Somehow the insides of my shoelaces had been extruded from an outer casing I didn’t even know existed. Looking down at the inexplicably yanked-out innards of my over-engineered Nikes, I steadied myself, stood up, and set out on the last leg of my journey home.
That was the Fourth of July, a day that will be known henceforth as my Benzo Banniversary. I’ve never been big on pills, and one Xanax is all it took to induce a sleepwalking scenario that found me on a busy street in broad daylight with no explanation for how I got there.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the shoelaces. Well, those and the black eye and accompanying assortment of face lacerations. The greatest casualty? My favorite Burberry sunglasses. I know what you may be thinking: Priorities, dear. This was the wake-up call confirming that my life is indeed a great big trash fire. So what am I going to do? Not die, for starters.
Rather the shoes’ guts and not my own be strung out in such a way. And certainly grateful they weren’t strung up over some power lines guts and sneakers both, because I wouldn’t be here today.
Greek women! Skunks! Marsha!
The neighborhood I live in is a quaint pocket on the Northwest side of Chicago — a somewhat nexus of the city’s major ethnic groups, living in a mostly peaceable kingdom. The area is served by two buses: the 49B, which I call the “gypsy caravan” because there are two of everyone usually riding the line’s colorful stretch of Western Avenue; and the 11, an equally short line that winds its way up Lincoln Avenue where many of the city’s sleazy motels are. Motel check-out time is primetime people-watching, so I’ll often try to make my way to the 7-Eleven around then to catch a glimpse of Israeli backpackers, recently released inmates, and daytime drinkers of Steel Reserve. Bending my way across the Burnham grid, my transit rides allow me to witness subtle slices of everyday life as truths about the human condition reveal themselves. If I’m open to it, the universe speaks. Sometimes in Greek.
A woman boards the bus. She’s jovial but melancholic, repeating “old man winter” to the bus driver a few times in a sing-songy tone. She sat near the front, conversing with the driver for a few stops until an older man with a bucket and mop boards and begins speaking with the woman in a language that was not so familiar to me. Something neither East nor West, maybe a combination of Romance and Slavic. He got off a few stops later, leaving the woman baffled. “How did he know I was Greek?” she wondered.
This was at the peak of my psychoanalysis sessions this past year, so everything had begun taking on extra symbolism. For someone whose entire life is overwrought and overthought, this can be dangerous landscape to traverse. And my time with the therapist did end up being a bit taxing on the old psyche. The appearance of the Greek woman connected to my deep interest in Greek cosmogony, the Orphic creation myths, and the gods and goddesses present and responsible for the cracking open of our universe. Later that same day on my ride home from therapy, the Greek woman appeared again, our routes in sync over the span of five hours. The next week, I espied her walking downtown. The following week, while riding in a Lyft, I witnessed her coming out of her building. Needless to say, I was shookt.
Some days I can’t make it to 7-Eleven for the curtain call, so I head over in the evening for some fresh air while hoping to avoid a run-in with some neighborhood wildlife.
Now skunks. Skunks can be reasoned with, but not a de-caffeinated Marsha. Last night, Marsha was at her post out front 7-Eleven with her usual sign that I’ve never read, signaling with two fingers that her lips needed a cigarette between them. I gave her a smoke and went for the door when she made a specific request: Grab me a coffee, hon? I nodded sure, and then came some clarification: Make it a tub of Folger’s, please.
Skunks are cute and much preferred to their trash bandit counterparts (raccoons). They often travel as a family, but occasionally you’ll catch one alone and off-guard. But speaking to them in a civilized, apologetic tone goes a long way. "Pardon me, sir (or madame). I’ll leave you be” works pretty well while slowly and delicately creeping backwards. They’ll let you pass and bid you adieu without the pee-yew.
Whac-A-Mole of the Week
A new column each newsletter highlighting something driving me crazy that I need to chill out on.
If you’re on more than one of the gay hookup apps, it gets really easy to tell who’s with who, who’s at work, who’s at home, and who’s just wasting time. It’s all part of the natural rhythm of people’s day-to-days. For me, the triangulation is purely accidental, seeing patterns without looking for them nor wanting to see them. Plus it’s always weird when people in your life from other contexts creep into this space. But it’s bound to happen, which leaves me wondering: What are the boundaries of privacy?
Let’s be real
We’re always figuring, jockeying, and negotiating — choosing where to direct our time, energy, and focus. For me lately, it’s been which bills to pay or not pay — where to invest in myself, what to sacrifice, when to be selfish, and how to nurture my passions while making sure my basic needs are met. Sadly, I’ve been falling short in several areas and could use your support. Please consider an upgrade to paid, and help a starving artist keep housed and nourished — body, mind, and soul. I can’t thank you enough.
Remember to follow your joy. Until next time.