SUNDAY, MARCH 2, 2008
What could be Colder than a Winter in Chicago?
It was my first time away from the west coast and 1977 was one of Chicago’s coldest winters. We were staying in the master bedroom of an old, rundown house in Des Plaines, across from a psychiatric hospital owned by Lee’s business partner, a man with too much money, generally regarded as crazy. Lee was caught up in the romance of starting his own business venture and I was caught up in the romance of finally living with the man of my dreams who was finally asking his wife for a divorce.
Our days were full of planning and scheming, late nights in the City, and drinking. In the evenings we’d go out with Paul, a soft-spoken, young graphic artist with limited talent who worked at the hospital. Through Paul, Lee had a new group of young friends who admired him. Many were affiliated in some way with the hospital. I experienced for the first time the taste of strange and wonderful foods from Chicago’s Thai, Indian, Mexican and Greek communities. With the exception of running, everything we did was laced with beer, ouzo, wine, and cognac, all of which helped to sustain the unreal, exciting quality of life. I was twenty-seven and I was hungry for adventure.
I thought I loved Lee, but looking back I can see that more than being in love with him, I wanted to be him. I wanted his confidence, his swagger. I wanted to be gregarious like he was. I wanted to dress in style in the same way he wore the jaunty leather trench coat he’d purchased on Michigan Avenue. I was not like him of course, but I tried to be. I emulated him to a degree that is embarrassing to recall.
Women loved him. One night we had a knock down fight behind a Cuban restaurant where we’d been dining with Paul and his friends. I felt intensely jealous about one of the girls who’d been hanging on Lee all night and looking at him with doe-eyes. We left the restaurant, drunk on the before, during and after-dinner drinks, and I tearfully accused him of having an affair with this woman while I had still been in San Francisco. He denied it. He pushed me away, hard. In the snow and ice I lost my balance but grabbed hold of his coat as I went down, landing us both on the ground. Regaining our footing with help from Paul—I remember Paul attempting to make peace between us with his slow, slurred, “Ah come on you two. Don’t do this”—we took a couple of swings at each other before we were through, struggling to keep our feet beneath us. The below freezing temperatures precluded continuing the altercation for very long and I swallowed his protestations and lies. There seemed no other choice.
I’d been trying to quit smoking and become a “real” long-distance runner for several months. The change of venue and the apparent progress with Lee’s divorce seemed to be the catalyst for change for me. Before long, and in spite of the severe weather conditions, I had become comfortable with five to ten mile runs along the shores of Lake Michigan and through the forest preserves of the suburbs.
One Saturday in early March Lee and I went out for a run, the sky a grey skullcap overhead and the air cool and damp. There was no wind and the world seemed to have begun a slow thaw after the icy weeks of winter. We’d gone about two miles through a section of forest trail that wound along the edge of the murky Des Plaines River. We crossed a country highway to the next patch of forest. The sight of a man and dog in the otherwise empty field barely registered.
What I recall is the man’s sharp cry from behind us as we reached the far side of the highway and how everything from that moment on seemed to take place in slow motion, as though some giant god had placed its bulging index finger on the treadmill, creating drag, changing the pace of life. I’m not sure if I actually saw the car hit the dog, or if I just heard the sound of tires screeching, followed by the sickening thud of impact.
We stopped running then and turned to look back across the pavement into the grassy meadow. I remember the yellow fields and the bare, grey, stick-like trees lining the banks of the brown river. In my memory, the dog is yellow, like the fields, and rusty-red blood mats the curly hair around its neck and shoulders. The highway pavement is the same grey as the sky. The car, also pale yellow, has moved on and the dog’s owner stands shaken beside the injured animal, his green and black wool shirt the most intense color in the scene.
The dog whimpers. The dog owner whimpers, and then takes on a grim, tough-guy expression. We have crossed back over the highway to where dog and man are locked in time and space, unmoving. We murmur concern. Lee is polite. I am feeling sick to my stomach and my eyes are burning. I cannot think what to do next. The man waves away my offer to run home and call for help, indicating he will wait for a passing car to give him a ride or assist him with the dog. His voice has that telltale quiver in it.
And then—and this seems so odd to me now—we moved on, Lee leading the way, continuing our jog through the forest preserve, along the frozen dirt path that winds away from the road, back into the trees, following the stagnant river.
I started crying for the dog and the man who waited so helplessly on the side of the road at the edge of that silent preserve. I felt guilty for leaving them.
“Shouldn’t we go back?” I asked, meting out my words in the rhythm of our breathing and footfalls. Lee kept running.
“Lee, that dog saw us and wanted to run with us,” I raised my voice in an insistent tone. “That’s why he ran across the highway.”
“Rosie!” Lee shouted back authoritatively, using my name in the way he always did to command my attention. “That mother-fucking dog was out to get us!”
I stopped and sucked in the brown river air, his response a slap as cold as the Chicago winter. He continued running and so that I would not be left behind, I moved my feet again and trailed after him.
Forty-five minutes later, on our return along the same path, we encountered the two pitiful creatures again, man and dog, still waiting for help that had not come. I had nothing to say now. We ran on without stopping. I followed Lee, faithful and trusting as a dog, for another ten years.
Our days were full of planning and scheming, late nights in the City, and drinking. In the evenings we’d go out with Paul, a soft-spoken, young graphic artist with limited talent who worked at the hospital. Through Paul, Lee had a new group of young friends who admired him. Many were affiliated in some way with the hospital. I experienced for the first time the taste of strange and wonderful foods from Chicago’s Thai, Indian, Mexican and Greek communities. With the exception of running, everything we did was laced with beer, ouzo, wine, and cognac, all of which helped to sustain the unreal, exciting quality of life. I was twenty-seven and I was hungry for adventure.
I thought I loved Lee, but looking back I can see that more than being in love with him, I wanted to be him. I wanted his confidence, his swagger. I wanted to be gregarious like he was. I wanted to dress in style in the same way he wore the jaunty leather trench coat he’d purchased on Michigan Avenue. I was not like him of course, but I tried to be. I emulated him to a degree that is embarrassing to recall.
Women loved him. One night we had a knock down fight behind a Cuban restaurant where we’d been dining with Paul and his friends. I felt intensely jealous about one of the girls who’d been hanging on Lee all night and looking at him with doe-eyes. We left the restaurant, drunk on the before, during and after-dinner drinks, and I tearfully accused him of having an affair with this woman while I had still been in San Francisco. He denied it. He pushed me away, hard. In the snow and ice I lost my balance but grabbed hold of his coat as I went down, landing us both on the ground. Regaining our footing with help from Paul—I remember Paul attempting to make peace between us with his slow, slurred, “Ah come on you two. Don’t do this”—we took a couple of swings at each other before we were through, struggling to keep our feet beneath us. The below freezing temperatures precluded continuing the altercation for very long and I swallowed his protestations and lies. There seemed no other choice.
I’d been trying to quit smoking and become a “real” long-distance runner for several months. The change of venue and the apparent progress with Lee’s divorce seemed to be the catalyst for change for me. Before long, and in spite of the severe weather conditions, I had become comfortable with five to ten mile runs along the shores of Lake Michigan and through the forest preserves of the suburbs.
One Saturday in early March Lee and I went out for a run, the sky a grey skullcap overhead and the air cool and damp. There was no wind and the world seemed to have begun a slow thaw after the icy weeks of winter. We’d gone about two miles through a section of forest trail that wound along the edge of the murky Des Plaines River. We crossed a country highway to the next patch of forest. The sight of a man and dog in the otherwise empty field barely registered.
What I recall is the man’s sharp cry from behind us as we reached the far side of the highway and how everything from that moment on seemed to take place in slow motion, as though some giant god had placed its bulging index finger on the treadmill, creating drag, changing the pace of life. I’m not sure if I actually saw the car hit the dog, or if I just heard the sound of tires screeching, followed by the sickening thud of impact.
We stopped running then and turned to look back across the pavement into the grassy meadow. I remember the yellow fields and the bare, grey, stick-like trees lining the banks of the brown river. In my memory, the dog is yellow, like the fields, and rusty-red blood mats the curly hair around its neck and shoulders. The highway pavement is the same grey as the sky. The car, also pale yellow, has moved on and the dog’s owner stands shaken beside the injured animal, his green and black wool shirt the most intense color in the scene.
The dog whimpers. The dog owner whimpers, and then takes on a grim, tough-guy expression. We have crossed back over the highway to where dog and man are locked in time and space, unmoving. We murmur concern. Lee is polite. I am feeling sick to my stomach and my eyes are burning. I cannot think what to do next. The man waves away my offer to run home and call for help, indicating he will wait for a passing car to give him a ride or assist him with the dog. His voice has that telltale quiver in it.
And then—and this seems so odd to me now—we moved on, Lee leading the way, continuing our jog through the forest preserve, along the frozen dirt path that winds away from the road, back into the trees, following the stagnant river.
I started crying for the dog and the man who waited so helplessly on the side of the road at the edge of that silent preserve. I felt guilty for leaving them.
“Shouldn’t we go back?” I asked, meting out my words in the rhythm of our breathing and footfalls. Lee kept running.
“Lee, that dog saw us and wanted to run with us,” I raised my voice in an insistent tone. “That’s why he ran across the highway.”
“Rosie!” Lee shouted back authoritatively, using my name in the way he always did to command my attention. “That mother-fucking dog was out to get us!”
I stopped and sucked in the brown river air, his response a slap as cold as the Chicago winter. He continued running and so that I would not be left behind, I moved my feet again and trailed after him.
Forty-five minutes later, on our return along the same path, we encountered the two pitiful creatures again, man and dog, still waiting for help that had not come. I had nothing to say now. We ran on without stopping. I followed Lee, faithful and trusting as a dog, for another ten years.
No comments:
Post a Comment