Win for Love

by Isabelle Peterson

I’m so engrossed in my anxiety I don’t notice the cab coming to a stop until I notice the cab driver staring at me. I look to my right and see the massive building and a blue sign announcing the entrance to the post office.

  “Oh! Right!” I look at the display on cab’s dashboard and see the fare is $6.75. I pull eight dollars from my wallet and pay the driver hoping $1.25 is enough of a tip.

  I get out of the taxi and take a deep breath, nearly coughing on the exhaust fumes in the air—such a difference from Harton—and head into the lobby of the post office. It’s after five, and the main part of the post office is closed, but thankfully the area for the postal boxes is still accessible. After figuring out the layout of the mailboxes, I find mine and slip in my key. I hold my breath before turning the lock still fearful that everything is fake. That this is all a dream. That I’ll open this box and inside will be one of those spring snakes like in those joke cans of peanuts. When the key rotates easily and the door opens, my stomach jumps in excitement. There are several pieces of mail inside, and I pull out the stack. When I look at the addressee on the envelopes, and they all say Crystal Jameson, a grin breaks out across my face.

  I close my box and make my way to a table so I can see what kind of mail I have. Not only is my very first credit card in the stack, I also find several pieces of mail from the Lottery Commission and bank statements. It’s nice not to see ‘Final Notice’ bills or bills of any kind.

  I had searched online last night for hotels with kitchens in case my search for an apartment takes longer than I hope and found a Residence Inn in Chicago. The address is on LaSalle Street. Looking at a map, I see that LaSalle Street is just a few blocks from where I am. I’m almost tempted to take a cab again since my bag with my books is getting heavier, but the man driving the last cab made me nervous.

  After walking only the few blocks, I head inside the Residence Inn and head to the desk where I am immediately greeted by a beautiful black woman with tidy braids all twisted and mounted on her head. How glamorous.

  I find my voice and say, “Hi. Is it possible to get a room for tonight and maybe two weeks? I’m not sure how long I will be staying.”

  “Let me see,” she says as she starts to type into her computer. “Anyone staying with you?”

  “Just me.”

  “Of course.” She clicks about on her computer and runs down the rates for the only two rooms they have available. I select the one with a small kitchen and a king-size bed.

  When she asks for a credit card, I rifle through the mail from my post office box. I open the envelope and pull it from the glue on the paper. The sticker catches my attention, and I see that I need to call and activate the card. After a quick automated call interaction, my first credit card is ready to go. With trepidation, I hand over the card for my first credit-card transaction.

  She swipes my card through the reader, then hands me my card as well as a blank-looking credit card with the hotel logo and tells me all about the free breakfast in the morning as well as the Wi-Fi the hotel offers. I’m giddy that I’ll be able to use the Wi-Fi on my laptop, something I have only been able to do at school the couple of times a week I’m there. It will make apartment hunting so much easier.

  Five minutes later, and after figuring out how the key card opens my hotel door, I step into a clean room with a king-size bed! It’s nothing like the motel room Leo and I had rented years ago.

  I shudder as a wave of nausea crashes through me recalling memories that still haunt me. A cloud of guilt threatens to settle in, and I almost want to turn back and head home. How is Mom doing? Did she wake up? Has she read the letter?

  Recalling the past seven years since my last leaving, and her unwillingness to change, even with my support, I dismiss the guilt. She had her chance. Many, many times.

  I didn’t cause it. I can’t control it. I can’t cure it.

  I flop down on the comfy bed and take deep cleansing breaths and focus until the sounds of the city right outside my window call to me. I grab my copy of Little Women, put it in my bag, and head out to explore and find some dinner.

  DAVID

  She’s breathtaking. I watch the simple beauty play with a tendril of her reddish hair while she reads. I note that the book she’s reading isn’t a new paperback. No, this is a hardcover, and from the looks of it, even in the dim lighting of the restaurant, the pages aren’t new. It looks to be a well-loved book loved over generations.

  I wonder… Who comes to an upscale restaurant by themselves and reads? And Has she eaten already? If she has, what did she order? Did she like it?

  Watching her, I can think of nothing else. I’ve been watching her since I spotted her about thirty seconds after I got here.

  Which is a bad thing because I’m on a date. I feel like an ass for looking at another woman, but the vapid, bottle blonde in front of me is a total bore. She thinks I don’t notice her eyes darting all around the dining room wondering who is seeing her dining with me.

  I’m not vain. It’s happened all my life as the son of one of Chicago’s wealthiest families. It has gotten worse, though, over the past month when I was named one of Chicago’s 20 Most Eligible Singles. It’s almost enough to drive a man to the altar, but I’ve been there, done that. Not planning on going there again.

  “Isn’t that just hilarious?” my date asks.

  I look at her and wonder what in the hell she’s said this past few minutes and draw a blank.

  “Absolutely. Hilarious,” I echo.

  “We are so simpatico, David,” she says. “You get me. Not many men do.”

  I cringe. If I had a dollar for every time a woman has said something along these lines over my time of ‘eligible bachelor’ dating… well, it wouldn’t touch the interest I earn in my accounts, but it’s significant. And she’s telling me this after only knowing each other for an hour, a blind date set up by my well-intentioned mother. It's ridiculous. Can you ever know if someone ‘gets you’ after only an hour? I have yet to experience such a feeling.

  “My parents will be taking the boat out tomorrow if the weather holds. Would you like to join us? My parents would love to meet you.”

  “Oh, Victoria, I wish I could, but I have pressing business tomorrow.”

  “It’s Veronica, and tomorrow is Sunday. What business could you have on Sunday?” she asks, her voice oozing with playfulness that I’m not willing to engage in.

  “Ah, but our Sunday is Australia’s Monday, so…” I explain. I feel a bit like a heel since I’m lying through my teeth. Well, not the time zone part, but that I have business to attend to tomorrow or that any of my business dealings are with Australia. I don’t, and they’re not. My business is to manage my family’s wealth. It is a full-time job, though. And that wealth is significant. Whoever says that if you have substantial wealth, you don’t have to work is either poor, a moron, or both.

  “Well, next Saturday, maybe?” Vanessa asks, batting her glued-on eyelashes.

  “I’m actually booked next weekend, but thank you for asking.”

  “Well, if things free up, you just need to call.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The waiter arrives and offers us the dessert and after-dinner drinks menu.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Valerie says. “I’ll already have to spend an extra two hours in the gym just working off what I’ve already eaten tonight.”

  Oh please! I’m at a crossroads myself. I don’t really want dessert, a drink I could totally do. But I want this date to be over with. Now, if I were sitting with the simple girl with the book over there… I glance to the corner where the Book Girl is… was. She’s gone. When did she leave? My heart sinks.

  “But I could go for a drink. How about you? The Remy Martin XO sounds like a nice way to cap off the evening,” she suggests. Of course, it does. It’s only the second most expensive option on the menu at thirty-two dollars a drink. Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t suggest the Remy Martin Louis XIII at $150 a glass. �
�Or we could go back to your place, or mine. Have a nightcap there?” she offers while running a finger along her lower lip.

  I decide that I'm done with this date and say, “I’m good, but thank you for the offer.” It’s only nine-thirty, but I explain that I still have prep work for my nonexistent meeting with ‘Australia’ and will have to call it an early night so I am clear-headed. I give her my most dashing smile, and she seems placated.

  What an airhead.

  6

  I'm a Chicagoan

  CRYSTAL

  I sleep in until around nine-thirty on Sunday morning and wake feeling the most rested I’ve felt in a long time. A night of not listening for my mom to come in late. A night of not hearing odd noises. I didn’t have to stand guard against someone she might bring home. Of course, in the light of day, guilt hits me in the gut that she got home okay. I wonder if she brought home a guy. I’m a little anxious that she may have gotten sick overnight. And if she did, did she choke to death in her sleep?

  It’s way too early to call, so I simply send a text message around a quarter to ten. She’ll get it when she wakes up. Hey, Mom. Just checking in. You okay?

  I resolve that if I don’t hear from her after lunchtime, I’ll ask Mrs. Schwarzkopf to knock on our door.

  I get up and realize that I’ve not gone food shopping for my mini-kitchen here in the hotel, so there’s nothing for me to eat, but that’s no matter. The hotel offers a free breakfast buffet. The thought makes me delirious. I get out of bed, clean up, dress, and head to the dining area.

  After a more than satisfying breakfast, I practically race back to my room eager for the rest of the day. Apartment hunting.

  The next hour or so is a bust with aimlessly walking through the city and popping into apartment buildings asking if they have anything for rent. I’m turned down time and again. I consider just staying at the hotel and enjoying the free breakfast and great location, but it’s not the best way to spend my money. Rent would run me more than $6,000 a month, which is more than I budgeted. I remember Rose telling me of her friend, Pam DeWitt, who’s a realtor, and decide to give her a call.

  After a brief conversation, Ms. DeWitt says to come to her office, and we’ll see what she can find. Following her directions, I navigate my way toward the address she provided. I easily find the offices of Brooks & Greene Real Estate and Rentals. Inside, Ms. DeWitt is waiting for me, and she escorts me to her private office.

  “Good ole, Rose,” she says with a smile. “We sure used to raise hell back in our day. How is she doing? I haven’t seen her in a few years.”

  “She’s doing well,” I reply. Feeling comfortable that Ms. DeWitt and Rose do indeed know each other, I start to relax.

  Ms. DeWitt and I settle in to talk about my housing needs. After a bit of chit-chat about where I’d like to be, my budget, and how much space I’ll need, we both feel my best option would be a furnished apartment since otherwise I would have to shop for furniture and would have to wait for delivery. Most often, these units are rented by business people who have long-term assignments in the city. The monthly expense is more than an unfurnished rental but isn’t as much as the hotel. Before long, we are in a cab, and she brings me to the first of three complexes that have furnished, one-bedroom rentals that are immediately available.

  Two-and-a-half hours later, I’ve seen all three places and decide on one that Ms. DeWitt tells me is the ‘cream of the crop.’

  We head back to her office to fill out paperwork, and as my eyes sail down the application, I’m suddenly filled with dread. What do I put down for employment? I don’t have a job nor do I have a regular income. How will I explain that? How will my application be accepted?

  “You okay, hon?” Ms. DeWitt asks. “You’ve gone positively pale.”

  Do I tell her? “So, the employment part. I don’t have a job here in Chicago. Yet.”

  “How were you planning on paying the rent?” she asks skeptically. “Are your parents covering that?”

  I almost laugh at the idea of my mother paying for my rent, but that would be rude.

  “Well, I have an income,” I state confidently. “Just not from a job.”

  “Like a trust fund?”

  “Something like that,” I answer, trying to remain vague. I really don’t want my lottery winner status to follow me, but I realize this will be a problem no matter where I go to rent an apartment. I think back to Rose. She didn’t judge me any differently nor expect additional monies when she learned that I won. But she’s a lawyer. What do I know about this Pam DeWitt? Nothing. I want to trust her, but…

  “Is it… legal?” she asks, peering over her glasses at me.

  “Sorry?” I ask, completely bewildered by her question.

  The expression on her face is one of apprehension mixed with fear. She explains her question. “You’re not dealing or… hooking?”

  “Oh, God! No! It’s completely legal. I…” My cheeks burn bright that she thinks I’m somehow involved with the business of either drugs or sex, maybe even both. I bite my lower lip as I risk divulging the next bit of information. I feel as though I have to tell her. I can’t have her thinking that I’m doing anything illegal.

  Hoping that Ms. DeWitt is as trustworthy as Rose, I take a leap of faith. “Can I tell you something? Strictly confidential?” I ask, petrified to tell someone I barely know. But I need this apartment.

  “I won’t tell a soul,” she replies, crossing her heart with her finger and holding up three fingers. “Girl Scout’s honor.”

  I take a deep breath and slowly let it out before I say, barely a whisper, “I won the Illinois State Lottery.”

  Her face goes blank. Apparently, she wasn’t expecting that as an explanation. “Like the Mega-Million or something? How much?”

  “It was a scratcher. Five thousand dollars a week for life. But, please don’t tell anyone. This winning has given me the chance I needed from a really craptastic life down in southern Illinois. I don’t want to go into it, but really… this has saved my life. And, I’m afraid of family members, long lost or otherwise, or friends, thinking that I should give them money just because I won. I’m planning on using the money to go to college, and…” I feel myself getting worked up and nervous.

  Pam closes her hand on mine to stop my anxious rambling and assures me warmly, “Oh, honey. That’s wonderful! And, of course, I’ll keep this quiet,” she says with a kind smile. “We’ll list your income as a trust fund because that’s kind of what it is,” she says very matter-of-factly. “And I’ll vouch for you if it comes to that.”

  With her help, I complete the application and say a little prayer.

  Shortly after three, my phone buzzes with a text message. I take out my phone and see it’s from my mom. I also note I’d completely forgotten to check in around noon to see if she’d replied to my message and am horrified that I was so thoughtless. But, she’s checking in now, so I feel a little better. Hey, baby doll. I’m good. Good luck w/ur job. Does that start tomorrow? Thanks for your letter. I will do my best. I promise. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this.

  I hope with everything in my heart that she really will try to do her best and that she’s ‘got this.’ I feel like shit for lying to her, but I reply. Glad to hear you’re good. Yes. Tomorrow is the big day :-) Love you!

  I hit send and head out to explore the city a little, my heart lightened that Mom is at least safe and hopefully on the up-and-up.

  Monday I’m excited to go and see how Chicago does a Memorial Day parade. It must be incredible compared to what happens in Harton. But my hopes are dashed when the concierge—holy crap! I’m in a hotel with a concierge!—tells me that the parade was on Saturday. Oh well. I’d have to find new ways to distract myself from the pending application for the apartment. I dive into the first item on my ‘To See in Chicago List’—the library, which, incidentally, will be my new neighbor—the primary reason for me choosing that apartment. If my application is accepted, that is.

>   Arriving at the corners of State and Van Buren, I take in the library which is absolutely amazing and everything I hoped it would be. So far different from the Harton Library back home.

  For starters, unlike Harton’s tiny and uninspiring building, the outside of the Harold Washington Library is enormous and made even more grand with its patterned red brickwork and copper roof, not to mention the gargoyles perched atop the structure. I can see that the top level is glass and imagine reading in the sun-filled space. Also, unlike the Harton Library, the Harold Washington Library is open on Memorial Day.

  Inside, I’m greeted with impressive marble floors and a map of the building which reveals that there are nine levels. I note that the ninth floor is called the Winter Garden and decide to check that out first and work my way down. The space is peaceful and graceful with floor-to-ceiling windows and giant planters with small trees scattered around. Several people are quietly reading in chairs or working at the few tables scattered about. I’m tingling with wishing I had a book with me.

  I spend the next hour and a half just wandering the massive building and other eight floors, delighting in being surrounded by all the books and art. Before I leave the library, I stop at the main circulation desk, firstly to get a library card, which I can’t get because I don’t have an ID nor a piece of mail with my Chicago address with me. Secondly, I ask if there are job openings or volunteer opportunities here and if there’s someone I can speak to about that. The woman tells me that openings are posted online, and I can navigate there via the library’s website, but that hiring is done by the city. She tells me a bit about volunteering, and what I’ll need to submit to apply to those positions which work two days a week from three-thirty to six-thirty in the evening. I thank her and tuck the slip of paper with the website address into my purse so I can explore those opportunities later.

  Deciding there’s not enough time to visit a museum today, I head to Willis Tower, aka The Sears Tower, so I can see the entire city. Once I get to the 103rd floor, I’m impressed with the incredible views, yet at the same time, sad to be here on my own. I’m surrounded by groups of friends and families laughing and smiling. They’re taking pictures of themselves and talking excitedly or simply standing together and taking in the grand view all around. I hear French, Spanish, what I think is German, and dozens of other languages I couldn’t even begin to identify. Wandering by all the windows, alone, I read several of the placards and spot many of the famous Chicago landmarks. I can even see what might be my new address! Well, at least the library. I’m not sure if the building I’ve spotted is the one with the apartment.