Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Sixty-five

Liz worked in the building that housed Bloomingdales, as well as a theater and six or so floors of consumer opportunities, called 900 North Michigan. How long does is take for some genius to come up with that name? And I wonder if the same guy or gal came up with 600 North Michigan, and 444 North Michigan.

I'm not really sure what it means, or what she does specifically, but Liz works for her family's foundation—shit, I don't even know what a foundation does. But her family foundation, surprisingly enough, is called the Brightwater Foundation. But what I do know about Liz and work is that she's good at her job, and she does very well financially. But I'm not sure if that's because her job pays a lot, or because her family is worth millions, which I guess, in the scheme of things, is the same thing. Nonetheless, for Liz, working is good; it keeps her busy, and out of trouble.

I decided to pay a visit to Liz. But before that, I skimmed through the Trib as I made my way down Michigan Avenue. I read as I walked, a skill I picked up while I was young. Not liking to study much, I found myself reading and cramming for classes while on my way to school. This habit began as early as my sophomore year of high school. Besides, I'd walked down Michigan so many times, I could become a tour bus driver for the shopping type.

So, having my head buried in the newspaper didn't cause me to miss much—Nike Town, the Sony Gallery, Brooks Brothers, the Gap, the Water Tower, you get the idea. Besides I needed to keep my nervous mind off Kate and dinner—which ended up being pretty easy, since I was caught in a freak slush storm. The afternoon sky went dark from the mixture of snow and rain that came down like a waterfall of slurpees. I folded the Tribune in half, stuffed it in my pocket, and ran after a couple cabs. To no avail. My shoes were soaked within minutes, my hair was matted down with the slurpee-like chunks making me look like a wet puppy, and I twisted my right ankle on a drain grill near the curb while chasing down the cab. Unbeknownst to me, the sign post that I was supporting myself on as I rubbed my ankle was the bus stop for the oncoming 144 Marine/Michigan Express. It stopped right in front of me. I hopped on, pissing off all the people who got on behind me who were actually waiting for the bus.

My wool winter jacket had that bad wet wool smell, and my soaking hair added to the condensation and fog engulfing the bus windows. I only had about six blocks to go, but I got a seat and opened the paper anyway.

The moment I sat down, I could feel the bus go quiet and all eyes on me. I seemed to have interrupted something, which is a strange feeling to have on a means of public transportation. Maybe everyone thought I pulled a fast one, using the bus stop as support as I rubbed my ankle ... Was there an unspoken bus code? It was as though I was on a bus full of friends, or the "friendly bus, where everybody knows everybody," and I just crashed their private party.

I darted my eyes for a second and decided to bury my face in the newspaper. The slushees in my hair turned to water, and at that point, my hair was just wet. It dripped all over my newspaper as I tried to read it. Regardless, I skimmed the pages, as I always do—reading a headline, and maybe an opening paragraph and a closing one, to get the main points. It's standard essay theory, really. Propose the problem in the opening paragraph, give me all the details, and then sum it up in a conclusion. Who needs all the details? So, as a result, I never really read any article, I just get the flavor of it. I find most articles in newspapers and magazines a waste of time. Even most of USA Today's articles are too long. Just give me a list of what's going on. No need to get into what "he said," and what "she said," and what the "experts said."

With my face buried in the wet Tribune, I discovered that, to compete with Orlando International Airport, Daytona Beach International was offering funeral directors five hundred frequent-flier miles for every casket transported on Delta, and two round-trip tickets for every $5,000 worth of business. Minority leaders were still complaining about being minorities, and in a surprise article, "Springer Might Star In Hearing," it seemed that Alderman Edwards wanted Jerry to define once and for all what kind of show he's running. Was it real or staged? If it's real, and spontaneous, as Springer claims, the Alderman claimed that Springer, his people, and those on his show fighting should all go to jail. And if it's staged and rehearsed, the Alderman says, then Springer needed to obtain an entertainment license, like Don King when promoting a fight. Either way, it looked like Jerry was not going to a happy camper at his New Year's party in two days.