Amy and I laughed, not about the fire hazard but about someone eating nothing but baked potatoes.
Jerry took it seriously, though. The only time he laughed was when talking about a murder that had recently taken place in the neighborhood. “So it turned out that whoever it was, ha-ha, stuffed the body, ha-ha, into a Dumpster.”
He gave us a tour. The kitchen table had what looked like molasses spilled on it. In the living room was a suit of armor and a great many books about Vietnam. He has a statue of Buddha and a baseball cap with THE GENERAL written on it. The T-shirt he was wearing read THE FIGHTING SAMOANS.
One thing we noticed was that Jerry was remarkably calm. He spoke very slowly and usually with his eyes on the TV. There were overflowing ashtrays everywhere. Jerry told us that he works with computers and is very successful, so successful he’s looking for a roommate to pay half of his $250 per month rent.
We told him we were going to see a few more places but would keep him in mind.
On our way home Amy told me about a girl in her Second City class named Sue, which she spells S-I-O-U-X. Amy was laughing about it at work with a cocktail waitress named Kim, until she discovered the girl had changed the spelling to K-H-Y-M-E.
“Well, sure,” Amy said, cornered. “Khyme makes sense, but Sioux?”
July 7, 1986
Chicago
Amy and I were downtown, and when it started to pour we ran beneath the awning of an art-supply shop. A woman the age of a grandmother trotted up shortly after we did. She was small, and as she bent to tie her sneakers, we noticed how tiny her feet were.
“What’s your shoe size?” Amy asked.
“I’m a one and a half,” the woman said. She wasn’t bothered by the question but seemed pleased that we had noticed. “I was a war baby,” she said. “There were shortages all around.” She winked. “That’s what I always tell folks. I have to buy all my shoes in the children’s department.”
We watched as she tied a plastic bonnet over her hair and headed out into the rain.
July 10, 1986
Chicago
This evening I saw a Doberman pinscher with its mouth taped shut. It was a makeshift muzzle, and I bet it really hurts when it gets ripped off. An hour later, Mom called to tell me that Melina, her and Dad’s Great Dane, had been stung by bees and taken to an emergency vet. If anything were to happen to that dog, I don’t know what my parents would do.
July 18, 1986
Chicago
I saw a bird swoop down this morning and pick up a wad of chewing gum. Later, on the corner of Magnolia and Leland, I saw a drug deal taking place. The seller looked me in the eye as I passed. Later still, I saw a man rifle through a woman’s purse on Kenmore. He looked me in the eye as well.
It’s Friday, and horribly hot, so after cashing my paycheck I went to McDonald’s and bought an orange soda, which cost 70 cents. Sitting down, I noticed a woman from my bank approaching the counter. Alice Devlin, her name is, and I learned a long time ago to never stand in her line, as she always gives me grief. At McDonald’s she ordered a sundae. When it was handed to her, she carefully wiped her plastic spoon with a napkin. She went over it time and time again, as if she’d picked it up off the street. Only when she was satisfied did she hand over her money and accept her change.
July 20, 1986
Chicago
I went to breakfast on the corner of Leland and Broadway, and my waitress had her initials tattooed on her wrist. When my food came, a couple approached and stood on the other side of the window. The man pointed to himself. Then he pointed to the woman beside him and put his hands into a prayer position, begging for my toast and eggs.
September 6, 1986
Chicago
While working I listened to a radio program called Good Health, broadcast live from the Plutonia Health and Fasting Center and hosted by a woman named Eileen Fulton, who answers questions and makes comments regarding the way people feel. It is Dr. Fulton’s opinion that her listeners need to clean the “toxivity” out of their systems. She says, “You take a bath once a week, right? You take your clothes to the Laundromat when they get dirty, so it only makes sense for you to clean out your insides!”
A pregnant woman called to say she gets constipated. Dr. Fulton set up an appointment immediately, saying that backed-up poisons can ruin an unborn baby. “You need to evacuate and eliminate,” she said.
An obese woman called to say that her heels hurt—they throb. Dr. Fulton said, “I know you. I bet you get out of bed at night and go down for a snack from the refrigerator. Am I right?”
The woman confessed, adding that sometimes, when there are no sweets in the house, she’ll fix herself a glass of sugar water.
Dr. Fulton calls this suicide. She set up an appointment for Monday at seven forty-five and said she’ll cure the sweet tooth with Dr. Fulton’s Meal in a Glass.
The Plutonia Health and Fasting Center broadcasts on Saturday mornings.
September 7, 1986
Chicago
Today I listened to Daddy-O. Sometimes he calls his show The Sunday Jazz Clambake, but today it was Daddy-O on the Patio. He has little nicknames he’s given the musicians: Sassy, of course, for Sarah Vaughan. Today after playing “A Cottage for Sale,” he said, “Mr. B. is doing fine.
“Who? Why, Billy Eckstine!”
Daddy-O calls the radio station “Dad’s pad.” I imagine it looks like a den and has in it many pictures of him shaking hands with famous jazz musicians. I’d love to have a den one day. That’s why I don’t want to live in a loft—it’s one big room. I suppose you could carve a “den space” out of it, but it’s not the same thing.
September 12, 1986
Chicago
Again today I worked for Walt, refinishing the woodwork and painting in his basement. He listens to an oldies station and complains that it plays too much Motown. “Even back when they weren’t oldies, it seems like they played too much Motown,” he said. Walt sings along to all the songs. Today, when the game came on, he switched stations and listened as the Bears went against someone or other. I know nothing about football, so he explained certain things—why, for instance, a certain player shouldn’t get paid this week and the definition of sudden-death overtime.
Walt is remarried and has a one-year-old daughter. His wife came down in a pink dress, carrying the sweet-looking child in a matching outfit. Walt calls his wife “baby.” He told her, “If they ask why we didn’t go to the church picnic, tell them it’s because we didn’t go. Jeez, baby, who would schedule a picnic during a Bears game? Nobody will be there and we need to get this framing done or else we’ll be living on one floor for the rest of our lives.”
On my way home, riding my bike down Buena Vista, I saw two raccoons on the sidewalk. I’ve never in my life seen one. I stopped my bike to get a closer look and watched as they climbed up a tree. You could have knocked me over with a feather, seeing raccoons like that.
September 16, 1986
Chicago