First, before I get into tonight’s story, I’d like to share something that I’ve been working on this past week and hope to continue for the foreseeable future. This Airtable database. If that link doesn’t work, someone please inform me. If it does, yay! I’ve been trying to be more intentional and conscious of the things I “consume” media-wise these days and I came across someone else’s Airtable database recently and was inspired to make my own, with some modifications of course.
It’s been interesting to track certain things. The fact that I added the producer column to albums I’ve listened too, for instance, has made me look up that information more often than not and that typically leads me down a rabbit hole on Wikipedia, which I enjoy. Obviously, this database isn’t all the things I consume on a daily basis. I don’t log, for example, every single song I listen to. I wanted to but there wasn’t an easy automation to do that from Apple Music to Airtable or Youtube to Airtable. Lord knows I ain’t gonna log ‘em all one by one.
Anyway, I share this with you all just for the sake of, well, sharing. It’s a fun little project to work on and update and I encourage you to do something similar. It’s nice to look back and also be more intentional about what I do, even if I’ve only been doing it for a week.
Now for something different.
The following is a true story and I used to think about it often. As the years have gone by, I think about it less and less to the point of nearly forgetting it. But the night it happened to me, I wrote it all down so that I could remember one day. I suppose that day is today and the audience is you, here, now.
This must have happened sometime in 2013 or 2014 as the word document that I migrated from an old computer shows to be that old. That’s a funny thought, the age of digital documents. Sometime in the near future if not already, we’ll have anthropologists going through servers and computers for research. I digress…
I used to be a member of the Midtown Athletic Club here in Chicago. Originally tennis focused, it’s since branched out and grown quite a bit to include swimming and all other sorts of athletic fare. The cost was expensive for me at the time, $100 a month, and I did not take advantage of all the amenities as often as I should have. Still, the night in question for this story, I did go and played a few sets of tennis with my good friend Dan. He’s since moved to the Milwaukee area and has a budding family. I miss hanging with him. Anyway, after we were done playing, we departed from the club and I decided to take in the fresh evening air and walk home. Around this time I was, I believe, living on Orchard Street still in Chicago’s Lincoln Park and the walk was not insignificant. This was the route I was taking, albeit with a detour as you shall soon find out.
Now, as I’m full of good and healthy decisions, I decided to stop by the Insomnia Cookies in Lincoln Park on my way back to my apartment. This required going down Lincoln Avenue close to Oz Park, a bit further south than where I lived but I was in a good mood and walking does the soul good, especially when cookies are at the end of the rainbow. Whilst I was still on Fullerton west of the river, I walked past a man who was walking briskly and with purpose. I didn’t think much of him but noted his denim jacket and blue and white striped shirt, like a sailor’s. He was black and on the shorter end of five feet but built like a fullback. We made brief eye contact but continued on our ways in opposite directions. Ships in the night.
After I secured the bag of cookies, I walked to a nearby Starbucks that was closed but had outside seating that wasn’t all chained up. It was getting late but I sat there alone, eating my cookies, thinking about my life. I had a lot to ponder on back then. I was working in corporate IT for a massive company headquartered in downtown Chicago. For the sake of the story, let’s call that company Aon. Now, Aon fucking blew. I hated working there and struggled mightily during my two year stint there. I was tying a lot of self-worth into my performance at work then, which is a recipe for disaster, and felt aimless professionally and thus personally.
Sitting in the dark night with my chocolate chips and bottle of milk, it was almost quite surreal. I’m an odd bird, I guess. Time stood still for a period and I glanced around trying to distract myself from myself by reading the discarded Red Eye paper that was left on the ground. A shooting had occurred in a naval yard somewhere was the news of the day. Only in America…
Nearing 11pm, I decided it was about time to go when something out of the ordinary happened. The man in the denim jacket and striped shirt appeared once again, walking past still on some mission that I was soon about to learn of. Now, I realize that telling this now, the second encounter could seem worrisome. Was this person following me? What, exactly, was going on? I can tell you for certain that in the moment, I did not even begin to ponder I was unsafe in any manner. The man had a gentleness to him that I could sense even from just a glance.
He stopped and said, “Hello.” I smiled and nodded and returned the greeting. He asked me if I knew what time it was, which I did. He didn’t really seem like he was looking for the time, truth be told. Turns out it was just a ploy to start up a conversation. He stepped closer to me, I still being seated in the Starbucks chair. He continued, “You know, I’ve been walking up and down this area all night and you’re only the second person to say hello to me. Thank you, you’re a good person.” I was taken aback by this as anyone would be.
I offered my thanks to him for such a compliment and off he went, telling me his life story. Few are gifted with the gab but he certainly was. First, he told me he was a preacher. This didn’t necessarily come as a surprise to me. He followed that fact up with something a bit darker. He’d just gotten out of prison. He’d been away for ten years on drug charges, dealing. I sat still, taking it all in calmly yet warily.
He continued, telling me about his time in prison and his coming to Jesus. He used the phrase, “keep it 100,” which if we’re keeping track was not colloquial at that time. Now there’s a goddamn emoji for it. He told me that in prison, the men would tell each other to keep it 100. Keep it on the level and stay good. Don’t fuck up and make another mistake in the joint so that you can get out as soon as possible. I followed along and said I understood.
He continued. He was in a bad spot since getting out of prison. See, he’d found a job through a program for ex-cons. I believe he said it was at the now defunct Dominick’s grocery store. This is all well and good except for one hitch. His job was supposed to pay him his day’s wage of $18.50 that day. They did not. He was flat broke. Truly and honestly not a dime to his person and he had to get from where we were in Lincoln Park, the north side of Chicago, to Hegewisch. If you’re unfamiliar with that neighborhood of the windy city, this is where it is:
You can’t go further south. Hell, you probably couldn’t be further away from Lincoln Park if you tried while stying in the city proper.
After hearing this, I knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted some money. Now, at the time I was not saving all that much. Still, I had a checking account with more than a few hundred in it and, well, I’m must be a sucker because I told him I’d help him out. He was profusely thankful and introduced himself. I cannot for the life of me remember his first name but I think his last name was Bibs. I told him my name and off we walked to an ATM nearby as I had no cash on me.
I know what you’re thinking. Rob. Jesus Christ. You’re going to an ATM with a stranger who just told you he got out of prison around midnight?! Yup. You bet your fucking ass I did. As we approached the ATM in question, which was just off Fullerton on Lincoln, he told me he’d stand a few yards away just so I felt comfortable. Sometimes, you just need to trust in the good of people. I punched in my pin and took out $40. My thought was, well, he can’t even afford bus fare at the moment so he must be hungry too. I am not Jesus but I’m also not an asshole.
I handed him the money and he was over the moon. He asked me excitedly where the nearest L stop was and I told him it was the Red and Brown and Purple line at Fullerton. I told him I’d walk with him part of the way there and point him in the right direction. We walked and the sky was clear, a handful of stars twinkling through the light pollution of Chi. I started to tell him about my life. My struggles of the time. My dissatisfaction with my work and how that bled into the rest of my life. He told me that God was looking out for me and that I would one day find my calling. I’m not sure I believed it then nor do I think I do now but, hell, I gotta say it felt nice to hear.
As we approached Lincoln and Fullerton, I offered my luck to him and he thanked me once again for the generosity. I can’t remember if we did but I’d like to think we shook hands before going our separate ways. I haven’t seen him since.
Thanks as always for reading. It means a ton.
Best,
Rob
P.S. When in doubt, give.