111503I waited impatiently for the elevator, twirling the plastic key card in my hands. The down arrow lit up as the door slid open, exposing the old interior of the elevator. I noticed the doors opened before the car came to a complete stop, my eyes catching the still sliding floor. I hesitated slightly before getting in, but realized it would be better than walking down 5 flights of stairs in my tired state. I got in and stared at the number 5 painted on the wall in a filmstrip border frame. It slowly faded from sight as the elevator doors closed. They reopened to a large crowd in the lobby. Everyone turned to look at me, as if expecting Molly Sims to step forth from the rickety old elevator. When they saw it was nobody, they went back to their conversations without missing a beat. As I walked towards the doors, I glanced at the table of food and informational brochures. A CCC banner served as a make-shift table skirt and a form of advertising all in one. I turned my eyes away and focused on the ever-approaching doors. Pushing it hard, I was finally outside. A chilly breeze whisked past my neck and I fumbled for my zipper through my bulky cable knit mittens. I zipped my coat up as far as it would go, shoved my hands in my pockets, and turned towards the direction of our hotel. I began walking at a brisk pace, hoping to clear my thoughts and lighten my mood. A morning of improvisational jazz (which, to me, sounded like a third grader�s rendition of Stomp!), a bus tour, and a meeting on cinematography was too much for me to handle. Especially when I was on vacation. I looked all around and saw nothing but dingy buildings and dingy sky. I grabbed my cell phone and called Liz. Hearing her voice made me instantly feel better. �So, what is there to do here?� I asked. We talked for a few minutes until I lost my bitterness, then I hung up; still walking, still hungry, still traveling aimlessly down the unknown street. A train noisily passed above me and I glanced up, looking like a tourist as I stared in awe of the ramshackle public transportation. As my eyes came down, they caught a humorous sign: Potbelly. I couldn�t tell what they served, but I knew it was food, so I crossed the street to investigate. I stood just within the doors scanning the menu, so I could make a quick escape if nothing caught my eye. The last item made my mouth water instantly: PB&J. I eat the sandwich almost every day, but I�d never had a sub shop�s version of the old classic. Besides, I�d won $10 off my mom the night before, so I might as well spend it. I waited patiently in line, my stomach growling loud enough to wake the dead. When it was finally my turn, I said to the man behind the counter, �One peanut butter and jelly sandwich, please.� He smiled and did something with his hands. He looked beyond me to the next customer, so I assumed he was done and moved down the line. The next man I came to asked what I wanted. Confused, I repeated, �One peanut butter and jelly sandwich, please.� He chuckled and turned around to grab my condiments from the refrigerator on the back wall. �You said extra hot peppers, right?� My eyes shifted uneasily as I emitted a nervous giggle. �No thanks, just the peanut butter and jelly.� He laughed as he spread a thick layer of peanut butter on the bottom of the toasted bread. �I�ve tried that 20 times and no one�s gone for it. I was hoping I could trick you.� I looked up in time to catch him looking at me. He winked before returning to his work. I looked down at my Doc Martens and did a half-smile, a la Katie Holmes. �Here or to go?� he asked. �Here,� I replied and was handed a basket. �Welcome to Chicago,� he said. 110703It was what I�d normally expect from a Wal-Mart. As soon as I stepped out of the car, a heard a baby crying. A worker picking up carts in the parking lot wore a bright orange facemask, glaring at me through the small eyeholes. A couple of kids darted in and out of oncoming traffic, waving a shopping bag high above their heads and letting the contents spill out onto the street. I shuddered and hoped the trip would be as fast as possible. I walked through the double set of doors and was met with odd glances. They could tell I didn�t belong there. I immediately feared for my life, stepping closer to Jake, hoping he�d protect me from these bargain-hunting crazies. We were there to check out cell phones and, fortunately, the T-Mobile stand was near the front of the store. I peered through the glass case at the small selection of cell phones � 4, to be exact. I was too afraid to touch the glass, fearing it had been sneezed upon, maybe even licked, a number of times, so I stood at a distance. A man, possibly a greeter, stood near the carts, wiping the handle of each one before giving it to the next customer that walked through the doors. One woman didn�t like that very much and wiped the handle with her own coat while giving the greeter a dirty look. Another customer took the cart and proceeded to cough up his last remaining lung all over the handle, not to mention the carpet and the Halloween candy on sale. I closed my eyes, hoping it would make me invisible and the germs would pass right through me. As it approached 9 o�clock, it reached closing time for the tiny T-Mobile kiosk and Jake wrapped up the conversation. I thanked the Lord, Allah, and Alfred E. Neuman we didn�t have to walk through the store. I didn�t want to know what scariness lurked behind each always-low-priced clothing rack. I caught a glimpse of the registers before we headed outside. To sum it up in one phrase, I�d say it was a hick parade. Once the automatic doors closed behind us and I was seated in Jake�s Jeep, I knew I was safe. Next time, I�d remember my clove of garlic and large wooden stake. But hopefully, there will be no next time. 110303I turned to my left and looked out my two giant office windows. It was snowing. It had been lightly coming down on my 3-block walk from the bus stop to the office building this morning, but now, it was everywhere. I walked over to a window and looked down. From my view on the 4th floor, First Avenue transformed into a movie set. Snowflakes brushed past the sign for Harvey�s. Cars slowly passed one another on the one-way street. A man got out of his car and shoved his hands in his pockets before briskly heading down the sidewalk. A biker wove in and out of the lanes, trying her best not to hit any puddles. And there I was, standing at a window on the 4th floor, wishing I could be outside, lifting my face to the sky, and feeling the cold, wet sensation I�ve been deprived of since March. Across the street, the rooftops of the neighboring buildings were white, a nice departure from their usual dingy gray. A small group of pigeons trapped in a wire enclosure huddled together. I figured the snow would have stopped by now, quickly melting as fast as it came down from the sky. But it wasn�t. �It�s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,� played in my head. I looked out the window again and squealed with delight as movie snow fell before my eyes. Not small, icy pellets that abuse your face, but big, fluffy chunks large enough to distinguish patterns in when they land on your coat. I wondered if I could do nothing but stare out the window for my remaining two hours and get away with it. Then I remembered my editor works from home, I have one open door that allows a view into my office, and I work for free. I would walk out of here and into the winter wonderland right now and no one could do a damn thing. Looming deadlines and Jacque�s approval kept me glued in my seat. Duty calls. The snow will have to wait until later.
|