Steeler football....Chicago style (Seth look away----SERIOUSLY)

Disclaimer: In NO way do I endorse putting oneself in dangerous situations.  The events in this entry (as all of them) are true, and while I am not proud of some of my choices, this entry (and the entire blog) serves as a means of catharsis, and entertainment.  PLEASE take steps to ensure that you are safe when alone with any individual, no matter how you may feel about that person.

GL

"How do I look?" I stood in front of Beth with my arms out to my sides waiting for her to inspect my outfit.

Beth looked up at me and said, "Like a confused lesbian," with a straight face.

I let my arms fall to my sides in exasperation.  "Beth, come on now, really!  Do I look that bad?" I asked her.  Among my clothing I packed away to bring with me to The Windy City, was my Hines Ward girl-cut football jersey----courtesy of a sticky-fingered Ex-boyfriend.  I paired it with jeans and a long sleeved black t-shirt underneath.

Beth cracked a smile.  "I didn't say anything about bad, I said confused.  I just think it is funny that you are wearing a football jersey.  I thought only dudes wore them."
I rolled my eyes.  "It's a girl-cut jersey! See, it's form-fitting, and cuts close.  I think it looks cute," I said looking down and examining my outfit.
"I don't think I've ever seen a girl wear a jersey back home.  It's a guy thing," she said to me studying the appliquéd numbers and Steelers emblem.
"That's because Maine doesn't even have a damn football team," I said loudly jabbing my finger at her.

Beth ignored me and said, "Well, it isn't like it matters.  You won't have it on for long anyway.
"How about a little faith in the straight girl?" I said, hands on my hips.  "I do have some self-control!"
"Dude, he has DIMPLES.  If someone even says the word 'dimples' I'm mopping you up off the floor."

"So not true, and so not funny," I said as my face flushed.  The fact is, it IS true.  There is something about a set of dimples on a handsome face that sets my heart racing.  I've just recently discovered that the man I am engaged to has an adorable set of dimples under his beard.  We've been spending a lot more time together because of it.

"Seriously, you look really cute," Beth said before sniffing me.  "And you smell nice too.  Just behave yourself and don't do anything I wouldn't do...."

"That's a short list...."
"....and keep it safe if you do," she finished ignoring my interruption.

Beth was about 3 years older than me, and although we'd only known each other for about  2 weeks, the two of us had grown very close.  She introduced me to OTEP, and I introduced her to B-Side Stevie Wonder, we ate at awesome restaurants, and smoked under the stars on the beach.  We played "Who is straight/gay/bi?" about celebrities too.

"Alicia Keys," she said triumphantly one night.  We talked about orientation, and one of the things she said she liked about me was how fine-tuned my "gaydar" was.  We'd go out for walks and she would gesture to an attractive girl, and ask me with her eyes, "Well! Should I or Shouldn't I???"

"Hmm," I'd said munching on Lays' chips.  No Snyders in Chicago, it was Lays or nothing.  "I think she could probably go either way, but I'm not so sure."
"Whaaaat????" Beth exclaimed at me.  "No way, she's straight as an arrow."  I shrugged my shoulders.

Needless to say it meant the world to me that Beth was playing the big sister role when it came to Damon.  She never once berated or preached to me, just gave me advice where it was needed and kind words.  It was nerve-wracking enough to be in another city where I knew very few people, let alone trying to strike up a bit of a romance.  Beth really made the transition easy.

"Okay mom," I said to her grabbing my coat.  It was almost 5:30, and I'd received a text from Damon saying he was about 2 minutes away.  I blew Beth a kiss.  "See ya after the game!"
Beth grinned at me and cocked her eyebrow.  "Let the games begin!" she exclaimed.

As I stood outside looking up the street for Damon and his Thingamajig, a million thoughts raced through my brain: Should I do this? What if he makes a move? What if he doesn't like me? What if he's a crazy mass murderer? (Beth had also reminded me about her handy-dandy G.I. Joe, and that she would text periodically to make sure I was okay).  I looked up the street when I heard a familiar "chug-chug-chug" coming toward me.  

"Hey baby," Damon said out the window before parking the car, getting out and opening the door. "How you feelin'? You lookin' good."
Dimples.  "I'm feeling ok, ready to watch the Bears get stomped," I said folding myself into the passenger side.  Damon came around the car and got in before he answered.  "Yeah I see, you all Steelered out with your cute little jersey on."

I smiled shyly.  "Thank you.  My roommate seemed to think I looked a little less feminine."
Damon frowned.  "Hell naw, you look good as hell in those jeans.  You hungry?"

Sure, I can cram another one of those hot dogs around the bowling ball of anxiety in my stomach.  "No, I'm okay."
He nodded.  "Okay, off to the game then."

We drove a short distance to an apartment building not far from the hostel, parked, and got out.  The building was red brick, surrounded on all sides by other similarly built apartment buildings, and stretched straight up into the Midwest sky.  People walked to and fro disappearing into the buildings, walking their dogs, and assisting their bike-riding children.  It looked like an awesome place to live. 

"Nice," I said to Damon as he put his arm around my shoulders.  He was about 3 inches taller than me, and lean. I could feel his muscles through the sleeve of his t-shirt.  If I was in any trouble, I could take him.

"What? The building or the view?" he said looking into my eyes.  I turned away smiling and blushed.
"The neighborhood, it seems to be really nice. There are all sorts of people around here."
Damon looked at me with interest.  "It's not like that in Pittsburgh?" he asked.

I shrugged as we climbed the steps, and stood in front of an apartment door.  Damon fished for his keys.  "It all depends where you are in Pittsburgh," I explained.  "some neighborhoods are more divided than others."  He nodded in understanding.

When he finally unlocked the door, he flipped on the light and I walked in behind him, closing the door.  It was an efficiency, small, but neat.  A couch ran against the wall in the living room, and a small bed was in the opposite corner.  The tiny bathroom was around the bend, and the kitchen was parallel to the living room/bedroom space.

"Where do you sleep?" I asked him curiously, gesturing to the one bed in the room.

"Pull out couch," he told me walking into the kitchen.  "The rent was jacked up in my last place, and I had to move out in a hurry, so my roommate was nice enough to let me crash on his couch.  I've only been here for about 3 weeks," he explained handing me a can of Coke.

I took the cold can, removed my jacket, and Damon slung it across the back of the couch.  He grabbed the remote control, and sat down, patting the space next to him. "We'll see who wins," he said as his eyes danced in their sockets.  I shifted my eyes and sat down next to him.

We watched the first half of the game enthralled, alternating cheers and boos, with me calling foul balls every other play and calling for reviews.  "Damn," Damon said to me after my 7th call in 10 minutes, "you Pittsburgh chicks don't play do you?"

I looked at him, my color high, and irritated.  "How can you NOT call that?  It was unnecessary roughness! Really, you can't just clothesline a safety and------"
His kiss caught me completely off guard, and spun me like a top.  Aww dammit, I thought to myself, he's kissing me.  Damon slowly released me with a soft nibble to my bottom lip.  I willed myself to breathe and not keel over.

"You sexy when you all riled up over a football game," he drawled.  With that goddamn growl of his.  I gathered my courage, looked him straight in the face and said with all the seduction I could muster: "Well it ain't just when I'm watching football doll face."  He chuckled in his throat. 

An hour later I was curled up in a comforter sitting on the twin bed watching the last quarter of the game.  I'd recieved 3 texts from a frantic Beth, and when I was finally able to extract my phone from my jeans on the floor, I quickly sent her back replies to assure her that I was okay.  I'd lost half of my clothing (and could care less) and Damon was stretched out beside me with his head in my lap. 

"Really!" I screamed at the top of my lungs at the 15-yard penalty assessed against The Steelers.  The National Football League really had it in for them that night.

Damon jumped awake at my yell, "Damn baby calm down, you screamed enough already tonight," he said with a wicked smile.  With my eyes never leaving the set, I gave him a playful shove, "Quiet.  It's all good; no one called the cops to report a murder." 

"But they might after the game," he said with a twinkle in his eye.  God this guy is good, I thought to myself pulling the cover around myself more tightly.  I made a face at him.

"Why you mean muggin' me?" he said with a laugh.
"I'm not," I said quietly returning to the game.  Well, there goes the grad school, good girl image, I thought ruefully. He kissed my thigh, and I absently stroked the top of his head. 

An hour after the game was over, I did a quick search of the place and found all lost articles of clothing (this wasn't too hard to do---the place was only so big) and Damon rode me back to the hostel.  He pulled up in front, cut the engine to the Chug-a-Mobile and turned to me.

"I had fun tonight," he said simply, giving me a genuine smile.
"Me too." I bet you DID have fun tonight, I know I did.

"So maybe we can do it---something----again sometime," he laughed out loud when he caught his slip, and I laughed with him.

"Yeah.  Yeah we definitely can," I said nodding in agreement.  "I have class tomorrow.  I need to get to bed." He leaned in and gave me a kiss that could have ignited the second Great Chicago Fire. 

"Sleep well," he said stroking my hair.  I crawled out of the car, and waved to him from the door of the hostel.
Beth was asleep with only a small lamp on when I walked in the room, and I tried not to wake her to no avail. A green eye popped open at the sound of the door creaking, and she sat up giving me a blank stare.

I stared back at her from my place in front of my bed.  My once neat hair was loose around my face, my jeans wrinkled, my jersey askew, and I held my long-sleeved black t-shirt in my hand.  Neither of us said anything for a full minute.

Beth blinked at me and took in my appearance.  "How was the game?"
I blinked back.  "Great.  Steelers won."

We stared at one another for another full minute.
"Did you play it safe?" Beth asked me.
"Yes.  I played it safe.  Quite a few times," I said clearing my throat.
Her lips twisted as she studied me.  "'A few times'?"
My eyes dropped to the floor.

Beth smiled and sat up.  "I want details. NOW."

Date Night (not Seth-friendly)

"Will you sit the freak down!" Beth fussed.  I was pacing in our room, holding my cell phone, and waiting for it to ring. 
"I can't dude, I'm too nervous.  My nerves are shot to hell," I told her.  I sat down on my foam-filled mattress and began to bounce.
"Hey! Quit with the bouncing shit too.  You know this guy, he's nice, what are you worried about," Beth demanded of me flipping through one of her many copies of People magazine.

I took a breath and slowly let it out.  "I don't know, I guess I'm just a bit keyed up."  I nervously smoothed my jeans and patted my hair.  Not having anything resembling sexy, I'd settled on a girl-cut t-shirt, and hip-hugging jeans.

Beth snorted.  "Yeah well, you don't need to be.  You look cute, he'll like the view," she laughed gesturing to my over sized front.  I consciously tugged at my t-shirt to prevent spillage. "Shut up.  Not much I can do about them now is there," I said defensively. 

When I lay down the night before, after I talked to Damon, I immediately began to second guess this whole dinner thing.  What if he took me to some fancy restaurant to eat and I was under dressed?  What if I got food in my teeth or spilled ketchup on my clothes?  Or even worse.....what if I went through so many "what ifs" I didn't hear a word he said to me all night!

I woke up that next morning convinced I was going to cancel our date, but damn if Beth didn't talk me out of it.  "You have my number," she said gently.  "If he tries anything, call me and I'll be down with my G.I. Joe with the Kung fu grip."
I looked at Beth blankly. "And what in the hell is that supposed to fix?"
Beth had smiled at me.  "Nothing, it just sounds cool."

While reliving the conversation, my Nextel phone trilled in my hand, causing me to nearly drop it on the floor.  I flipped it open and gave a cautious greeting.....
"Hello?" I said quietly.
"Hey it's Damon.  I'm outside.  Can you come down?"
"Sure, I'm on my way.  See you in a second," I replied.  I stood up and took a few steeling breaths before grabbing my jacket.  Beth stared at me.  "You straight girls....I swear if I had to spend my life worrying about impressing men...."
"Yadda, yadda, 'I'd off myself.' I know Beth.  You really need to quit listening to so much OTEP it ain't good for your mood," I said opening the door. 
"Just keep both feet on the ground and your t-shirt down," she called out of the door.  I bounded down the steps and walked out the front door of the hostel.

I've never been a material girl or a gold digger, and I've never understood those who are.  I've never really been into image, or what is popular, I've always just done what suits me and is comfortable to ME.  If it happens to be stylish or trendy, so be it, but I've never been one to clamor for the latest and greatest fashions or accessories.  I like my men the same way.  If you are into yourself more than what we have going on, you gotta kick bricks.  Are we clear on that?

I say this because it wasn't a matter of fashion or materialism that made me do a double take on the steps of the hostel when I saw Damon's car.  It was a maroon-colored, compact thingamajig that looked like a cross between a 67 Datsun, and a Pinto.  It had rust stains, belched black smoke from the tailpipe, and made more noise than the second coming of Christ.  Damon said something to me, but I was lulled into a trance by the hypnotic "chug-chug-chug" of the engine. 

"Hey girl, come on over here, looking all good," he said opening the passenger side door.  I shook myself and gave a weak smile, and looked over my shoulder into the hostel.  Not a soul in sight.  I bounded down the steps, and slid into the waiting vehicle.  Oh. Hell. No.

I'm a smoker, and have been for years.  There's just no way for me to get around it.  I think short of getting cancer or knocked up, cigarettes are going to be part of my life.  I started smoking Marlboro's in Europe at 15, progressed to Newports in my 20s, and now that I am with Seth, we both smoke Camel Blues.  Although I think all punk rockers smoke Camels.  At least mine does.  And while I do smoke in my car, I flick my ashes out my partially cracked window.  And I don't leave the butts in the tray.  And the list can go on.  Why do I say this?

Because as soon as I sat down in my clean and pressed jeans, I knew it was a mistake.  I looked closely at the upholstery, and then decided not to look any closer.  The car was COVERED in cigarette ashes, and as Damon talked, he puffed and added more to the car's once maroon interior.  I started to feel a bit sick.

"You okay baby," he asked, Newport dangling from his full lips.
"Yeah, I just think I need some air," I said quietly, grabbing the silver handle and pumping down the window circa 1985.
He smiled, "Sorry about the car.  It's old, and I'm saving up for a new one right now, so you know, gotta make do."  He flashed me a brilliant smile that lit up his face, and that's when I saw them. 

Dimples.

Ahh, dammit Beth.  I didn't know he had dimples.  I'm gonna do this guy.  Dammit.

Damon took me around the corner to a little hole-in-the-wall hot dog shop.  I was a bit surprised, but not disappointed.  After all, I'm from Pittsburgh, home of Primantis, The "Dirty O" and Peppis, some of the best food in the world is from hole-in-the wall places where a greasy guy takes your order, and the floor hasn't been mopped since '72.  It's a way of life.

"You told me," Damon began as we slid into a booth, "that you were from the East coast, Pittsburgh I think, right?"
I nodded, "Yep, born and bred."
"Funny, you sound like one of them New Yorkers or somethin,'" Damon said to me flashing that gorgeous smile.  And the dimples.
"I've gotten that before," I said laughing and shaking my head, "but usually from people who live down south, not out in the Midwest.  Funny thing is, New Yorkers tell me I sound like I'm from Georgia," I said shrugging.
"Well, whatever it is, you sound sweet," he said with that growl at the end of 'sweet.'  I gave an inaudible little yelp in my throat.
"So I decided that maybe, you'd want to try some traditional Chicago hot dogs.  Best hot dogs in the country, I swear on it," Damon said leaning back and crossing his heart.
I smiled.  "Well, I guess I will take you up on it."

We placed our orders at the counter, and I sat back down while Damon paid.  I glanced around the place, from the gaudy yellow wallpaper, to the small wooden booths that lined the walls, the place screamed tacky.  But the enticing aroma of double-charred beef franks was making my mouth water.  Damon brought our tray over, and put up his hands with a flourish. 

"And here we have for the lady, two Nathan's beef franks with the works---sweet peppers, baby pickles, tomato wedges, mustard and relish," he said with a smile.  I picked up a dog, and took a bite.

If I could have slapped my name on them and sold them in Pittsburgh, The Dirty O in Pittsburgh wouldn't have a leg to stand on.

"Wow," I said after the first bite, "this is fucking amazing!" I covered my mouth in surprise at my language.
Damon laughed out loud and unwrapped his chicken gyro.  "Glad you like it.  Next time we'll get some Chicago deep dish pizza." 
The rest of our time was spent laughing, lounging, and having a good time.  I discovered he had three brothers, two older, and one younger, and that his younger brother was 11 and blind. I told him about my love for music, and my difficulty in finding housing.  We related on a human level, with no expectations, and no strings attached.

When we left the restaurant, he drove me immediately back to the hostel (which surprised me), parked, and looked over at me.  The streetlights shone on his eyes that were a breathtaking chestnut color.  He really is a good looking guy, I said to myself. 
"Hey, listen you're from Pittsburgh, and I hear all the girls out there are Steeler fans."
A man after my own heart. "Yeah, most of us are.  The ones with sense any way," I said with a chuckle.  "Myself included."
Damon nodded.  "Okay, well, the Bears play the Steelers at home tomorrow.  My roommate is going to be at work, and I'd love to have someone to watch the game with," he said smoothly.

I fought to keep my breathing regular.

"Um," I swallowed. "Okay, that sounds cool.  I mean, you know y'all are going to get your asses handed to you, right?" I asked skeptically.  The Pittsburgh Steelers had just come off of a great season. The Bears, as usual, had done nothing.
He laughed out loud.  "I am well aware.  I never seen a Pittsburgh girl get rowdy at a game though.  I'd like to see it.  I hear you can be hellcats."
"It's all true," I said with pride.  "Game starts at what? 6? Can you pick me up at 5:30?"
"Of course, your chariot will await," he said grabbing my hand and giving my knuckles a kiss.  I turned my head and giggled silently.

After seeing me to the door of the hostel, I ran up the stairs and threw open the door to find Beth sitting cross-legged on the bed flipping through my copy of "Wicked".  She looked at me closely.

"Nah, not tonight," she said before looking at me more closely.  I wiped my mouth, thinking I had leftover mustard on it. Beth smiled.  "But tomorrow night, ladies and gents, we will have lift off," she said with a smirk, as I tossed a pillow in her face.

Wicker Park and Casual Sex (Seth skip this one....)

Despite the difficulty I'd had in procuring permanent housing, I had one bright spot in my life (aside from school of course)----Damon. He was sweet, caring, and totally understanding about my situation. So you will find yourself asking this question: "Why in the hell did she dodge his calls???"
I'll be honest, I've never really had the BEST self-esteem about myself, no matter what I've managed to accomplish in my 31-odd years of life. I can be very self-depreciating at times, much to the chagrin of those closest to me. While I mean it in jest, it does have some undertones of honesty. This has transferred over to all relationships with men who have found me attractive for one reason or another, and I have a sneaking suspicion I've lost out on a lot of great guys this way.

So for the first week or so after I meeting Damon, he and I would talk about once a day. Then the calls started coming more frequently, and I started to freak out a little, so I ignored his calls for the next week or so. One night, Beth and I were riding the Blue Line to West Chicago to eat at a little Mexican joint she'd found online, when my cell phone rang.

"Ugh, it's him again! Good lord, how often can you call someone and get ignored before you get the hint!" I fumed.

Beth just smiled at me. "You're gonna do him."

I looked up, shocked and repulsed. "WHAT! I don't even wanna TALK to him, let alone sleep with him!"

Beth threw back her head and laughed so loud she attracted annoyed glances from our fellow riders. "Mark my word, before the week is out, you will find yourself and your body thoroughly and completely physically exhausted at his apartment one night, and will come back to tell me the dirty details of your escapade."

I ignored her, listening closely to the voicemail Damon left. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay, thinking of you. Call me back."

"Sure," I said out loud to the voicemail (a habit I have), "yeah, you were wondering how my boobs are," I said disgustedly before deleting the message. We hopped off the train and down the steps to the street. We were both caught up short by what we saw.

I'm a huge proponent of immigration, inclusion, and diversity. I wanted to be an anthropologist at one point because people fascinated me so much. But I was not prepared for what I saw when Beth and I got down to the street.
"Um, Beth, WHERE are we exactly?" I said glancing up at a Spanish-language billboard.
"The map online said Wicker Park," she replied glancing down at a manhole cover that was stamped 'Tenochtitlan'.
"Are you sure the map didn't say 'Mazatlán'?" I asked with a squeak in my voice. We stood and stared in amazement at the street, the people, and the transformation that had seemingly taken place. It was as if when we stepped off the train we stepped into a little town in Mexico. We walked slowly down the street and marveled at the lack of English billboards, street signs, and store-fronts. How is this still Chicago? This doesn't even look like my idea of the United States anymore!

Remember, I grew up in Pittsburgh, which, while ideas of diversity are on the upswing, still has it's moments of ethnocentrism, and downright discrimination.  Seth and I fume at least once a week when we get angry stares and whispers in Wal-Mart. So you can imagine my shock at seeing such a remarkable transformation.

So a little black girl, and a bespeckled red-headed white girl in an OTEP T-shirt were way out of place. But we found the restaurant easily, and after we ordered our meals (from a menu completely in Spanish----despite my 6 years of Spanish class, I just pointed out to the waitress something I thought was pretty tame) and Beth turned the conversation back to Damon.

"I'm telling you, you're going to do him.  Or should I say, he's going to do YOU," she said with a wink before sipping from her water glass.
I sat back in my chair and gave Beth a look.  "I am not going to sleep with him," I said to her evenly.  "That would require a certain level of commitment I'm am not yet ready to undertake," I said tilting my chin up.
Beth snorted. "Please, don't be a prude.  Straight girls are always so prudish," she said waving her hand.
My mouth dropped open in shock, "I resent that! We are not.  At least I'm not.  Not completely.  I'm just a tease. There's a difference," I said to her. 
Just then our waitress brought out our food, and the conversation was suspended as we dug in.  I was treated to an explosion of flavors and textures, all of which were new and exciting.  I'd never had mole poblano before, but I was addicted after the first bite.
"You're a prude," Beth said simply, forking up refried beans, "you're a prude and you know it."
"Whatever dude," I replied sipping my iced tea.  "You'll see.  I want rid of this guy, he's annoying me."
We finished our meals, and hopped on the train back to the hostel.  By the time we got back, I'd just about forgotten about Damon and his phone call. 

Maybe he'd heard me, or felt my displeasure.  The next day, I was surprised that I had no phone call to dodge. Same thing the day after that.  I found myself oddly put out.  "What the hell?" I said out loud staring at my phone the second night, "Not a single call from him in 2 days? What's the matter with him?"  We were in our seafoamPJs, lounging around.

Beth looked up from her magazine, "Will you make up your fucking mind?" she said exasperated.  "Either you want to talk to him, or you don't, which is it?"
I looked at my phone, scrolled to his number, and hesitated before I pressed the call button.  I looked at Beth.  "If I screw him, its all your fault, you know that right?"
Beth turned back to her magazine, and I heard her mumble, "I'll take the fault with pleasure, especially if it means that he'll screw some sense into that brain of yours."
Ignoring Beth, I stepped out into the quiet hallway.  I looked at the number, took a breath, and pressed 'SEND'.
"Hello," came the warm reply from the other end of the phone.  Smooth as silk, and deep as a ravine, I had to lean against the wall to keep myself from falling on the floor.
"Hey Damon, it's Gene," I said brightly and evenly.
"Hey girl, how you been?  Been trying to get in touch with you, but I guess yo' schoolwork keeping you busy."
I don't sweat much.  But damn if his voice didn't have sweat beading out of every pore in my body. 
"Um, yeah, it's been busy the past week or so," I lied.  Stay cool, I told myself.  And my knocking knees.  "I got kind of worried about you, I haven't seen any calls from you for the past few days," I ventured.
He chuckled, a deep, soothing sound that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. "Yeah, I thought you was tryin' to play me, so I just stopped trying," he said laughing.
I felt myself flush red. "Um, no, it's just been a little crazy.  But how are you?  What's been going on?" 
"Nothin' much.  Working, relaxing.  Hoping to see your pretty face again," he said to me with the hint of a growl at the end of the sentence.
Damn him.  Damn him and his sexy voice.  And his growl.  "I was wondering that myself.  What do you have in mind?"
"How about dinner?  I'll pick you up tomorrow about 7 or so, me and you will go out and have dinner at one of my favorite spots," Damon offered.
"Sounds like a plan," I said lightly, with a hint of a smile on my face.  "I better get to sleep, it's late and I have class in the morning.  I'll see you tomorrow at 7."
"Okay baby doll, sleep good.  I know I will now that I've heard from you," he said with a smile in his voice before hanging up.
He'd reduced me to a puddle on the floor.  After I managed to gather myself and hang up my phone, I slipped back into my room.  Beth glanced up at me.  "You're going to screw him."
I looked back at her, blew out a breath and said simply, "I just might."

*Damon (this one is a bit PG-13ish)

"Thank you," I said to my server as she brought me my order of chicken, rice, and broccoli.  I was at the diner, and I'd just completed another long day of classes in my program.  I opened up my copy of "Son of a Witch" and began to read and eat with gusto.

Dinner was one of my favorite times of day.  Not just because it gave me the time to stuff my face, but also because it gave me a chance to catch up on whatever novel I'd picked up to read.  There was a bookstore across the street from my school in the Merchandise Mart, and I loved to just browse the shelves.  On my last visit, I'd picked up "Son of a Witch" by Gregory Maguire after reading and thoroughly enjoying "Wicked".  I settled into my routine, and let my mind slip away into the novel. 

I glanced up for a second while reaching for my water glass, and at that moment, locked eyes with a guy that was walking past the picture window.  His eyes were deep and brown, and I could sense him sizing me up.  I returned the glance (allowing him to see just what he needed to) and returned to my book.
"Hmm," I thought to myself.  "Say what you want about Chicago, but they have some good looking men out here."  I didn't give our 3 second interaction much afterthought.

Now, the few of you that know about my years BEFORE I moved to Chicago, know all about the various men I've had in my life.  I'm not a bad-looking chick---as I've been told so by various men (and women if you can believe it).  Pretty eyes and hair, a nice skin tone, and legs that don't stop---courtesy of my very attractive parents.  I've never really seen it, I don't see where I look too different from other females, so I kind of accept the comments with a grain of salt.  Needless to say, my eyes and legs got me into A LOT of trouble in my 20s, and I've ended up making some bad choices in men thanks to my anatomy.  Here's a quick run-down: My first love was a guy I met while making my way home from work when I was about 20.  It was the middle of the summer, in downtown Pittsburgh, and I was walking with a PURPOSE to my bus stop to get home.  I was hot, and I'd spent the past 9 hours in a tiny wooden booth at Kennywood Park selling admission tickets and sweating bullets (they've since replaced the wooden booths with high-tech stainless steel booths with central air conditioning and bullet proof glass.  We could have used those when someone tossed an 8-inch knife in one of our booths to hide it from the metal detectors).  I was beyond exhausted, and my fuse was really short.  I was so focused on getting to my destination, I didn't notice the guy standing in front of me and staring. He was about 6'3" with gorgeous eyes, light brown skin, and curly hair. "Oh hell yes," I thought to myself smiling.  We struck up a conversation, and exchanged numbers.  This was followed up by one of the most horrific, stressful, and terrifying years of my young life.  It ended when he was sent to prison for drug possession when I was about 23.  It ended for him---for good---when I found out he was killed the day before Christmas in 2006.  Before him, there was a guy I'd met through a mutual friend.  I knew from the start he was only after one thing, and I hate to say it, I was willing to go there.  I was 19, and feeling my independence.  There never was much of a relationship, and I called it quits when I found out he had a 3-month old son.  After these two fools, I cooled my jets for a while (4 years to be exact) before I got back into the game.  In quick succession: the one who had 3 kids, the one who was a pathological liar, and (regretfully) the pathological liar's best friend.  I never said I was an angel.

The liar's best friend was a bit off, and I knew this from the start.  He would quickly vacillate between being happy and playful, and being moody and violent.  I found out too late that he was most likely suffering from untreated bipolar disorder, and I often found myself the recipient of his abusive actions and behaviors.  I spent the next four months crying and going to a therapist before I found the courage to tell him to kick rocks.  I moved to Chicago soon after that (I actually tried to spark another relationship with a guy I worked with, just BEFORE I moved to Chicago but let's just say I wasn't the recipient of his affection).  In between these episodes I called relationships, there were a few one night stands, several missed opportunities----and 2 or 3 (negative) pregnancy tests.

So my track record isn't squeaky clean and I admit that.  I've since cleaned up my act, and I'm engaged to be married to the love of my life (I love you Seth) and for the first time in my life, I feel safe and at complete and total ease with a man.  But back to the story at hand.

I paid my bill, and made my way out the door and to the hostel. It was an unusually warm night for the end of September, and I was enjoying the breeze that was coming in from Lake Michigan. There were lots of people around---kids riding bikes, older couples out for walks, and guys in front of the train station smoking and talking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar face approach me. My window guy.

"Hello Miss," he said to me.  "I noticed you while you were in the diner, and I thought to myself, I just have to talk to that gorgeous woman.  How are you tonight?"  All of this without missing a beat.  His voice was as smooth as chocolate, purposeful and deep.  He had a bit of a Midwest twang in his voice, and I could hear the street cadence in his word formation.  He had me at "hello". 
"Uh, hi.  I'm good I guess," I said smiling and shouldering my bag.  I am one of the most awkward people when it comes to meeting men.  It's like I have two left feet, and no brain. But I held it together long enough to have a short flirtatious conversation with this guy.  He said his name was *Damon, and he lived about 2 blocks from the train station, and that he would be more than happy to walk me home as it was getting dark.

"Well damn, who says chivalry is dead?" I thought smiling as we walked toward the hostel.  I wasn't concerned---there were tons of people out, and the people at the hostel had good security.  He promised to call me soon, and I went up to my room, where my roommate Beth was laying across the bed reading a book. Beth was from Maine, and was making her way across the country, stopping in Chicago to visit with friends.  I tossed down my bag, and she looked up.

"Well aren't we all dreamy eyed tonight.  Whose got your panties half off?" she said giving me a knowing smile.
"I don't know yet," I said sitting down on my bed and taking off my shoes.  "I met this guy while I was walking home from dinner, and he's kind of cute."
"Oh, I see....you straight girls KILL me going gaga over guys you just meet," Beth said laughing.  She was a lesbian, and would often playfully tease me about what I was missing my copulating with the opposite sex.
"Oh shush it, we just exchanged numbers," I told her.  I flipped up my cell phone to see a text message from a Chicago number.  "Just wanted to make sure you got in okay," it said.  It was from Damon.  I was surprised, and slightly pleased. 
"Hmm...must be from your beau," Beth stated gesturing to my phone, and returning to her book.
"Yeah, well.  He ain't my beau....not yet.  We'll see how it goes." I said grabbing my towel and heading to the shower.  He wasn't my beau yet.  But in the next year, he would be more---much more---than I could ever imagine.

Hillary Chipatiso

The cool thing about living in a hostel is that you get to meet all kinds of people from ALL over the world. You never know if the roommates you have at 9 that morning will be the same as the roommates you have at 9 that evening. Most of the time (at least in my experience) you just have passing polite conversations with your temporary roommies, and there is almost nothing in the way of long-term friendship building. You might exchange emails, but we all know how that turns out.

This had been much of my existence over the past few weeks. I'd already accepted my fate---I was stuck in the hostel for at least 6 weeks, and I figured I should at least make the best of it. A painfully shy person, it was quite a challenge for me to garner up the courage to talk to people I don't know. I've always been that way. I'm the wallflower at the party, or the friend who hangs back when everyone is on the dance floor. I do pretty well as a casual observer. And anyway, the human being fascinates me.

One morning, a few days after my disastrous meeting with Section 8, I was enjoying a late breakfast at the diner. I was put out and attitudinal---I was ass out of at least $500 for my space at the hostel, and I was pissed. I shot evil at everyone who looked my way. Even my regular waitress picked up on my foul mood.

"You okay honey?" my waitress asked me, setting down my orange juice refill. She was a nice lady who worked that weird late morning to early evening shift that MOST people would love to have---mid morning start, early evening end.
"Eh, I'm alright I guess," I said frowning down into my pancakes, "just a bit put out."
She smiled thoughtfully. "Well, if I know you, you'll find a way out of it, whatever it is," she said patting my arm. I smiled wistfully as she walked away. I wish it was that easy. Just then, the front door opened, and a young woman stepped into the diner.

Now, remember, I'm a casual observer. I usually sit back and people watch, to check out interactions, attitudes, and how they handle situations. The young woman walked in, asked a question at the diner counter, received a response, and walked out. I didn't give it much thought at that point. I figured she was lost and asking for directions.

I paid my tab, left a tip (which were getting less and less generous due to my tightening purse strings) and left, walking the half block to the train station to sit through another day of classes. I found that the only solace I had was when I was learning---which has been a theme throughout my entire life. Parents fighting? Read a book. Hungry with no food? Study art. It's become a coping mechanism that I have carried into adulthood. It was put to good use in Chicago.

I returned to my room later that evening, opened the door, and did a double take---the young woman who was in the diner was sitting on the bed across from mine thumbing through a magazine. "How odd," I thought. Now me, being so painfully shy, gave a cursory hello, and dropped my bag.
The young woman looked up and smiled, "Hi, I'm Hillary. How are you?" she asked me.
"I'm Gene, nice to meet you," I responded, returning her smile. I detected an accent, that I couldn't quite place. English, combined with something else. At this point, I'd gotten very good at detecting accents.
"Hi, Gene. I hope this isn't your bed I'm sitting on," Hillary said suddenly.
"No, no, you're good, I'm here actually," I said gesturing to my two huge suitcases, and bulging schoolbag. "I've been here, what? 2 weeks now?" I said contemplating.
"Wow, usually people don't stay that long," Hillary remarked. "So what brings you to Chicago?"
"Graduate school," I said matter-of-factly holding up my Ethics book, "I'm making an attempt to better my life, but so far, all efforts have been thwarted," I said, and we both chuckled.
For the next 3 hours, Hillary and I talked about our lives, our ambitions, and what we wanted to do to better ourselves. I learned that she was from England, but that she was originally from Zimbabwe (there was the part of the accent I wasn't able to pick up on), and that her family was still back in the UK. After laughing and talking for hours, late into the night, we both retired to sleep. Over the next few days, Hillary and I talked and laughed, sharing secrets, and stories, jokes, and riddles, and tales of all manner of subjects. One minute we were on old boyfriends (one of which I GLADLY left in Pittsburgh), the next on various musicians and bands.  I found that the dark cloud that had been pursing me had lifted, and that the part of my life that I'd left in Pittsburgh that was so important to me-----friendship----- was responsible for my change in mood.  We talked like teenagers about what celebrities we thought were hot, and about the ongoing unrest in her homeland of Zimbabwe.
"It's the president of the country," she told me on our last night together, "that's why we had to leave.  People are starving there, and getting killed.  It doesn't make any sense."  I could only sit silently and listen, as Hillary talked about the civil and human rights abuses, the people driven from their homes, and the countless murders that took place at the hands of the government.  I then assessed my own situation.  What the hell did I REALLY have to complain about?  I had somewhere to lay my head, and food to eat.  Sure, it wasn't permanent, but for the time being, it was working out.

The next morning Hillary readied herself to leave.  I was sad, but took solace in the knowledge that she would be back in the city in a few weeks, and that we would meet up again at the hostel---provided I was still there.  We exchanged information, and promised to keep in touch. 
"I'm SO glad to know you, and I'm so happy we met," I told her smiling, and giving her a huge hug.
She returned my smile, hugged me back, and hoisted her bag.  "Me too, friend."

I couldn't have possibly known as she left that Hillary would play a huge part in my life during my first year in Chicago.

The Rape of the 8 and 6 Weeks

By the middle of my first week at the hostel, which would have been my third week in Chicago, I'd settled into a nice little routine. I went to class, came back to the hostel, dropped my bag, grabbed my wallet and a book, went to dinner, came back, read, and went to sleep. It was pretty basic, no bells or whistles. Some days, when it was really nice outside, I would take a walk 4 blocks east to the beach---yes, Chicago has a beach, on the shores of Lake Michigan. It wasn't Ocean City, but it worked for me. But in between this seemingly mundane schedule, I was making phone calls to the office of Lucifer himself. The Section 8 office.

Now for those of you who may be reading this post who are unaware of how Section 8 works, here is a quick and dirty rundown of the process. You decide to move into your own house/apartment/condo/cardboard box/etc, and to do so, you require a bit of help. Maybe you have 2 small children, and are unable to pay for daycare in addition to rent (we ALL know how expensive daycare can be) or maybe you were like me---at 20-something college student who wanted to strike out on her own and build a life. Seeing as how you have the desire to live on your own, but not the funds, you catch wind of the Section 8 program. According to Wikipedia (my go-to place for all my hard facts) Section 8 "authorizes the payment of rental housing assistance to private landlords on behalf of approximately 3.1 million low-income households. It operates through several programs, the largest of which, the Housing Choice Voucher program, pays a large portion of the rents and utilities of about 2.1 million households. The US Department of Housing and Urban Development manages the Section 8 programs". The idea is that NO ONE should ever pay more than 30% of their gross monthly income on housing. Section 8 works with the family to prorate the rent, and make it affordable. So if you only make $600 a month, and you attempt to rent an apartment that costs $300 a month, a Section 8 voucher may bring the rent of the unit down to $75 a month (other factors go into the decision---how many children you have, how old you are and if you are eligible to work, etc.). The government will then pay the landlord the remainder $225 to pay the rent in full---you can see how nice this makes things for the landlords. As I heard one man say: "Who WOULDN'T want guranteed money?"

Ideally, a head of household fills out the application, provides all necessary information, criminal backround checks are done, and family is either accepted into the program or rejected. A meeting is held, and the family is given a voucher. What is a voucher? Think, "The Golden Ticket" in Willy Wonka, or The Second Amendment for gun nuts----the Voucher opens up your chances to find independent housing. So you take your voucher, find a place, a landlord rents you the home, and all is well in the world. Sounds good right? Not so fast.

There are PLENTY of glitches that can happen along the way. Please, DO NOT count this as a comprehensive list, but in my experience, these are the most commonly occurring problems:

1. Lost paperwork. I can't tell you how many copies of my birth certificate are probably floating around Chicago even today in the Section 8 office because my worker constantly lost my paperwork. If you have even one SHRED of paperwork missing, your case can be delayed for months.

2. The dreaded Waiting List. No one wants to hear they have been wait-listed. I've known people who have been on "The List" for months---even years. This can happen because of an influx of applications, or a lack of funding.

3. Prejudicial landlords. There are some landlords who will flat out refuse to rent to Section 8 voucher holders, often because of past experiences. One landlord told me, "Filth. All it was was filth."

3a. Landlord reluctance to bring their unit up to "inspection code." Okay, Section 8 has a laundry list of expectations a unit must meet before any cash is doled out. If in any way the unit you have chosen does NOT pass inspection, you are prohibited from renting that unit with your voucher, and have 60 days to find a new unit that WILL pass. The problem is, many landlords feel that the repairs that must be made (smoke detectors in every room, screens in every window, railings for every set of stairs, etc.) are not worth their effort or money.

4. The headache. Dealing with Section 8, much like any other social service office is just one huge freaking HEADACHE. The people are rude, unhelpful, and often you will find yourself spending the entire day in the Section 8 office only to be told when you finally get to the front of the line that you have forgotten to dot an 'i' or cross a 't', and therefore, your voucher will be delayed for another 3 months.

Needless to say, dealing with Section 8 was not on my list of favorite things to do. I'd been in regular contact with them, and although I seemed to be going through more headache than I did in Pittsburgh, I was getting closer to my own place---which was a good thing since I only had a few more days left at the hostel at this point. I'd already been looking into apartments, and I'd even went around to see a few, but to no avail (see #3 and 3A). I was scheduled to go to a meeting to complete the final paperwork and recieve my voucher the next morning.

Not only is the physical Section 8 office in Chicago depressing, getting there is an excercise in self-flagellation----one of the worst rides in my life on public transportation was the ride to the Section 8 office. I felt like I was beating myself up every step of the way: on the train (punch to the gut), finding a seat (jab to the jaw), walk in the office (pile-driver on the head). I want people who have never had to go the route of public assistance to understand this: the process can be dehumanizing. You are often treated less than human, and looked down upon, as if you are not as worthy as time, space, and oxygen because you are poor. It's a horrible feeling.

After getting to the office, sitting in a room with 4 other women in various stages in their lives, and being given a 2-hour lecture on the importance of transferring our vouchers, we were sent to our new workers. My worker was a youngish woman in her mid to late 30s, who had had too many young, uneducated mothers on her caseload. Conversation:

Me (smiling): Hello, I'm Gene----

Worker (without eye contact): I need all yo' information: pay stubs, phone bills, bank account statements, social security cards, birth certificates, an' anything else pertainin' to yo' account (Chicagoans have DEEP midwest accents).

Me (stunned---even the workers in the Pittsburgh office looked at you): Um, okay, here's all of my stuff. (I hand her a neatly paperclipped bundle of papers).

Worker (studying my bank account statements): You got Nextel?

Me (looking down at my cell phone): Yes. I've had it since I was in Pittsburgh and----

Worker (without eye contact): You order from Amazon?

Me (confused): Yeah, I go to school and I needed my books, and since we don't have a bookstore----

Worker (in the same monotone): Where you work at?

Me (getting ticked): I DON'T. (She finally looks up at me with a 'don't-try-to-get-smart-I-will-send-yo-ass-to-the-back-of-the-line' look)

Worker (without breaking eye contact): Then HOW you essplain' a deposit for $4000?

Me: Easy---I go to school, and I get a loan check twice a year. Whatever doesn't pay for school pays for expenses. Since I don't work, right now, I make about $8000 per year which is WELL below your cut off point.

Worker (brightening): Oh you go school? Dat's reeeeel niiiiiice. I go to school to fo' social work. Whatchu go fo'?

Me (not believing that people actually talked like that): Forensic psychology.

Worker: Oh that soun' INTRESTIN'. You like it?

Me: Yes, I do actually.

Worker (still giving me the Steppin' Fetchit smile): That's reeeel good. Okay, look, dis is what's gonna happen. You don't work, right?

Me: No.

Worker: You got no other income?

Me (sighing): No.

Worker: Well how you buy yo' kids they shoes and pampers?

(And HERE is where we come to one of the most frustrating parts of recieving any type of government benefits---the assumption that the recipient has a bucket-load of children they are unable (or unwilling) to care for. NEWS FLASH: Not everyone who recieves assistance has children. Some people are hard on their luck, some people (like myself) were students, and some people----and the more I see this the more I cry----just miss the I.Q. cut off for mental retardation and are ineligible for adult assistive services. Therefore, they obtain a menial job, and apply for Section 8 in the hopes that their paycheck will be enough to give them some independence).

Me: I don't have children. I'm just a graduate student who needs some help for 2 years until I complete my degree. That's all I want---2 years. That was how I got through college---I worked all night, went to school all day, and Section 8 kept my rent low enough to survive.

Worker: Okay, I understan' but they not gonna like seein' yo' bank statments. You got regular deposits every two weeks from...PNC Bank?

Me (closing my eyes): Yes, because I was EMPLOYED. I was in PITTSBURGH and EMPLOYED. The Pittsburgh office is well aware of that, and----

Worker: But then tha' mean you got employment so----

Me (losing all decorum): HOW CAN I BE EMPLOYED IN A CITY THAT'S 600 MILES FROM HERE????

Worker (looking down at the papers with her mouth hanging WIDE open): Oh.....

Me (sarcastically): Yeeeeeaaaaaahh. See what I mean now? You want 6 months of bank statements, and 6 months ago I WAS employed. I WAS working. But I'm NOT anymore because I now live in CHICAGO.

Worker: Okay, well, I see whatchu mean now. Okay, well when you need soap an' stuff, how you get it?

Me (in full stroke mode): I have STUDENT LOAN REFUND I use. I make it last ALL YEAR.

Worker: Well, they not gonna see it like dat. I mean, you can tell them that, but then they gonna say you need to come down here ev'ry 6 monts wit reeee-ciets and show how you gettin' yo' basic need stuff.

Me (sighing in frustration and exasperation and on the edge of giggles because of the ridiculousness of the conversation): You really expect me to miss a day of class every 6 months to sit in this place all day to show you reeee-ciets of how I buy my pads?

Worker: That's how they's do it. It cut down on fraud. (leaning in) Is you able to buy your books and stuff for school?

Me: Yeah. Well, kind of.

Worker (concerned): Youse go to half.com and they help you get yo' books okay? That's where I go, and they have reeeeal nice books that's reeeeel cheap.

Me (confused): Thanks (?)

Worker (gathering my papers): This what Im'ma do for you. Im'ma talk to my boss and say, youse a nice girl, and go to school, and new in tha city and don't have no job yet. They can put some special papers through for you.

Me (relieved I wasn't losing my voucher): Thank you! Should I come back tommorrow? Will it be done then? (It was already Wednesday----my room at the hostel was only paid up until Saturday. If this office got off their asses, I could find a place, get inspected, and move in by Sunday)

Worker (laughing at my obvious stupidity): Oh no honey! See, youse got to be reviewed. That can take a lil' while.

Me (in another cold sweat that had come to define my time in Chicago thus far): How long?

Worker: Not long at all! About three or fo' weeks. Youse stay righ' here, Im'ma talk to my boss!

As the woman clicked away on heels that were much too high for a social service job, I almost passed out. Three to four WEEKS??? That meant I would have to pay to stay in the hostel for at least another month. That meant a HUGE dent would be put in my cash that I set aside to pay for a truck to drive my stuff from Pittsburgh to Chicago, pay my security deposit and first months' rent, pay for my daily expenses, my fare cards, and---most importantly---it would mean a dent in the money I was saving to fly home for Thanksgiving. I swallowed. There was no spit to swallow.

"Don't panic. Do not panic." I told myself. "You've come too far already to fold. Just power through it."

My worker clicked back to me beaming from ear-to-ear. "She said yes, we gonna review it! The date fo' the review is....2 weeks from tommorrow. We gots a lot of people in your shoes that need reviews," she said nodding her head in earnest.

"Okay, so for now I can just...."

"Keeps doing whatchu doing, and we gonna call in 2 weeks for the review!" she said excitedly.

"Alright, thank you for your help," I said standing up and grabbing my bag. That meant I actually had to pay for a total of 6 weeks at the hostel. 6 weeks.

"You welcome. See you then," she said ushering me out of the office.

As I rode back to town ("punch", "kick", "pile drive") I made myself a promise. I was going to stick through this, no matter how hard it was going to be. I made a decision, and The Windy City wasn't going to blow me away.

How could I have known what was coming down the pipe?

North, South, East and West----Never Eat Shredded Wheat/Library State of Mind

crunch, crunch, crunch....

*boom*

crunch crunch....

*rumble*

crunch....

CRASH...

"Aw shit." I groaned under my breath while munching on a bagel. Just what I needed, an early morning thunderstorm to walk through to get to the train. And my umbrella sittin' pretty in Pittsburgh.

I sighed, drank the rest of my orange juice, and flipped the bookmark into my place in "Wicked". Just then the waitress came over.

"All finished now?" the lady asked me. She was an Asian woman in her 50's, very prim, proper, and to the point. Since finding this cozy little diner around the corner from the hostel, I'd been in for 6 meals over the last 2 days. I had my usual booth---in the front, right next to a window----where I could see out onto the street while enjoying my meal.

"Yes ma'am I am. Thank you so much for everything," she smiled at me, and wished me a good day. I paid my $6 bill, and left a tip for her. Grabbing my schoolbag, I took a breath and stepped out into the pouring rain.

I'd been at the hostel at this point for about 2 days, and while I wasn't super familiar with the area, I knew where to get food, and where the train platform was---thankfully these two places were within a half block of each other. I raced into the train station, dropped in my fare card, went through the turnstyle, and up the stairs to catch the train to class.

Funny thing about Chicago. The trains are basically set up going north to south, with various buses going east to west. Theoretically, you can ride a train as far north or as far south as you needed to, get off, and catch a bus home. The trains all run on color---red, blue, orange, yellow, brown, green, and the (elusive) purple line---and each has specific stops. With the exception of the purple and yellow lines, all run through downtown Chicago. When you learn how the trains run, you can get anywhere in Chicago--that is, if you know your cardinal directions. The first time I asked how to get somewhere this was the conversation:

Me: "Excuse me sir. I'm trying to get to the section 8 office on Halstead. Do you think you can help me?"

Older black man: "Yeah, swee'haaart. You jes' go two block east, turn souf, take tha orange line souf to the Halstead stop. Get off, turn North, walk two block west and youse there...."

Me (giving him a blank stare): "Okay. Thank you."

The problem? I grew up in PITTSBURGH. If you tell someone to go two blocks north, then four blocks west one of two things will happen: 1. They will come to a dead end street. 2. They will walk into a river.

Needless to say, it took me quite a bit to get used to the landscape, and to be honest, even after three weeks of being in the city, I had little experience to go on. The key is to remember that no matter where you are in Chicago, Lake Michigan is always EAST. If you can keep that in mind, you're good to go. Figure out where you are in relation to the lake, and you can get anywhere.

So as I stood on the platform, dabbing the toe of my black K Swiss in a puddle, I contemplated a trip. I was told coming into the hostel that on Saturdays and Sundays, everyone had to leave for a period of about 3 hours so cleaning could be done. Well, that's all fine and good for someone who is passing through Chicago to visit and sightsee, but seeing as how I was LIVING at the hostel, it made things a bit more diffcult. I decided on the train ride into school that I would ride the trains on the weekends to see where I ended up.

That evening, after eating at my favorite haunt (the diner of course), I found myself back at the hostel with little to do. My roommates were out, and with good reason, it was only about 7:30. This was kind of what sucked about this period in Chicago---the lonliness. I didn't know anybody, and because of my lack of knowledge in how to get around, I had nowhere to go. By this time, my schoolbooks had been delivered (one of my professors was nice enough to allow me to have them delivered to his office since I had no permanent address) and I spent a good deal of my time studying. I invested in one of those little book lights, so that even after my roommates were fast asleep, I was able to read into the wee hours of the morning.

The next day was a Saturday, and I was up early. I showered (wearing some $1 shower shoes I'd purchased at a dollar store-type deal down the street) grabbed my stuff and left. I rode the red line into downtown Chicago, and began to walk down South State street. I stopped dead in my tracks, and glanced up at the most magnificent site I'd ever seen.

Now anyone who knows me knows I love two things: Libraries and books. Period. I personally feel that there is no greater art than the written word. I'm from Pittsburgh damn it, Andrew Carnegie left us great libraries. But even Mr. Carnegie himself would have to bow and scrape in front of the Harold Washington Public Library in downtown Chicago. I walked inside in a daze, as if I was entering the gates of paradise. I walked down a black marble hallway adorned with caricatures of Kurt Vonnegant, Toni Morrison, and Maya Angelou which ended in an atrium with a high ceiling, and a a beautiful crystal fountain that merrily spouted water. Taking the escalator up to the main floor, I tried to drink in all of the gloroiusness.

It was eight floors stacked floor to ceiling with books, magazines, newspapers, microfiche, CDs, albums, computers, tapes and every other bell, whistle, dog and cat you can imagine.

"Wow," was all I could whisper. Why was I just now finding out about this place? What the hell? I walked over to the main desk, and politely asked what the hours were, and how I could go about procuring a library card.

"We are open Monday to Thursday 9 AM to 9 PM, Fridays 9 AM to 5 PM, Saturdays 9 AM to 5 PM, and Sundays 1 PM to 5 PM," she answered politely, giving me a pamphlet about upcoming events.

"And where can I sign up for a card?" I asked just as politely. I was ready to get my meaty hands on some of those books. My mouth was watering just thinking of all of the literary goodness I was about to have access to.

"Right here! We only ask for a permanent address, and a bill with said address on it." My heart fell. I mumbled a quick, "Thank you" and walked away.

And here we come to one of the most DEPRESSING aspects of this story, and really of this entire blog. Not having an address SUCKS. I mean, not just because you don't have somewhere to really lay your head and call home, but because things that people take for granted---like library cards, which have always been a HUGE part of my life----are out of your reach. Something that basic, that would bring me that much joy and happiness in this whole crazy move, was unattainable to me.

At least I could come in and study, I wasn't confined to my room at the hostel, or the tiny cramped computer lab at school. I actually had somewhere to BE. I spent the entire day in that library, browsing, and carousing, looking at brand new books with unbroken spines, and books that were 75+ years old. On the third floor, there was a restricted section---yeah, you read that right---restricted. But not in the dime store ponographic magazine kind of way. Behind those doors were books that had no business ever being published---books like Mein Kampf, Helter Skelter (with original pictures), books detailing child abuse cases, and even a copy of the Anarchrist Cookbook. How could I NOT love this place???

So every Saturday, I made a beeline to the library as soon as it opened. And on Sundays, when it didn't open until 1, and I had to be out of the hostel by 10, I rode the trains and read the Sunday paper until 1. I actually enjoyed it---no one bothered me, it was quiet, and the trains were very soothing. But as we will see as the story progresses, the trains in Chicago became a source of fear, terror, and eventually----mental anguish.