened.) He says that something’s up . . . but not necessarily zombies.
So, yeah, he talks about the zombies with me for a while. Just when the conversation is winding down, he says, “Oh hey, SBVD. Right on.”
He’s looking at the Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata sticker on the side of my drum case. He obviously has no idea that we’re the same band. I tell him that we are.
“No shit?!? You guys just do this cover band bullshit for the extra scratch?”
“Ding ding ding” I say. “We have a winner.”
“Really?”—not like he doesn’t believe me, but like he thinks it’s cool. “That’s awesome. Wow!”
“I guess it’s kinda awesome,” I say. Now he’s going overboard.
“You guys are amazing,” he continues. “That one tune you do, ‘Flip the Trick’? That’s an amazing song. That part where the guitars drop out and it’s just bass and drums? Amazing. And you’re that drummer?”
I kind of step back and look him up and down again.
He doesn’t look like a typical Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata fan. At least ten years too old and thirty pounds too heavy. Also, he says “amazing” too much.
But he clearly knows our songs.
“Yeah,” I say cautiously. “That’s me. Did you hear us on the radio? We got played on ‘Local Anesthetic’ the other day.”
“My wife . . .” he begins, and falters. For just a moment his eyes flicker around, and his lips curl like he’s sad.
I wait.
“My ex-wife . . . “ he tries again. “She made me a mix CD. ‘Flip the Trick’ was on there. The second song, actually . . . right after ‘California Stars.’”
Fucking Wilco. Goddamn it.
“Can I just tell you—you’re a really good drummer,” he continues.
Without asking, I hand him another beer. He accepts it appreciatively, cracks it open, and continues to gush about my ability with the sticks. (Non-drummers are so cute when they try to describe what drummers do, but they don’t know the right terminology or even understand how a drum kit works. He finishes by comparing me to John Bonham “ . . . but, like, a sexy female John Bonham,” and praising “that one part of the song where your hands go really fast.”)
I open a second PBR for myself.
“What other songs are on this mix by your ex-wife?” I ask. “Other than... Wilco”
I’m always curious about other bands that SBVD fans like. We can try to poach their fan bases on social networking sites—get those people to come to our shows. Sometimes it actually works.
“Uh, lessee,” he says. “She’s kind of all over the place. There was some Beatles, of course. She loves the Beatles. Some John Mellencamp—she’s a Hoosier. And then bands like Nickelback.”
“Excuse me while I puke a little in my mouth.”
“Oh,” he says, realizing this selection is not to my taste.
“No offense,” I tell him, “but if music were the human body, nu-metal would be the taint.”
“Heh,” he says. “That’s a good line. I’m gonna steal that.”
“It’s fucking tru
e.”
He smiles. He’s cute when he smiles.
“Not to bring up a sore subject,” I say. “But . . . um . . . she can’t have been your ex for long.”
“Why do you say that?” he says, as if my question is confusing.
“If she made you a mix CD with ‘Flip the Trick’ on it,” I clarify. “We didn’t release that song until four months ago. So if she made you the CD and then you got divorced.”
“Oh, we were divorced before,” he says. “It’s been official for about two years now.”
“But you still.?”
“We’re still friends, if that’s what you mean,” he tells me. “I still care about her a lot. It just didn’t work out.” “Did you have kids together or something?” “No,” he says.
“Good” I tell him. “Because eww.” He gives a big toothy grin. “What, you’re not into kids?” “Umm, what do you think?” He laughs again.
“No . . . my ex and I are just friends. Not every relationship that ends has to end badly, you know?” I let him have that one.
I need to go warm up on my practice pad, and tell him as much. I have the feeling this guy’s going to hang around for the show.
“Hey,” he says as I began digging through my backpack for some sticks. “My name’s Ben. Ben Bennington. I don’t think I told you before.”
Awww. He’s trying to be bold.
“Hello Ben,” I reply. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Ben Bennington
So I decide to stick around for the show. (It was fun to talk with Maria about the zombies. I wished I’d had more to say on the topic, but I still think I did okay.)
I leave the hallway, return to my chair at the back of the nightclub, and wait patiently for the remaining politicians to fnish. All the speeches are so similar. So boring. I swear to God, if another person quotes Daniel Burnham I am going to start throwing things.
Can this get any worse?
Oh wait, it can. The serious looking alderman at the microphone just brought up Al Capone. Ugh. That’s the worst.
There’s always somebody who wants to talk about how Chicago needs to be known for something other than Al Capone. They tell stories about how, when they travel—to other countries or just down to Indiana—the one thing that people know about Chicago is still Al Capone and gangsters. Non-English speakers will smile and say “Shee-cago?” then make a “Rat-tat-tat” sound as they mimic a gunner at the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.
Yet, what do our gifted and wise politicians propose championing to replace these stereotypes? Bike lanes. Green buildings. Recycling programs.
Really? Can we not do any better than that, Chicago? Can we really not be any more interesting than low-flow toilets and solar panels?
Is something wrong with me that I would prefer fedora-ed gangsters as my civic heritage? That I find them kind of—dare I say—cool? At least compared with green roofs?
I’ve heard these speeches—in one form or another—all before. And I’ll surely hear them again. Be like Burnham. Don’t be like Capone. Blah. Blah. Blah.
I spend most of my time thinking about the cute drummer.
Maria. Her name was Maria.
It’s still snowing outside. I watch it coming down through the polished glass windows of the Trump Tower. I more or less tune out the speeches, and stare off into the distant darkness of Lake Michigan.
Even though there’s a band, this will wind up early. These things always do.
The final speaker finishes. No one says anything new. Nobody makes an announcement about being a candidate for mayor, which pisses me off. I boot up my laptop and file the story I could have filed from home with a beer in my hand. Then Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata plays a forty-five minute set of covers under the name “The Kitty Kats from Heaven” They’re really talented musicians—and that girl can drum!—but the song selection is tepid and predictable. Lots of classic rock. A couple of soul songs. A Wilco tune, during which Maria appears to wince. (How do you even draw up a set list for a room full of low level civic politicians and representatives from nonprofits? Maybe this is as good as it can get.)
I kind of want to talk to Maria again, but I also don’t want to be a stalker. (Or creeper. That’s right. The girls say “creeper” now.) I’m sure I’ll be able to find her later on a social networking site or the SBVD web page. Maybe in a few days I’ll get up the courage to send her an email if I don’t decide that I’m too old.
I give Maria a wave after the last song. She waves back from the stage, wiping sweat from her forehead with an embroidered Hello Kitty towel. Her mascara is running a little. It is super-hot.
I beat a quick retreat out of the Trump Tower and head for the nearest train.
Once outside, I realize the snow is not so bad. It’s not even sticking.
So at least there’s that.
The El ride back to my neighborhood is noisy and cold. I stare out the windows when the train goes above ground. The buildings are just visible through a blue-orange haze of streetlights and snowflakes. The wind is picking up, and sometimes it rocks the train a little. I find the sensation pleasant and calming.
I exit at the California Avenue stop and walk down the salted metal staircase connecting the platform to the street below. My neighborhood, normally bustling, is almost deserted. The few people I do see are scurrying here and there in heavy coats. (Maybe the forecast has changed and a blizzard is now predicted.) A weird tension pervades. Nobody is stopping to chat with anybody. I’m guessing they’re hitting the grocery one last time before the snow starts piling. Or maybe the liquor store.
I ponder whether or not I am still in a beer and pizza mood. I decide, no. I’ll just head home. Maybe pull up the SBVD web page and see if there is a “Photos” section.
Creeper, indeed.
I trek down a couple of side streets tracing the familiar path to my apartment. My block is relatively quiet. My footprints are alone in the virgin snow-slush underfoot.
I turn a corner by Palmer Square Park—almost home—and finally see another person. He’s a frustrated-looking African-American guy, maybe in his late 60s, wearing a long brown trench coat. He’s holding a tire iron and standing next to an immaculate Chrysler with a flat tire. It’s right in front of my apartment building.
He notices me approaching, and his expression changes.
“Hello, my friend,” he says with a smile.
“Hi,” I respond tentatively.
“I wonder...could you give me a hand?”
And boom: I have that reaction where you’re sure it’s going to be some kind of grift.
I mean, this guy has an actual flat tire. He’s not making that up. But I still feel like I’m a mark. That this is—somehow, someway— going to be a request for money. A new variation on the guy who roams the neighborhood with an empty gas can, saying he ran out and his wallet’s at home and could he please just have $5.
I am going to get taken.
“Um, maybe I could give you a hand” I manage. “This flat tire is stuck onto these bolts,” he says, kicking it. “Maybe frozen on.”
He seems genuinely frustrated.
“So you can’t remove it to put on the spare?” I ask cautiously. “Exactly. Would you be able to give me a hand? Maybe if two people pull together . . .”
I kind of relax a little. Okay. This is feeling less like a grift. “Yeah, man,” I say. “I can do that”
“I keep slipping in the snow,” he tells me. “Can’t get my leverage right.”
“Let’s both try,” I say, putting on my gloves.
I join him at the side of the car. He’s got it jacked up, and the offending tire spins freely. We grip it together and prepare to pull. I just have time to imagine a nightmare scenario in which the jack slips in the slush and we are both crushed under the stylish automobile.
“Okay,” he says, “one . . . two . . . three!”
We pull as hard as we can. The tire spins a little in our collective grip, but does not
come loose. It is almost impossible to get a good footing in this snow. After just a few seconds of pulling, I can tell we aren’t going to get it.
“Okay, stop,” I say. “This thing is stuck.”
We step back and examine the situation.
“Shoot,” the man says. “I could call AAA, but I’m on my way to something important.”
“And they take an hour to come when it snows like this,” I observe.
“Shoot,” the man says again, looking skyward in exasperation.
“Wait,” I tell him. “I got it.”
The man cautiously raises an eyebrow.
“What about hitting it with something? I bet you could smack it from behind—like from the inside—and knock the tire loose.”
“That might work,” the man agrees.
“I’ve got an old sledgehammer up in my apartment. Want me to go get it?”
He looks at his watch and shrugs.
“Yeah,” he allows. “What the hey? Best to give it a shot.”
I leave the man alone by his car and open the gate to my building. I trudge upstairs (third floor walkup) and find the ancient hammer; rusted, and with the handle covered in black duct tape. I wonder if the man is even expecting me to return? Maybe he has already called AAA. Maybe he thinks this was a pretense to get away from him.
He’s still standing there, though, when I emerge from my building with the sledge.
“You want me to do it?” I ask him.
“Sure, it’s your sledge.”
“Yeah, but it’s your car,” I tell him.
“I trust you.”
I creep to the edge of the wheel well and take a knee. Chopping from the side—long and slow, like a batter in an on-deck circle—I hit the side of the tire as hard as I can. It jostles loose and bounces up and down on its bolts. Success.
“Hot damn!” says the man.
“That should do it,” I say, pleased with the result.
The man grips the tire and easily lifts it off the car. He sets it on the ground next to the nuts and bolts.
Zombie, Illinois Page 4
