“Wait, what are you guys talking about?” I ask.
Simone explains, “The installation—called SegaGenocide—was a commentary on the death of old technology and our quick-to-dispose society. Dad filled Wembley Arena with antique boxcars, and each was stuffed to the brim with obsolete machinery. One car contained Betamax machines, another Walkman cassette players, there were brick-sized calculators, Atari games, floppy disks, typewriters, etc. The whole thing stretched from one side of the stadium to the other. If seeing the exhibit, even in a news broadcast, made Stephen uncomfortable, then Dad will be chuffed. He believes art should always be evocative.”
I say, “Your dad’s a weird guy and I mean that in the best possible sense,” but Simone’s not paying attention to me. Instead, she’s totally focused on Stephen.
See?
Even she’s getting attuned to monitoring and managing his emotional well-being.
She says, “I’m sorry, Stephen. Please accept my apology for any perceived slight. You clearly have very strong feelings for your Bean and I respect that. I would never question the artist’s vision, just wanted to know if there was some feature I wasn’t to miss.”
Mollified, he says, “The Bean looks like it’s made from liquid mercury and you can walk under it. Reflects the whole skyline and it’s just badass.”
She replies, “Well, I can’t wait to see it. I’ll make it first on my list.”
We stop and check both ways before we walk over the railroad tracks. Simone says she’s still getting the hang of which way to look before crossing anything here because they drive on the opposite side in the UK. I tell her there are plenty of lights and a protective barrier that comes down when the commuter rail is about to pass, but that you can’t be too careful. She’s aware pedestrians have been hit by the train before, but I didn’t elaborate that these were deliberate choices. She wasn’t here at the beginning of the summer so she wouldn’t know the details about Paul or Macey, and I doubt anyone’s been anxious to tell her. She probably assumes any casualty’s an accident.
If only, right?
“You realize this train right here will take you downtown in thirty minutes. No fuss. No muss. Five bucks. That’s the price of a coffee. You can walk to the station from your house,” Stephen says. “You don’t even need to drive and park. The train’ll bring you into Ogilvy station and from there, you can either hoof it or cab it to anywhere downtown. Or, when the weather’s nice, you can ride the water taxi to Navy Pier on the same route as the big-buck architectural tours.”
“Is Chicago paying you a commission or something?” I ask, giving Stephen a friendly shove.
He shoves me back, harder than I pushed him, and I stumble while balancing myself.
(Mental note: seriously, self, double-down on the pushups.)
Stephen tells us, “I’m just sayin’, we barely ever get to go into Chicago, what with everything we have going on, so it would be nice if someone took advantage of it.”
“He’s obsessed with the city. That’s because of one time we were down staying with his older sister, Caitlyn,” I explain. “She’s doing her med school residency at Northwestern Hospital and she and her fiancé, Greg, live in a high-rise. Greg has a boss telescope, real high line. So it’s late and they’re already asleep and we decide to use the telescope, but it’s too bright and we can’t see any constellations. We start looking around instead. We spot this beautiful girl in the building across from us. Seriously, she’s a total smokeshow. She’s eating a turkey leg in her apartment...and then we notice she’s completely naked from the waist down. Boom, commando! Just maxin’ and relaxin’ and chewing on her turkey leg, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do sans pants.”
“That was the greatest day of my life,” Stephen confirms with an enthusiastic nod. Poor Stephen. His mom net-nannies his internet usage so closely that he’s the only kid in twenty years to comb the library for old issues of National Geographic in order to see a single nip.
“I pinky-swear promise you I will hit the city very soon. Maybe Saturday. No more excuses,” she says, while linking one pinky to the other for good measure. “My goal is not to peep at the naked, though.”
“Go to the Museum of Science and Industry first,” Stephen says.
“Thought I had to see the Bean first.”
“Go there second. The Bean won’t take that long,” he replies.
“Any chance you guys can tag along?”
“Pfft, I wish. Can’t. We have a tournament this weekend,” I say. “Gots to get our physics on, son.”
Stephen digs into his backpack and pulls out his iPhone, which is wrapped in a case that makes it look like an old cassette. He’s so excited, he’s practically dancing around us. “I have a surprise for the team. I made the best, most turnt-up playlist for the bus.”
The prospect of the interview has him particularly chipper. Elated, even. I like his energy, but I’m wary. He’s super mercurial and his temperament changes on a dime. When we studied bipolar disorder in Behavioral Psych last year, I asked Stephen as gently as I could if any of the symptoms seemed...familiar. I mentioned the time he was up for three straight days working on our robot’s reticulating arm, and then how he crashed afterward, thrown into a funk that lasted for weeks. He admitted to having his own concerns and promised to talk to his mom about it. I doubt he did, though, because nothing’s changed and the mood swings continue. As vigilant as his mom is, she’d have been on it.
When Stephen’s down, he speaks in monotone and won’t make eye contact, but today his words are animated and full of life. Is it wrong that I think this is the guy who’s my best friend, this dude is awesome?
He tells us, “The playlist is all dis tracks. We’re gonna start off super thug with Eazy-E’s ‘Real Muthaphukkin G’s,’ then we’re gonna pull it back, just a little, with Dr. Dre featuring Snoop and ‘Fuck Wit Dre Day.’ Then we have Jay Z, Mobb Deep, we’ll go sorta new school with Eminem, then back to old-school with Nas, Makaveli, Boogie Down Productions—”
“You should add Nicki Minaj’s ‘Roman’s Revenge,’” Simone suggests. “Cordy and I are mad for that song. We used to sing it together all the time. Our favorite part was the chorus. Suspect we sounded like two damp cats in a sack, but we still belted it out full tilt.”
Stephen pulls a face like she’s just cut the world’s most pungent fart.
Now it’s Simone’s turn to stop in her tracks. “Whoa, why are you looking at me like that, Cho? This a no-girls-allowed list, then? I mean, Eminem’s on the track!”
Stephen smirks. “I’d like to keep walking to school with you, so Imma pretend I didn’t just hear you ask that ratchet question.”
She raps a couple of lines from the song. “See? What’s not to love?” Stephen responds by crossing his arms and staring off into the distance; she’s genuinely flummoxed.