The train runs above me. Sometimes, blue and orange sparks fly off the steel wheels, looking like fourth of July fireworks. Glowing as they disappear. And that sound, that beautiful music of the L stopping and starting, running at high speeds with voices carrying into night. The conductors tell urban travelers to watch their step, doors opening and closing before them.

I walk down Lake Street shivering, wearing my hoodie and freshly washed pants. Clean underwear feels good. My socks are dry. I’ve got a five in my pocket for a cup of coffee and a roll. My lips are chapped, and my face is burned. Cop cars pass me by. I continue my morning stroll, now thinking not of childhood, but questioning how I got to Chicago. And, for the life of me, I can’t remember.

It was an act of mania, nothing really planned. I had just gotten paid from my job at a car wash where myself and other juvenile delinquents worked steadfastly cleaning cars of the rich. Saving tips for something important such as bottles of booze bought at the nearby liquor store. Food for their families to eat. Clothes for the seasons. New pairs of shoes.

With tips and a bi-weekly paycheck, I managed to have a couple of hundred on me. I walked swiftly through my small town and thought, what is the point to all this? A voice kept telling me to leave this Winesburg, Ohio, for a bigger place; get rid of this Midwest melancholy once and for all. And, I did. I left behind the comforts of warm, dry housing and hot meals prepared by mom and stern lectures from the old man for freedom. What I thought was freedom.

No plans, no schemes, just get on the bus and go. Proving that old German right when he said what does not kill you only makes you stronger. Interesting. The old bugger suffered from syphilis.