Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Sixty-eight

Rush hour was heating up on Michigan Avenue, which meant there were a lot of cars honking at cabs, which were honking at cars, which were also honking at buses. All the while commuters walked with intention to their bus stops and trains stops, and tourists walked with curiosity and excitement to be in the hustle and bustle of the "big city." I crossed the street at Chicago while the overworked, underpaid traffic cop admonished drivers for their stupidity, slapped on the hoods of their cars, and blew his official traffic cop whistle, making him king for the time being—that is until he got home and learned who really ruled his life.

I passed what's historically rumored to be the last surviving building from the tragic Chicago fire, which required the city of Chicago, which I don't think was named Chicago at the time, to start over again. And it was all seemingly caused by a cow referred to as Mrs. O'Leary's cow. Apparently the cow knocked over a lantern, which started the fire. But what I wanted to know was who left the damn lantern within kicking distance of the cow?

The throngs of people on the street ignored my pink-tasseled peds, tussled hair, and urine-soaked smell until I got to the 900 North building. I didn't remember which floor Liz was on, so I had to stop and look it up, which is precisely when the suspicious guard—why are there guards everywhere—asked if he could help me.

"No, but thank you," I said with all the charm and friendliness that I could muster after being slushed on, ankle turned, and peed on by a large man named Gary.

I found it. The Brightwater Foundation, 2900.

"Find what you need?"

"Yes, thank you again."

"May I ask where you're going?"

"You may ask ..." I said as I passed the guard on my way to the elevator. As the elevator doors opened and I climbed in, I heard the static of a walkie-talkie and the guard mentioning something about shaft six. I assumed he was talking about the elevator and not the latest in penile implant devises.

Because it was after five, the elevator only stopped once, for a young, attractive woman wanting to go from floor seventeen to eighteen. I never understood this concept. Why not just walk one floor? As she entered the elevator, she entered my domain of stink. She looked at me as I leaned on the railing, half to give relief to my aching ankle and half to give her the impression that I was an all right guy ... No such luck. The elevator doors lumbered shut. She noticed my special scent. I looked at my fingers as though checking on the manicure job.

"Are you homeless?" she said.

"Why do you ask?"

"You stink," was her next offering.

I moved a little closer and replied in quiet, sane voice. "You would too if a guy named Gary urinated uncontrollably while you sat on his lap."

The elevator dinged, signaling we'd arrived at eighteen.

"Ewww, I'm calling security."

"Don't bother, they've already been alerted."

The doors closed, and I couldn't wait to see what was in store for me outside suite 2900. The elevator whipped up to twenty-nine, and the door slid open. Off the elevator, the arrow directed me to the Brightwater Foundation, which was to the right—To the left was the Air Condition Workers Union, Local 15. I was surprised Liz hadn't hit on those guys yet. Or maybe she had. As I was halfway down the hall to 2900, I heard the ding of the elevator's arrival. Security, I thought. I limp-ran the best I could the rest of the way. I forgot you either had to have a code to get in the door of the Brightwater Foundation, or be buzzed in by the receptionist. The only problem was there was no receptionist. I pounded on the door while I tried like hell to remember the code. Liz told me the code several times before because she was proud of herself for coming up with such a clever code. I was left with trying to remember how clever she was.