1. Ken, call Salliemae!
But anywho, lets talk work. I have to be at work when the city shuts down. When ALL the buildings are emptied…and Chicago’s skyline is nothing but sheet metal, steel work, and glass—everyone’s rushing to get home. I swear it happens all at once. And they just flood the street, these people—briefcase to brown suit. The taxis are honking, pedestrians are throwing themselves against the light, busSesS are backed up for miles and these people are just steady coming—falling from the sky, inching their little way outta of the city whereas I’m fighting to get in. Let me by… please! I stepped on this one woman the other day. In my defense I didn’t see her!**ken winks*** What I think happened, in her struggle to maneuver through the crowd, I’m steady pacing, oblivious to anything 4ft and below and she’s strolling along side me pushing through the people. I pay her no mind because I'm steady pacing, she’s steady pushing; I pace, she pushes, I pace, she pushes, I pace, she pushes pushes pushes. She gets tired of having to work so hard, barely getting anywhere. She suddenly figures (I saw the light go off) it’s more strategic for her to jump in front of Mister Tall & Oblivious, me, assuming I’ll just stop and graciously let her in. I ain’t no Volvo!—I ain’t lettin’ you in not a DAMN thang! So she cuts in front of me and got stomped! MercilesSly. I wasn’t stopping! Risk my life, for her!?!—Get off the busS, Rosa. You must be crazy.
Killed her almost instantly, it did. I scraped the bottom of my shoe and scratched her off my conscience. There’s just too many people! Had I stopped in mid-street with a traveling herd of businesSmen behind me, I would’ve been killed! But that’s the risk you take, it seems, being downtown during rush hour. Toodalo.
To make it to work by 5, I leave the house about 3ish, allowing myself ample enough time for any sort of setback… i.e. CTA running behind schedule or having to whoop the asS of one of those filthy-mouthed, heathen Chicago Public School System children. They’re like litter, little jacked-up balls of paper dispensed on the side of the road…every friggin’ where, at the same time, on the same streets, flocking from one corner to the next! Utter madness! Why do brown children do this?—fight and curse and sag their jeans, demean, and disrespect?—and these girls? are light-years worse! Why? There’s an etiquette to being brown, damnit! Someone needs to teach these children before the next generation becomes a culture of halfwits and imbeciles. And the way these kids breed, the next generation is soon to follow.
2. Teach the children. STAT!
Meanwhile, back at the ranch! Where was I?
O’. Right. Work! So here I am, downtown, fisting my way in. The crowd’s buzzin’; I’m puzzled to where all these people are coming from, unconcerned to where they’re going as long as they get outta my way, and I stop to pasS this blind lady—old as the Koran. Since it was warm yesterday (Correction: warmer than its been), I assume her caretaker (or whomever) felt it viable to stick blind asS grandma in tank top and Speedos and splash her with a fat-asS bucket of rouge; The reasons why they should be fired: Next on Oprah, is an entirely different blog topic BUT not only was grandma blind beyond belief, underdressed, traveling a feverishly crowded street with only the aid of her “seeing-eye-cane” (I also own a separate set of reservations about blind people using sharp pointy sticks in order to see. What can you see with a stick?) and in danger; to add insult to injury Becky (the loser caretaker/bitter grandaughter) sent gramps wandering downtown with her kid sister, Dot. Sabotage!
I thought to myself: Self, they’re not gonna make it, are they? Somebody obviously sent them out here to die (i.e. Becky). I could see the headlines now: Slain on the Streets of Chicago: Tiny Tyke & Grandma. Casualty of War! The Perfect Murder…**ken sighs***Poor Dot. She was so little, looked like she just learned how to use them little legs. I kept wondering what evils could a blind old woman and toddler muster to deserve such treatment. None. I could think of nothing. Damn that Becky!—whoever you are. It felt like the appropriate opportunity to demonstrate a little civic duty, intervene with much needed intervention —bust out my mortal garbs and save ‘em... both, Grandma and baby. Suuuper Ken!
...But to save them meant to stop. And to stop meant being trampled by all those hurrying people rushing to get nowhere. I, too, was running late for another adventure at work. I wonder is this what they meant by Chicagoans being
3. Find Grandma and Dot.
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