This is a fiction blog, mostly, maybe to be mixed with a little poetry, nonfiction essay writing,
journaling and amateur artwork and photography. The city you see in the stories will be a fictionalised version
of Chicago, as it had better be. If I told you a true story about a crime that somebody I knew
had witnessed, I might very well be signing his death warrant and my own. As I write this, I expect
to get a wave of self-righteous indignation in my inbox, or at least would were that inbox still
open, from the pampered and sheltered children of privilege who will tell one about the wild times
they've had with the gangs (on the mean streets of Winnetka and Beverly Hills), about my failure to
charge ahead, damning the torpedoes, as I did what they defined to be my civic duty, and contacted
the Chicago Police every time I knew something that they might conceivably find to be of interest.
But in the world some of us can find ourselves condemned to live in, for any reason or no reason at
all, the gangs don't respond to setbacks with a little mugging for the camera and a little rapping
in what some director with a winter home in Malibu thinks is Ebonics, while soulfully asking why The Man
(I guess that's me) won't understand. They do things like pouring lighter fluid over the
one in whom they are disappointed, measured carefully so that when the fire goes out, the skin and eyes
and most of the extremities are gone, but the one ignited has enough life left in him to linger on
for at least a few days, much to the amusement of his captors and to the indifference of the police,
whose work ethic in the course of an investigation seems to developed in direct proportion to the net
worth of the victim. When one's current wardrobe, purchased in a bout of thrifting a few years back,
advertises the fact that one visits thrift stores, that work ethic doesn't even go so far as apprehending
the perpetrators when one is attacked no more than three feet from a pair of Chicago's finest.
One gets the message, and learns to mind one's own business.
"It's just a story", I'll be tempted to say, with a smile and a deliberately infuritating wink offered
for the ideologues on both the left and the right who will find that I've made no effort to stroke their
assumptions, and to a degree, each of these is just a story. The characters, places and incidents
you see didn't actually exist, but, as I've said before, what you see is much more collage than
fabrication. I write through a process of observation, fitting together pieces of places and events with
each other, to create incidents that, while not literally true in settings that are not, strictly
speaking, real, become reminiscent of a truth I have far too much regard for the privacy of my own subjects
and, in some cases, for my own personal safety to show in the rough draft form of journaled observations.
The extremists to be found on neither the Left nor the Right will care for these stories, taking offense at
the way in which I will refuse to set my stories in the worlds created by their mythologies, and then explain that
refusal by saying that I seldom write fantasy or science fiction, adding that their editorials tend to fall more
in the former category than the latter. Science fiction authors, after all, are supposed to tell us
stories about things that could really happen, at least in theory. There was never so much as the
faintest theoretical possibility of break dancing competitions and poetry jams ending gang warfare,
regardless of what you might have heard down at the local autonomous zone, and trying to hug one
of the gangster disciples wouldn't really be your best choice. Not if you want to keep all of your
appendages attached.
There are realities that never get spoken to, in all of the talk I hear about poverty, and in the stories
I hear authors read aloud, set in the slowly rotting neighborhoods that feel like home to me, now - the
arbitrary nature of what happens to so many. The poor in the stories that get told are alway seem to be these crusty
characters who drink hard, try to sleep with anything in sight, and know nothing about anything, including
how to behave. The assumption, which neither the Far Left nor the Far Right will tolerate any questioning of, is that
the poor must surely be to blame for their own poverty. It's a lie, and it's been a shameless lie for decades,
one that doesn't become any less so with the change of administrations, or the cultural shifts that seem so
meaningful to those in designer clothes.
The Institute of Electrical and Electronic Engineers (IEEE), hardly a radical activist group, has stated that
a majority of the engineers in the US over the age of 50 are now to be found among the long term unemployed or
underemployed, and that many much younger find themselves in similar circumstances, courtesy of outsourcing
and age discrimination. Hardly an uneducated, unmotivated or hard drinking group of people, they are now to
be numbered among the poor. They were placed there by the sort of people who, as a TA while I was pursuing the
coursework for my PhD in Mathematics, I got to watch define their own personal work ethic by never missing
a night out drinking with those deemed to be sufficiently cool, or a chance to try to cheat on an exam - the
frat boys who made the personal connections in the course of four years of institutionalised misconduct that
landed them in management, when fairly frequently, they should have landed in prison.
What, really, is to be expected when old boys such as these, having come of age without ever managing to grow
into men, are put in control of society? Does an unmotivated criminal really become anything other than an
unmotivated criminal, merely because the understanding of the local authorities was purchased for him when
he was a youthful offender, and because he was in the sort of position that called for the wearing of
suits when he moved his outrages up to a more professional level? To take an actual case, what really is
the moral difference between knowingly sending a group of illiterate employees into a silver refining facility that
one has chosen to leave underventilated, having been told that this will predictably result in the
death of a number of the employees, and pumping poison gas into a room? Do crimes cease to be crimes the
moment one's gang is publicly listed on the NYSE? In the case of this gentleman, the answer was "yes" -
with the facts not in dispute, he was acquitted of all charges and is, at present, a free man.
The narrative that the Right would want me, or anybody else, to write into my stories is one of hard work
and ability being rewarded, the cream of society rising to the top while the dregs sink to the bottom. "Are
we talking about a carton of milk or a keg of beer", I'll ask, presented with this mixing of metaphors, as
if I didn't know with which of these the average neocon had more familiarity. I'm not going to tell such
a story, of the meritocracy we live in, because having taught those in management, I know that's not the
truth. I've mentioned the vice president at Ameritech whose corner office was one floor from the top,
elsewhere, who I was called in to tutor, at the glorious $5/hour this lucrative profession can win for one.
"Is that five dollars American, Joseph?" It is, indeed. You know the observation - the higher one is in the
building, the higher one is in the company? So you know where this guy was, and he was on the side of the
building looking into the Loop. The view was beautiful. Guess what I was in there to teach the man, who
had hopes of doing a statistical study of his own, later in the week? He wanted to solve a quadratic.
You remember those? Something that usually gets covered by the first year of high school, at the very latest,
and usually much sooner in one's own reading? Something that my five year old nephew can do in his sleep?
You know, one of these things?
ax2 + bx + c = 0
One of our best and brightest, pulling down a few hundred thousand dollars per year, was struggling with that
one. I tried showing him the derivation of the quadratic formula, factoring, and a few of the other things
that he should have seen before he ran out of his first batch of clearasil. He wasn't having it. He wanted
to haggle, feeling that there was a simpler approach to the subject, a royal road to basic algebra of which
I knew, but was hiding from him. Which brings us to what a lot of tutors do, and is the source of a lot of
the brilliant work that so many of our high achievers in the corporate world to earn their keep -
Ghostwriting.
Literally at the end of the day, the exec is turning in the tutor's work as if it were his own, while the
tutor, paid subpoverty level wages for the work, walks home - travel on the subway is a luxury he can't always
afford - to celebrate his windfall with a meal of rice and beans this time, maybe throwing in a lamb
shank for flavor if he really wants to splurge. But one has to save up for that lamb shank, because even
a fortune like the $10 one just earned, only goes so far. As one feels one's toes start to go a little numb because
boots, like new shoes, are one of those frills one can't afford and the slush, turned a lovely cobalt blue from the
salt that hasn't managed to get rid of that thin coating of ice that covers the pavement below, works its
way through the cracks in the leather, one thinks of somebody sitting in a warm office one's work has helped
to pay for, and the limousine he must be calling for, even as one trudges along. One looks down at the river,
watching the steam rising out from between the rifts in the ice, turning blood red in the fading sunset,
not really resentful of the fact that one is seeing this, but thinking that in midwinter, one might
prefer to see it more briefly than one will be, during the four and a half mile hike back to home.
Feet wet, and only a few blocks into the hike, hypothermia becomes a concern, so one looks for a building to
walk through, wishing to keep one's toes attached to one's feet. One is chased out of the first few buildings
by those who inform one that your situation isn't their problem, and that these are places for respectable
folk. Didn't one used to be one of those, one wonders, but one moves on to the next brief shelter, feeling
a little more warmth in one's feet, if not in one's heart. A half mile later, to one's relief, one finds the
Pedway, city owned property that one won't be chased out of (as quickly) for not having shopped at Tommy
Hilfiger's, where one seeks out the treasure that awaits - a hand dryer, with which one may dry out one's socks, which seem
to have glued themseles to the top of one's feet. Assuring the guard that you are quite sober, that you're
having trouble staying on your feet because your toes have tuned a little unresponsive from
the cold outside ("not my problem sir") one moves along on demand, as quickly as one can
hobble, hoping that this will be quickly enough that the guard won't call the police. Pins and needles
are shooting into the joints on one's feet, one notes with pleasure - one probably won't end up like one's
neighbor down the hall, who has learned to make do without frills like reconstructive surgery or prostheses.
"A cane would be nice, though", you remember him saying, as he wondered out loud if one would ever arrive.
Heartened by the thought that one might not have to start asking such questions oneself in the immediate future,
one stumbles along, glad to finally be feeling one's toes, though one's toes don't seem to be as delighted.
One reaches the bathroom. The smell of month old urine is not a good sign, nor is the tagging one sees in the
stall where one finds long overdue relief. This room seems to have been neglected and sure enough, the drier
doesn't work. One pokes one's head out. The guard is still there. One will have to wait. Holing up in one of
the stalls, one takes off one's shoes and socks, and breathes a sigh of relief. At worst, your feet have
started to turn as white as your DNA will allow; no permanent damage. Just discomfort that still lingers
when, six minutes later, one checks again, and sees that the guard has moved along. Ambling with great
haste past where he was standing, one moves toward the next bathroom one knows of, finding success, and then, an even
greater source of joy than the posession of a freshly dried pair of socks.
Walking up to street level, one finds that one looks out on a sidewalk on which the slush has frozen, a gift
of temperatures that have blessedly now fallen far enough that no amount of salt will keep the ice from
setting. One steps out, feeling the ground crunch beneath one's feet. The edges of the little bubbles that had come
squishing up as air pockets collapsed under the weight of those passing, beginning to burst as the slush turned
to rock, have turned into a forest of tiny knives, waiting to slice into the hands of any unwary soul who slips
on the uneven surface. One takes one's time going home, and pleasure in the cold which is unwelcome to those
whose trip through the cold is limited to a walk out to a waiting cab, because the cold keeps the water
where it belongs - outside of one's shoes - and one knows of a few more places where shelter awaits on the
way home, in some of which one will be allowed to linger for minutes at a time. The lamb shank will wait,
because you're the only one who knows how to cook it and best of all, you only have to split it with one
other person this time. It is, after all, the sabbath that is beginning, a time for enjoying the little
bit of extravagance that one's thrift has made possible.
Settling in on arrival, one indulges oneself, again. The saran wrap and tape one has used to cover that crack in
the window that one's landlord won't fix has come undone. This is no way in which to begin Shabbes, so one
brings out fresh cellophane, and the gift of a departing neighbor, who had greatly overestimated the number of
boxes that he would need to pack what remained of his possessions after the burglars left - bubble wrap, with
every bubble intact - perfect insulation against the chill. The scent of garlic and cinnamon fills the air -
the rice has sat in the oven, waiting for you all day, the broth with which it has been kept safely moistened
almost absorbed. At least in this, you have
managed to not break sabbath - you did the cooking before you left. You go next door to get your neighbor, who
joined with you in investing in this package of meat, taking some comfort in the thought that even if Friday
Evening prayers came and went during one's trip back, there will still be Saturday morning and that unlike
the Ameritech building, one's schul is close at hand. Whatever one's fellow man might think, one
remembers, G-d does not care whether or not one is older than the clothes on one's back, and in an Orthodox
schul, the right kind of schul, the one whose membership is little more than a minyan but never once fails to
find that minyan, those around one will remember that. In the moment one finds oneself, wishing that
sabbath would never end, the world outside those solid doors doesn't seem to matter so much.
But Shabbes must end, and the World, as deservedly unwelcome as it is, does return. One remembers stories one
once read, so long ago when life seemed a little saner, and the stories seem more real than the life one remembers.
One knows that there is a word for what one is, and shall remain under a system where advancement is based on personal
connections, and deals like the one just made at Ameritech are handed down to one on a "take it or leave it" basis,
by those willing to sacrifice everything to be sure that those outside their circle will always have nothing.
Peasant. One has become a peasant.
What is to be hoped for, out of a system that rewards frivolousness and a lack of self-control, while
punishing discipline, hard work and a willingness to defer gratification without forgiveness or mercy,
and real privilege is never questioned?
Many found themselves dropped into this world of which I speak, in significant part, because of a
management fad, that of refusing
to hire anybody for any job until he had 2-5 years of "relevant work experience", while responding to
the perfectly reasonable question of how one was to get that experience with vacuous cliches about
"starting one's own engine" and "making one's own opportunities". Some were lucky enough to be able to
get around this lunacy by contacting people they knew who were already employed, but for those of us
who had to work our way through school, at effectively subminimum wage levels paying inflated tuitions,
this became an impossibility. In real life, when one is working 45-60 hours per week before studies,
usually more like 60, just to pay expenses, a social life becomes an impossibility. There just is no time.
So one would emerge from graduate school, run into this management fad, and find oneself without the personal
connections needed to get around it, before one joined the ranks of the long term unemployed, and was
refused employment on that basis.
Almost fresh out of school, one would find that one's life was now almost
certainly over. Years later, feet bloody from the daily hike to the 40,000th business at which one
had sought employment, with a graduate degree from a top 20 school with high dean's list average -
certainly solid credentials - one would find that nothing had changed, and that nobody was willing to help,
though more than a few were eager to preach. Riot grrls so fair in complexion that one would expect them to glow,
draped in jewelry, real jewelry, would screech at one about one's "whiteskin male privilege",
demanding to know why one didn't dig deeply into pockets that were always almost empty, to contribute
the causes of their choice. One of whom was somebody one knew would take the money that was going to buy
one's dinner straight to the nearest liquor store, but how ashamed you should be, these oppressed daughters
of privilege would tell you, for thinking such uncharitable thoughts.
Not that one should expect much charity out of the grrls, should one be in need of a little of it, oneself.
One would need only look into the hate filled eyes of the proverbial bubble gum snapping secretary on an
internship, who got worked up during her last womyn's studies class and now wanted to fight the power
by putting some white male in his place - right as one walked in, to leave off one's resume, a desire that
would strangely vanish when Anglo-Saxon frat boys, the whitest of the white, would ask for a little help or
consideration, the rage over history's injustices being saved for those a little more "ethnic". Never mind
the fact that, as a blond haired, blue eyed Teutonic Northern European, she was far more unambiguously
Caucasian than you, a multi-ethnic Sephardic Jew, in whose direction a few lovely epithets were tossed the
last time a female member of the master race was under the mistaken impression that you had glanced in her
direction, "white skin privilege" being one of those things that comes and goes as the rhetorical need arises.
Never mind the fact that, at this point, you weren't even hoping for a fair chance at the opportunities you had more than
earned, though you wouldn't have minded having one. All that you were hoping to do was get another name on the list of
companies you'd applied to, so that your public aid wouldn't be cut off, leaving you to freeze or starve to death,
under a well publicised state program that required one to periodically submit such a list in order to continue
receving welfare, at a time when the shelters were overwhelmed and the soup kitchens didn't have enough food.
This being a subzero January morning in Chicago, you were guessing that death from exposure wouldn't take very long,
were you homeless, which those who can't pay their rent often become. All that you would be asking this little princess
to do would be to file a piece of paper, so that you could survive. Which, of course, she would refuse to do, in an
air of self-righteous indignation, as she called in her boss and asked him to have you arrested, for having the
nerve to ask her to be reasonable, and even worse,
for asking to be treated as if you were a human being.
In the end, all that the "Liberalism" or "Progressive Politics" of some really is, is a cobbled together
collection of excuses to hate those one hasn't learned to fear. The only difference between this and
what is often passed off as Conservatism, is that the "Conservatives" will substitute contempt
for open hatred. Usually. Each of these political movements has created its own mythology, its own brand of
political correctness, and neither will be shown the least amount of respect or concern on this site, because
no respect is warranted in either case.
The name "Hiding in Plain Sight" refers to the way the characters you'll meet will be fashionably viewed.
Even as they stand right in front of those more wealthier than themselves, they will hardly be noticed
at all, as if they had managed to conceal themselves right in the center of the field of vision of their
supposedly enlightened oppressors. There is a very specific kind of poor person that political correctness
would grant the self-styled enlightened rich the right to care about, and it's not the kind of poor person
who, given a fair chance, would threaten the position of their undermotivated, usually not very bright or
talented (but extremely well networked) "betters" by rising in the world through hard work and finally justly
rewarded accomplishment. The kind of poor person who meets with their approval is one who does as they do -
preys on his fellow man. He just does so on a lower budget, as he does his part to keep the lower orders in
line.
Gang members will sometimes show up in these stories. I wouldn't be telling the truth about my setting if they
didn't - but the stories will never be about them, any more than a disaster movie is really about that
volcano growing in the middle of Los Angeles. The gangs are an almost mindless force of nature the characters
have to deal with, with little if any help from the police. The characters, like the long term unemployed
in real life will, on the average, be better educated and brighter than the general public. They'll have flaws
and make mistakes - everybody does - but if you see those as tragic flaws that explain their circumstances,
you will most often have misread the story. There will be no victim blaming here.
Nor will there be any patience shown with anybody's brand of mythology.
The Chicago you see will be a fictionalised one, out of necessity, as I've said, the places and people changed,
but it will be far more reminiscent of the real one, at least part of it, than will the one encountered in
the fantasies of political idealogues.
If, along the way, I should cause offense to a vocal few, please do not think that I don't care. I do. Every
time some amoral spoiled brat discovers that throwing a temper tantrum has not produced the results he wants,
the world becomes a saner place, and those who deserve to, can breathe a little more easily, so of course I
care. Their anguish adds to my delight, as I hope, in time, it will add to yours.
"Because we're helping the brat to grow into a better person, who can live a fuller life?", you ask.
Yes, I'm sure that's why.
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