A million ants. All of us ran around this giant, vast monstrosity made of steel and concrete, sweeping away bits and pieces of America’s promise.

A new boat. Rifles, bows, and arrows. Scantily clothed women casting fishing lines into a beautiful little man made pond, crystal clear mind you with no litter or oil film atop of it. Zero toxins. A place where fish could breathe, youth could play, jet skis zooming and skipping over waves. All brought to you by various companies of massive proportions selling the American dream. While I and hundreds of men toiled on this presentation.

I watched all the busyness of it and asked myself, why am I doing this? Slowly, I strolled, broom in hand, observing while poor black men and Mexicans new to this country performed tasks that no one else would do. At least not for a decent wage.

The Donahue’s had it all locked up. The whole mess that is American labor. On one hand, they owned Donahue Day Labor, offering slaves to  companies on the cheap while, on the other hand, this Irish family ran the local labor union lock, stock, and barrel. There wasn’t a corner of the contracts with conventions or city labor they didn’t have their paws in. They were the true kings of Chicago. Not the mayor. That Irish prick was merely a pawn to them. Someone they squeezed come any event sponsored by the City of Chicago. This meant the festivals, the conventions, and the whore houses of which we all worked in one way or another.

But I swept up confetti around McCormick Place till I could no longer see straight. A true mind-numbing experience. And I said to myself in me best Irish brogue, steady boy now steady. Don’t rush this. Relax. Let the others sweat and moan as they cry out to Jesus, save my soul. Just watch, I said. Collect two hundred dollars and go home. But there was not two hundred dollars waiting for me at the end of the rainbow. When I went back to Donahue the next day, my check was for thirty-three dollars and no cents. It was forty-two, but taxes were taken out. Taxing those who need it the most. Very American.

On the corner of Halsted and Randolph sat a bar where men went to cash their checks for a two dollar fee and the price of a beer. They sat there, wallowing in self-pity and defeat; drinking away the crumbs of a nice fat sandwich of rye with mustard and corned beef and Swiss cheese. But, there was none of that for us. I sat with my black brothers and drank. Drank till there was just enough money left over for the L that night to sleep in. Back to reading books and resting my head on the windows of the train as it went back and forth across the city. Closed my eyes just a bit until the start of another day.

Chicago. Hog butcher to the world indeed.