Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Eighty

"One sixty-one East Chicago, please."

Raythm Noonoo, our cab driver, took a moment to process the request, and then responded in kind. "Are you serious?"

"Very," I said.

"That's two blocks away."

"I understand, but the way it works, Mr. Noonoo, is that we get in your cab, you ask where we'd like to go, we tell you, and you go."

"Get out of my cab. I'm not going to give up my place in line to take you two blocks and make three dollars."

"You're absolutely right, you're going to take us two blocks and make twenty dollars. Now get a fucking move on." Kate had a way of making things happen. "And by the way, Happy New Year."

We sat silently as Raythm Noonoo made a right on Michigan Avenue, headed two blocks, and made a left on Chicago Avenue. Throngs of people walked everywhere with what seemed like aimless abandon. Even the Walgreens on the corner of Chicago and Michigan was packed with people wandering in and out.

"What the hell do you think people are buying at Walgreens on New Year's Eve?" I said in hopes of a response from Kate, but got one from Raythm Noonoo.

"For some people it's just another day. Nothing special for them. Nowhere to go—"

I cut him off. "This'll be fine. You can pull over right here."

Kate and I looked at each other. It seemed like there was the small matter of who was going to come up with the twenty bucks Kate promised Raythm Noonoo. I leaned back uncomfortably against the cold vinyl seat and jammed my cold hand into my wet pant pocket. I pulled out a variety of wet bills. I had two fives and six ones, which made me four dollars short. I held my offering to Kate, shrugged my shoulders, and gave her a look that said, "Oops. Now what?"

Kate's annoyance threw me in a semiemotional tailspin. This behavior, almost manic, was not like the Kate I had known for the short couple weeks that I'd known her. There must by some strange thing going on with her. I mean chemical strange ... a female thing, or maybe it was a brain chemical thing, where her dopamine level had shot up to pro wrestling levels. But for some reason I felt guilty. I felt guilty about several things I suppose. I felt guilty that I upset her somehow with the "fool" comment, I felt guilty that in the last twenty minutes I'd gone from wanting her physically and emotionally to being fearful of wanting her at all.

Being a guy, being Jewish, and just being generally fearful that she was mad at me, I wanted nothing more than to fix the situation.

While I sat in docile contemplation, Kate opened her purse, plucked a twenty out of a series of twenties neatly piled in her DKNY wallet, and handed it to Raythm Noonoo. We exited the cab.

The wind from Lake Michigan directed itself through each pore in my body and shot its frigid cold straight to my veins as I jogged like the Tin Man past the entrance awning, through the revolving doors, and directly in the lobby of 161 East Chicago.

The swell of heat that we encountered once inside the lobby made me warm and toasty—that was until I saw who was working the desk that night.

Mr. Linden, the extremely-well-paid guard, in his exquisitely tailored uniform, sat behind the marble desk flanked, once again, by two tremendously expensive flower bouquets.

He saw me, smiled, and immediately spoke his idiosyncratic words, "Right ..."

Not giving him much attention, but fully expecting him to simply buzz us in by recognition, I held Kate's hand, nodded, and walked by him to the elaborate door that led to the elevators.