Patrick Fahey


International Union Stockyards, Chicago, Illinois

I met Patrick Fahey when I attended Tilden Technical High School in the Back of the Yards. We were incredibly good friends, but only when we were in school. I’m not even sure when and where I met him. He just somehow materialized at school, and we often sat together in cafeteria or the library. Sometimes when I walked home from school, I would walk over to his apartment because he only lived two blocks from the school.

His apartment didn’t have very much furniture, and no one was ever home. Patrick was Irish with brown hair and freckles. He was tall and thin. His face wasn’t exactly symmetrical, and it reminded me of Pablo Picasso’s portrait of Gertrude Stein. I often found myself staring at the dimensions of his face, but he never said anything. Perhaps he never noticed since he always was off in his own little world. He didn’t have a girlfriend that I knew of, other than his imaginary ones. Sometimes he would show me a model in a magazine ad and say, “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.” But I couldn’t even picture him approaching any girl even to say hello to one since he was so painfully shy. I didn’t think he would ever attract a beautiful girl like the models in the magazines, or any girl at all for that matter, because of his extreme shyness.

But, one day, as I was putting my books in my locker between classes, I closed my locker door and I suddenly saw a girl standing there, smiling nervously. We were both speechless for a moment. She looked Irish to me. She was pretty in a plain sort of way and pleasantly plump. I finally said hi. She said hi, but then the bell rang, and we went our separate ways. The whole incident was overwhelming. I couldn’t fathom why this girl would be standing by my locker.

I forgot all about her until the next day when I saw her by my locker again. “Do you know Patrick Fahey?” she asked. “Yes,” I responded feebly. “Do you talk to him a lot?” “Yes.” Then, the bell rang, and we went to our respective classes. I told Patrick about the incident, but he didn’t even acknowledge what I had told him. That was quite normal for us because we didn’t always talk to each other. We often just sat there in the library, just reading. We were like Pedro and Napoleon in the movie Napoleon Dynamite, only I didn’t have a mustache then. Now that I think of it, we spent a lot of time together, but we hardly ever talked, even when we walked to his house together.

A few weeks later, the girl was at my locker again. This time she talked and talked so much that I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Her name was Maureen, and she was in a history class with Patrick. She said she really, really liked Patrick, but he would never talk to her. So, she approached me to help her. I said I would talk to Patrick. When I saw him, I asked him if he knew Maureen. He did. But he wasn’t interested in her. End of conversation for the day.

I would see Maureen by my locker regularly and she would ask me for progress updates. What I gave her was more like lack-of-progress updates. Patrick just wasn’t interested in her, not even as a friend. I eventually broke the news to her gently, but she was in denial and only tried harder. Finally, it was the end of the school year, and it was time for the spring dance. Maureen came to my locker and asked me if I was going to the dance. Then, she asked if I knew if Patrick already had a date for the dance. I knew he didn’t because we both confessed that we weren’t going. Maureen then told me to ask Patrick to take her to the dance. She stood there by my locker, the epitome of woeful lovesick misery, so I agreed to talk to Patrick about her. Patrick immediately said no. When I saw Maureen again, I told her his response. She cried and said, “But I love him!” She begged me to talk to him again. To ask him to please take her to the spring dance. I felt uncomfortable because she had her arms around my neck and everyone in the hall was staring at us.

I told Patrick everything that had transpired between Maureen and me, but he was unmoved. He said he wouldn’t go to the dance with Maureen. He just wouldn’t. Just because. For me that wasn’t a good reason. Somehow, I had to help Maureen. And by helping Maureen, I was also helping Patrick. “Just take Maureen to the dance!” I finally said. “I can’t.” “Why not?” “Because she’s fat!” “That’s not true!” Suddenly, I had to defend Maureen since I had gotten to know her a little better with all the time she spent talking to me by my locker.

Besides, to a Mexican, she wasn’t considered even remotely fat. “She just wants you to take her to the dance,” I said. “She’s not asking you to marry her.” Well, this sad tale eventually had a happy ending. Maureen, with all of her perpetual persistence–with a lot of help from me–, eventually went to the spring dance with Patrick. Afterwards, he wouldn’t talk about the dance or Maureen. In fact, Patrick acted as if the spring dance had never occurred, as if it were some sort of void in his life. But I knew they were happy together because Maureen would constantly update me on their relationship on her regular visits to me by my locker. I don’t know whatever happened to Patrick and Maureen because I transferred to Gage Park High School the next year. I like to imagine that they’re still together, happily married with children. Only Patrick doesn’t tell his friends about her.

DDR

Canaryville


Gate to the Union Stockyards, Chicago, Illinois

Canaryville is a neighborhood that is south of Bridgeport and southeast of where the Union Stockyards used to be. I spent a few years there visiting friends who lived there.

I was from Back of the Yards, so not many people from Canaryville knew me. I was risking life and limb every time I went, but I liked the sense of danger I experienced every time I visited. When I left Divine Heart Seminary, I had to attend Tilden Technical High School at 4747 S. Union, right in the heart of Canaryville. As luck would have it, the school had a lot of daily racial fights between blacks and whites. But that was my school and I was stuck attending it. I made the best of a bad situation.

I lived about a mile and a half away from school. After the first snowstorm, it was too cold to stand at the bus stop to wait for the bus, so I started walking to school in order to stay warm. I planned on getting on the bus when it eventually showed up. However, I walked all the way to school without ever seeing the bus.

I didn’t mind walking at all since I used to walk seven and a half miles to town every weekend when I attended Divine Heart Seminary. The next day was even colder, so I left the house a little earlier and walked all the way to school without looking back over my shoulder for the bus. I ended up walking to school the rest of the year because I was able to spend the bus fare on magazines and books. A few months ago, I was talking to my cousins about high school and it turns out that they also walked to school so they could keep the bus fare for spending money.

I never had any trouble with anyone until I got near the school. Someone, they would either be white or black (I was an equal opportunity crime victim), would ask me for money, implying that I should comply with their request or they would use physical force if necessary. I never gave anyone any money. I always had a response for them. “If you need money, you should get a job!” Or, “If you want my money, you have to take it from me.” I would then give them my crazed look that implied they might get the money, but they would be sorry they did because I would inflict some pain on them in the process.

Surprisingly, no one ever accepted my invitation to take my money. Although I did get close once. Two Canaryville residents on their way to school saw me and told me to give them my money or they would beat me up, only not in those words but a rather more colorful vocabulary. They looked like they were really going to beat me up but good. I collected myself and focused deep within. I clenched my fists and gave them a deranged look that I hoped would scare them off. Suddenly, they looked at each other, and as if by silent agreement, they walked away from me. They continued looking over their shoulders at me as they walked away. Then a police paddy wagon passed me from behind. They had walked away from me because they had seen the police! The police asked me if the boys had threatened me. I said that we were friends. I don’t think the police really believed me, but I stuck to my story. Those boys never bothered me again. In fact, they were so grateful that I didn’t rat them out that they even protected me on a few future occasions when I really needed some help at school.

DDR

Eine kleine nachtmusik


Photo by Dany B. on Pexels.com

I like to listen to music while I sleep. I’ve been doing it since high school. But I stopped while I was married. My ex didn’t like to hear the music while she slept.

Now that I’m sleeping alone again, I get to listen to music while I sleep. I like to listen to the classical station, 98.7 FM WFMT, because most classical music is very soothing while sleeping.

For a while, I had a girlfriend who liked to listen to music while we slept and didn’t complain if I tuned in to the classical station. I guess she was different than the rest. She always loved telling me stories. She was an English major and used to call me “sire” during those intimate moments. She insisted I was the only one she ever called “sire.” When she started repeating her stories, she left me and I never saw her again. She was the only one who liked listening to classical music with me.

In high school, I used to listen to 8-Tracks while sleeping because they would play continuously throughout the night. I especially loved listening to Led Zeppelin. I started listened to CDs soon after they were invented because they would play continuously, too. I never listened to the radio because I didn’t like the commercials. The classical station doesn’t play very many commercials at night.

I like rolling over at night while I try to fall back asleep and hear the music. Sometimes I wake up a little if I recognize the music. When I was in in high school, I once made the mistake of listening to a live rock concert while sleeping. What a mistake! I woke up suddenly when the 8-Track started playing the obligatory drum solo! I couldn’t sleep with all the pounding on those drums, cymbals, and cowbells, but especially the cowbells. That lasted about fifteen minutes. I guess that’s why they call it percussion.

DDR

Floods, fires, earthquakes, and other natural disasters


Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

All the floods in the Midwest have got me thinking about how lucky I am to live in Chicago where the last major disaster we suffered was the Chicago Fire in 1871. But I didn’t suffer any traumatic experiences from it and I now live a normal life despite the Chicago Fire.

Oh, yes, we also had the Chicago Flood in 1992 caused by a pylon driven into a utility tunnel beneath the Chicago River, but that only flooded some tunnels under downtown Chicago and not many people were ever in any real danger. However, a few people lost their plum city jobs because of the incident.

The only flooding I experience in my house occurs during heavy rainfalls when I get an inch or two of water in my basement. And I don’t suffer any damage because I have an unfinished basement with a stone foundation. Other people in the midwest haven’t been so fortunate. I usually go to the Wisconsin Dells every summer, but the heavy flooding washed away Lake Delton, so I probably won’t go this summer. Homes, businesses, roads, bridges, and other infrastructures have been flooded or washed away in recent weeks, with more flooded expected as more rivers will soon crest with the predicted rainstorms. Tornadoes have also caused plenty of damage across the Midwest.

I lived in California for three years while I was in the Marines. Overall, the weather is very beautiful and much more pleasant than in the Midwest. However, Californians have to worry about earthquakes, brush fires, flash floods, and sandstorms, among other things.

I actually considered living in California after my honorable discharge from the Marines. Two things brought me back to Chicago. Most of my family and all of my friends lived in Chicago. And, I was really afraid of the weather and other natural disasters in California. Sure I could have gotten used to them. But why should I place myself in danger’s way unnecessarily?

Chicago is fairly safe in terms of meteorolgical events. The city itself has never had a tornado. We do live close to the New Madrid fault line and we do experience an occasional tremor, but we really haven’t had actually ever had an earthquake. Sure the tradeoff is that we do have a higher crime rate than most places, but at least you have a fighting chance against a mugger or a rapist. How do protect yourself from a tornado that suddenly appears in right front of you? I presently live in a house that was built in 1879, which is pretty old for a house in Chicago, and I feel safe living in this house knowing that it has survived everything that Mother Nature inflicted on it.

DDR

The Hulk


The Incredible Hulk

I just got back from seeing The Hulk with my sons. A couple of weeks back I took them to see Iron Man in the evening and they liked the thrill of seeing the movie in a packed house. I always preferred to see movies that way, too, but I usually took my sons to an early afternoon show because it was a lot easier that way.

This time I snuck in some Swedish Fish for us to munch on instead of tortilla chips. I had forgotten that I once took tortilla chips with us to the show until my son Adam reminded me. I really felt like my father when I did take the tortilla chips. All I needed was the jar of salsa. The advantage of seeing a movie in a packed theater is that I’m not the only one laughing at the funny parts.

Usually my sons tell me that I embarrass them when I laugh out loud by myself for too long. In a crowded theater, there’s always someone who laughs louder and longer than me. I then tell my sons that I laugh normally compared to these other extreme laughers.

DDR