Friday, October 07, 2011

Another Day in Logan Square

Have you ever wondered what the criminals are listening to during a high speed chase? Is it something intentionally pulse-pounding like Metallica or Iron Maiden? AM talk radio? Do they turn it off so as not to distract? White noise might actually be appropriate for when sirens are blaring behind you and you're recklessly driving a huge mass of metal and glass through neighborhoods and busy streets.

Well, today I found out.

Let me begin this story by explaining how sick I've been for the past week. Last night was the first full sleep I got in days. This cold has either kept me up via sore throat, monster headache, or diarrhea. I've been miserable, but I finally kicked it last night. What was my remedy? For that, we have to go back two weeks, to the apartment of Jim Joyce.

Jim texted me one early autumn day, well before the Chicago leaves showed any yellow. He suggested we partake in a festive project together. Hard cider was the idea, and I jumped on it at that minute, and raced over to his place. After buying our supplies, we mixed the concoction. Apple juice, cinnamon sticks, and everclear had to sit and brew for at least two weeks. As of last night, it had been about three weeks.

So last night, still feeling sickly, I decided it was time to take my medicine. I poured a heaping cup of cider into a pot on the stove, and let it heat up (not to a boil though, just to a steam). Sipping it down over the course of a midnight hour, I knew that I was in for a good night's sleep for the first time in October. My throat was warm, my head was light, and my limbs were heavy. Sweet slumber. Thank you Jim Joyce and hard cider.

But what Jim didn't tell me, and what I had to find out this morning, is that the mix of hard liquor, apples, and cinnamon calls for an urgent bowel movement. Maybe I could've surmised this myself, nevertheless, the problem wasn't as simple as a trip to the bathrooom today.

I woke up, turned on the sink, and heard only a gurgle. No water. I looked out the front window to see the construction outside on our street, a hole 10 feet deep and wide assured me that my water would not be back on for some time. I would have to find another toilet in which to dispense the hard cider waste which was now brewing within me.

So my plan was to take Arlen out first, so he could do his business, then I would bring him back in, and then go find a place where I could do my business.

Stepping out onto the porch, the noise of the generators and bulldozers was louder than usual. The piles of gravel were higher than ever, mountainous even. Then something even louder from around the corner. A screeching of tires, construction workers yelling. A massive , rusty van stormed through, workers leaping off the street onto the grass in front of me. Then, the vehicle slams into the mountain of gravel, and a hysterical looking man leaps out the side of the door with something dark in his hand.

"Get on the ground! Get on the ground!"

At least three cops are surrounding him with guns out and aimed. He raises his arms, revealing only a cell phone. Then he's wrestled to my sidewalk, while his van's door remains open. I looked down at Arlen, who was comfortably squatting, taking what looked to be a most satisfying shit. I was consumed with envy.

I took my dog back inside, grabbed my bike, clenched my butt-cheeks, and scampered out the door again. With cops, neighbors, and gawkers everywhere in front of my building, I unabashedly walked up to one of the construction workers. "Excuse me, I know you have a setback here," I pointed at the van, still king of the mountain, "but do you know how much longer it will be until the water in the building is back on?" He gave me a well-deserved smirk, "At least another hour."

Onto the bike, the saddle of which felt harder and more uncomfortable than usual. My destination: Starbucks on California. In the words of George Costanza, "magnificent facilities!" On my ride over, I recapped the events in my head. A brutal cold that required homemade hard cider, which demanded a quick out 8 hours later, but it's the one morning the water is shut off in my building, and prolonged because a crazy guy drove into a construction site in front of my place. Now finally at Starbucks, wouldn't you know it, here I sit broken hearted...

Nah just kidding, I just took the most satisfying shit of my life. Oh, and the sound coming out of the van was white noise. A quiet chaos, another day in Logan Square.

1 comment:

dan cumberland said...

brilliant. glad it ended with a toilet rather than a less pleasant option.