Quiet places scare me. Peaceful countryside, a farm, funerals, some dirt road in a Midwest county, all frightening. I’ve never been one for peace.

I prefer noise. The squeaky sound of a saxophone in a bar with people talking over it, ordering drinks from jaded waitresses, cops cruising by outside, chasing a Dodge with no muffler, lovers yelling in the room next door, a junkie crying for a fix, voices talking in my head.

Chicago, for the most part, sleeps at night. It is only the night hawks flying high that make noise. Drunks in Mexican restaurants at four in the morning, bartenders washing glasses in a sink, club goers dancing to electronic beats, blues wailing from Southside joints, Northside white kids eating char dogs at The Weiner Circle, a line out the door, sounds of heavy metal radio and rap in the porn shops, moaning and groaning coming from booths, homeless boys in wigs.

But, for the most part, Chicago sleeps. Jobs are to be tended to come morning in the city that works. Beer trucks delivering kegs, bread brought to diners and four star joints, drugs being sold on corners (they’re no different than pharmaceutical reps. Except for clothes and expense accounts). Everybody has to make a living, including whores on Lake Street calling out to me as I stand in line for work. A sign above says, Fresh Killed Lamb. Slaughtered years ago.

As I grow old, noises become less and less. Maybe it’s location. Perhaps I’ve tuned them out. Could be youth is gone. Gone, gone, gone.

Noise. I miss you.