Nothing Happens :: January 22nd, 2002 ::
Someone gave me a mission when I was visiting her in Seattle to return a tent to her friend in Chicago. I like this person in Chicago, so I gladly accepted. I finally made it down there this weekend. Herein lies my account of the weekend, which I am recalling completely from memory as I type this. No notes were taken, only a few photographs. But they hold little meaning outside of the moment and location where they were taken. So I apologize if I meander, for this is not an exercise in disciplined storytelling. It is more a senseless ramble in which nothing really happens.
So the story goes like this:
I have a small responsibility to fulfill down in Chicago. With a calendar that I find to be quite open these days, I decide to spend a few days down there, and stay with a friend of mine from college and his girlfriend. I will sleep on their couch.
The weather in Chicago is freezing, the apartment building is old, the heat inside is unregulated. On more than one occasion I awake in the night, sweating profusely. After tearing away covers and removing another layer of clothing, I stand under the ceiling fan in my underwear, fanning myself frantically. Having cooled down, I finally lie back down and fall back to sleep.
I awake in the morning before anyone else. It common when I visit friends and sleep on their couches for my neurosis begins to needle at my brain as I sleep, refusing to allow me that one last REM cycle of sleep. It is as if I must be prepared for something, but I have no idea what. So I’m awake, it is early, and I hear the respiration of the unconscious coming from the next room. I decide to read. I read in spite of my headache, in spite of how thirsty I am. I read for thirty pages until I decide to drown both my ailments with over-the-counter analgesics and three large glasses of water.
By the time I hear stirring of others coming awake, I am no longer thirsty, the last shadows of my headaches are being enveloped, however painfully, by the pain killer. My throat is dry, which is a side effect I can deal with.
I will drop off the tent, they will go to the store to buy groceries. I do not know what time I will be back, but I may be gone for a while. Is that OK with them? Yes, it is fine, they will see me when I get back. We are on the bus together, because we are headed in the same direction. The driver yells at us about standing behind the line, about how transfers cost an extra thirty cents.
I drop off the tent, we make plans for breakfast the next morning, since he is busy for the rest of the day. I leave, and I am on my own for a while. I go out walking. I stumble upon a conference of pigeons whose issue of focus is the remnants of oreoes someone has scattered over the sidewalk. They are emphatic about the cookies, they are brave in my presence.
After a night of sleep that resembled the first, I am up again, headed for breakfast. There is coffee. There are oranges. There is this potato thing with carmalized onions and broccoli and a small amount of cheese.
It is around now that I plan my return home. I go back to the apartment, collect my things, pack them haphazardly into my backpack. There are movies to be watched, more food to be eaten. There is a nap to be taken before I leave.
I do of course finally leave, but I feel it not worthwhile to talk of it here. I am warm in my car for the entire drive home, the sun sets to my left as I travel past the theme parks, the outlet malls, the nuclear power plant. I chase the other cars on the freeway, the dots of red that lead up and over the horizon. This is a road I’ve taken countless times, and no matter where I find myself living, it will always make me think of home.
