Three Men Running - by Eleanor Spiess-Ferris and Umberto Tosi

An Improv Game Mystery By Eleanor Spiess-Ferris and Umberto Tosi

STATEMENT OF WITNESS:

Visual Artist, 71, Rogers Park District, Chicago

I was driving south on Clark Street, headed home from my ceramics workshop in Evanston, as is usual on Mondays. It was unseasonably balmy for a late January day in Chicago. I had stopped at a supermarket, where I had a problem with my bank card because the computer system was down. If not for that delay I would have probably missed seeing the incident altogether.

My problem resolved and groceries loaded, I no sooner resumed my southward drive than I saw three men run across Clark Street through traffic in front of me. I hit my brakes. Traffic came to a complete halt.

Two of the men apparently were chasing the third. The two pursuers had on blue uniforms with some type of insignia on their jacket sleeves. They looked overheated in their jackets. The fellow they seemed to be chasing, on the other hand, looked cool and collected. He appeared to be African-American. He was tall, long-legged and ran gracefully. He wore a neat, short-sleeved white shirt and swung a white plastic bag in each hand – store bags, I guessed, but I couldn't tell for sure. He ran swiftly, with ease, taking long strides widening his lead as he threaded his way down and across the busy street heading towards Howard Street. .

The first blue-uniformed pursuers looked Hispanic. He was built like a linebacker. He ran fast and hard – a young man, maybe in his 30, with a determined grimace. But his athletic strides looked to be shorter than that of the fleeing man. The other uniformed pursuer struggled far behind, not much in the race. He was quite heavy-set. He slogged with labored steps, falling farther and farther behind, nevertheless onward, huffing and puffing. I remember thinking the poor man might give himself a heart attack or something. The laggard had straight hair as dark flecked with gray, and looked older than the first security guard – I assumed they were security guards, or maybe transit cops, but not Chicago police. Number two chaser looked more Mediterranean than Hispanic – maybe Italian or Greek, or Middle Eastern.

The threesome cut across Clark headed and headed into the small park on the other side of the street, the disappeared from my view. My light ahead of me turned green. Traffic started to move again, and I with it, once again homeward bound. I saw no more of the runners.

(ES-F)

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ALICE COKLEY, 32.

Supermarket Checker:

I know that guy, and I knew those two humps would never catch him. Hermes, that's what he calls himself – nobody knows his real name – gets out of everything. My friend Paula calls him Fleetwood because he had this classic red Caddy for a while, a convertible with fins, a beautiful sight to behold.

They drove it up to Canada, then I don't know what happened, because she came back on a train and he didn't show up at our flat till a month later. Whatever he was into up there, he got away again. He always does. He's not a bad sort, but he's trouble. He's a runner, quick on his feet in every which way. He could be a big success at something, I know, not just good at everything.

I warned Paula but sure enough they were an item again. They make such a cute couple – she, smooth, freckly milk-white with flaming hair, flashing her toothy charm, flirting green eyes covering a world of mischief. Him talking mellow as almond butter, could charm snakes, and move quick as a mongoose, all burnt umber dressed always cool, the Gingerbread Man, nobody can catch him, run as fast as he can. But one day, wait and see, he's gonna meet Mr. Fox.

Not today, though. He was in the store earlier. Then I don't know what happened except all hell seemed to break loose. I heard old man Santo, tell that hothead new guard Nando to cool it. They're not supposed to cause scenes. The manager doesn't like that. Company policy. They're around like bulldogs, to scare off troublemakers, not to give chase like the hounds they're not.