The Complete Chicago Experience

I wanted the full enchilada, and I damn sure got it

Photo by Chait Goli

I’m still flying high from my holiday runaway vacay two weeks ago. Back home in Chicago during the holidays for the first time in twenty years, I wanted the total experience.

I arrived in town on Christmas Day. It was almost 60 degrees. But by New Year’s Eve, it was below zero. That hardly mattered. There were parties, dinners, seeing old friends, and way too many cocktails to sip for a little cold weather to stop anything.

The holiday decorations were still on display. They were breathtaking and I took pics while strolling along the Gold Coast. North Michigan Avenue. It was a frigid 12 degrees that day, but I know how to dress for the Hawk. I’d been away for many, many years but some things you never forget.

The number of people on the street begging for money was staggering. I gave away several one dollar bills to those camped out on almost every corner or tucked away in gaps between the 5-star hotels and exclusive boutiques along the Magnificent Mile.

Yes indeed. I asked for a complete ChiTown experience. And I got it.

Wednesday morning, New Year’s Eve, I rolled my small piece of luggage out of the hotel where I spent two nights, courtesy of my dear friend Val, and headed out into the freezing cold to catch the #6 Jeffery Express bus to Hyde Park.

The bus stop was on a windy overpass east of Michigan Avenue, but at least there was a small shelter and a bench. I took a seat, pulled my luggage close to me, and waited.

About five minutes in, I spotted a woman in a bulky coat and wool hat crossing the street and heading for the bus stop.

“You mind if I sit here?” she asked.

“Not at all,” I said.

She sat on the bench and placed her duffel-like shoulder bag in her lap. Then she turned to me.

“You got a cell phone?”

I looked at her. “Yes.”

“Can I use it?”

“No.”

She reared back, as if surprised by my response, and then she totally and completely went off on me.

“You stinkin’ bitch! What makes your phone so special? You won’t let me use it? Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

I thought maybe I could chill her out.

“Wait a minute,” I said calmly. “Why am I a bitch?”

But she was no longer shouting at me. Just that quickly, she’d slid into another dimension.

Shouting into the wind, ranting, raving, and cussing at the whole damn world, she cussed her muthafuckin’ daughters in California, her muthafuckin’ sister in Detroit, and her whole muthafuckin’ family.

Tuning back into me from time to time, she’d throw a fresh round of stinkin’ bitches my way, but by then I knew it was best to keep my mouth shut and let her rage. As long as she didn’t put her hands on me, she could rage all day as far as I was concerned.

My heart was beating fast in my chest. I thought about getting up and moving away from her, but no. I was not moving off that bench. Fuck no.

A group of young women were walking towards the bus stop, but once they saw her and heard her, they did an about-face and started walking back towards Michigan Avenue.

She stood up and dropped her bag on the bench. Continuing her tirade, she unzipped the duffel and reached inside. Oh shit. Could she have a weapon? I braced myself.

From the bag she pulled a bright, yellow sweater. It was brand new and obviously shoplifted. Still raging, she snatched the price tags off the sleeve and flung them to the ground. Old Navy.

“You muthafuckas think you know me!” she shouted. “But you don’t know a goddamn thing about me!”

She reached into the bag again and took out a small bottle. Its very presence seemed to piss her off, and she smashed it to smithereens against the concrete.

I didn’t take my eyes off of her.

Sliding out of her coat, she pulled the sweater over her head before reaching into the bag a third time. She held up a new pair of jeans and inspected them, front and back, before yanking off the tags. I held my breath, wondering if she would be slipping those on too. But no. She crammed them back into her bag before looking at me again.

“Just keep your muthafuckin’ phone, bitch! Fuck you and your phone!”

Finally, a bus pulled to the curb. It wasn’t the #6, thank Goodness. It was the #26, an express to 67th Street. Miss Yellow Sweater gathered up her gear, and when the doors opened, I watched as she climbed on and started towards the rear seats, never stopping to pay the fare.

I was surprised when the driver said nothing to her. He simply shut the door and pulled away from the curb, rolling onward towards Lake Shore Drive.

I wondered if I could get away with that? Simply not paying the fare? And if Yellow Sweater plopped down next to some poor, unsuspecting slob on that bus and asked to use their phone, would they say no like I did? Were they getting cussed out, too? All the way to 67th Street?

I lived in Chicago over thirty years ago. I rode the buses and trains almost every single day. Back then, I would have moved away from that sad woman and her angry screaming the moment she tuned up on me. I would’ve let her have that whole side of the street.

But there’s a stubborn defiance that comes with age, I guess. This is a new day, and allowing her to force me up and off that bench wasn’t gonna happen.

I chalked up her verbal assault, coming at me out of nowhere that morning, as getting exactly what I’d asked for. A complete Chicago Experience.

As my bestie Renee said, “Welcome home.”