Icicles hanging on for their lives. Clinging to naked trees. Water droplets hitting a child’s tongue. Deformed snowmen. Brown grass exposed.

Soon, it will be February. The cold will prevail. People walk around wearing thick coats, gloves of various styles, and hats to cover their ears. Saying the cold air is good for them. Mother nature has never let us down. I say, she has.

The Greyhound left town at ten o’clock on its way to Chicago and beyond. Poor people chasing dreams. A girl sitting next to me talking about Los Angeles, Hollywood to be exact. She says a whole new life awaits her. I smile and nod my head.

You believe me? don’t you, she asked. Sure, I say. Why should I burst her fantasy of making it. The big blonde smiles and places her hand on my leg. You’ll see, she said. One day, you’ll look up at a billboard, and there I’ll be. Her hand creeped up my thigh. Wanna come with me? she asked. I remained silent. Her hand slid away.

Drunks, poverty, filthy toilets, graffiti on bathroom stalls. This is as American as it gets. Black men asking for dollars. Fat women wearing pants too tight. A roll of flesh pops out from under sweatshirts that say PINK on them. Lonely people. People with nowhere to go but knowing they need to go somewhere. They head east and west. Bums heading to Florida like birds before snowfall, looking for cigarette butts in ashtrays. Collecting burnt stubs and placing them in empty packs, pockets with holes, and sweaty palms.

I have chosen this. Leaving the warmth of the womb for the coldness of a country that takes more than it gives. But, there is no complaint on my part. I have $200 on me. Enough to start a new life if I choose. Or, hit the town and blow my load in one night on women, taxi cabs, exquisite meals in diners with filled plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, a side salad, and buttered vegetables. Perhaps a dessert  of custard or chocolate pie. So many choices this city offers; play it safe or just simply play. Options. Right?

Chicago. Dear old Chicago. Hog butcher to the world Sandburg said. And then there is that incredible book by Sinclair describing the city for what it truly is; a jungle. A city on the make. Politicians, businessmen, hookers, bartenders, factory workers, bus drivers, cops, bums, all on the make. Waiting for their opportunity to strike.

And, me. I sit back and watch man’s inhumanity to man. This is my task. Record the ugliness of Chicago. Of America. Take notes and learn. Where is that meatloaf dinner? Warmth inside the gut? Where?

Before I hit the streets, a bum asked for a dollar. So, I gave him five. Why not? This is perfectly Christian. It’s what Christ would have done. I watched as he went across the street to the liquor store. God bless him, I say. For this is a righteous man.