almost all one- or two-story jobs; secure-looking brick places, surrounded by large, fenced-in parking lots, illuminated by floodlights and monitored by closed-circuit TV's.
There were some people wandering around near Ogden Avenue. There was a drugstore, a liquor store, a Chicago Housing Authority senior citizen highrise, and a Kentucky Fried Chicken.
St. Lucy's Hospital was a few blocks south, just over the expressway. Relita was down there in Intensive Care. A typical Chicago success story. A trick baby who'd grown up too fast and followed in her mamma's footsteps.
Soon we were back to the empty lots. Some of these were actually paved or covered with gravel, parking lots for the Chicago Stadium. There was block after block after block of nothing but parking lots.
"The hockey team still play here?" the guy asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Basketball too."
It was a big grey-stone place that had been there forever. It had been the site of political conventions and prizefights, circuses and ice shows. It was about the only reason I ever ended up out this way. There were housing projects to the north and south; beyond it lay what was left of the West Side.
I hit the power door locks. "How much farther?"
"I'm not really sure," he said.
"The further we go, the worse it's gonna get."
"What are you so afraid of?"
"Somebody might want to take target practice."
"Who?" He laughed.
I had to admit he had a point. There was hardly anybody on the street. The buildings had been burned, bombed or otherwise destroyed and whoever had lived in them had, for the most part, disappeared.
The brick pickers had picked the whole bricks from the rubble and stacked them on pallets, and they'd been trucked away. Only the rubble remained on the West Side. Rubble and weeds, and junk dumped directly under NO DUMPING signs which were nailed to thriving stink trees.
The prairie was returning to Madison Street.
There was a burned-out record store, barely standing, near a fire station that hadn't been close enough. A storefront church was boarded up, and beyond that, we finally found a little action.
There was a line of cars. A nice orderly, integrated line, everybody waiting patiently for a group of black kids to lead them around the corner, one car at a time, to buy whatever drug it was that they just couldn't live without.
One of the kids whistled and waved as we passed, pointing us back towards the end of the line.
"Just like TV," my passenger said.
I skirted a crumbling stretch of pavement and my headlights exposed a lone streetcar track, set in sturdy red paving bricks, shining back from some long-gone city.
A couple of skanky hookers were lounging in front of a low viaduct. Was this what he was looking for?
One waved halfheartedly, as if she knew no one would ever again be interested. They both looked diseased and old, women that North Avenue or some other strip had
already used up and thrown away. Was this Relita's future? Was this where you came when you only had one tit left to sell?
"Safer to go swimming in a sewer," my passenger said.
A squad car passed going in the opposite direction. Neither cop glanced our way and I wondered if they would pay any attention to the line of cars a few blocks ahead.
I glanced in the mirror. The squad turned south. We swerve and don't observe.
There was a father leading two kids Indian file down a crumbling stretch of sidewalk. The kids were about six and eight. They were having a great time dodging the holes.
There were a few cars at the curb but almost all were burned out or abandoned. Anybody who put enough money together to buy a car probably drove it straight out of the neighborhood.
There was a liquor store and then a storefront medical center, both with every window bricked up solid.
I didn't see a grocery store anywhere around.
"What is it you're looking for?" I finally asked.
"Damned if I know," he said. "Last time I was here was 1964."
"You're shitting me."
"Lived here most of two
There were some people wandering around near Ogden Avenue. There was a drugstore, a liquor store, a Chicago Housing Authority senior citizen highrise, and a Kentucky Fried Chicken.
St. Lucy's Hospital was a few blocks south, just over the expressway. Relita was down there in Intensive Care. A typical Chicago success story. A trick baby who'd grown up too fast and followed in her mamma's footsteps.
Soon we were back to the empty lots. Some of these were actually paved or covered with gravel, parking lots for the Chicago Stadium. There was block after block after block of nothing but parking lots.
"The hockey team still play here?" the guy asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Basketball too."
It was a big grey-stone place that had been there forever. It had been the site of political conventions and prizefights, circuses and ice shows. It was about the only reason I ever ended up out this way. There were housing projects to the north and south; beyond it lay what was left of the West Side.
I hit the power door locks. "How much farther?"
"I'm not really sure," he said.
"The further we go, the worse it's gonna get."
"What are you so afraid of?"
"Somebody might want to take target practice."
"Who?" He laughed.
I had to admit he had a point. There was hardly anybody on the street. The buildings had been burned, bombed or otherwise destroyed and whoever had lived in them had, for the most part, disappeared.
The brick pickers had picked the whole bricks from the rubble and stacked them on pallets, and they'd been trucked away. Only the rubble remained on the West Side. Rubble and weeds, and junk dumped directly under NO DUMPING signs which were nailed to thriving stink trees.
The prairie was returning to Madison Street.
There was a burned-out record store, barely standing, near a fire station that hadn't been close enough. A storefront church was boarded up, and beyond that, we finally found a little action.
There was a line of cars. A nice orderly, integrated line, everybody waiting patiently for a group of black kids to lead them around the corner, one car at a time, to buy whatever drug it was that they just couldn't live without.
One of the kids whistled and waved as we passed, pointing us back towards the end of the line.
"Just like TV," my passenger said.
I skirted a crumbling stretch of pavement and my headlights exposed a lone streetcar track, set in sturdy red paving bricks, shining back from some long-gone city.
A couple of skanky hookers were lounging in front of a low viaduct. Was this what he was looking for?
One waved halfheartedly, as if she knew no one would ever again be interested. They both looked diseased and old, women that North Avenue or some other strip had
already used up and thrown away. Was this Relita's future? Was this where you came when you only had one tit left to sell?
"Safer to go swimming in a sewer," my passenger said.
A squad car passed going in the opposite direction. Neither cop glanced our way and I wondered if they would pay any attention to the line of cars a few blocks ahead.
I glanced in the mirror. The squad turned south. We swerve and don't observe.
There was a father leading two kids Indian file down a crumbling stretch of sidewalk. The kids were about six and eight. They were having a great time dodging the holes.
There were a few cars at the curb but almost all were burned out or abandoned. Anybody who put enough money together to buy a car probably drove it straight out of the neighborhood.
There was a liquor store and then a storefront medical center, both with every window bricked up solid.
I didn't see a grocery store anywhere around.
"What is it you're looking for?" I finally asked.
"Damned if I know," he said. "Last time I was here was 1964."
"You're shitting me."
"Lived here most of two
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