Zombie, Illinois by Scott Kenemore Read Free Book Online Page A

Capone. They tell stories about how, when they travel—to other countries or just down to Indiana—the one thing that people know about Chicago is still Al Capone and gangsters. Non-English speakers will smile and say “Shee-cago?” then make a “Rat-tat-tat” sound as they mimic a gunner at the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.
    Yet, what do our gifted and wise politicians propose championing to replace these stereotypes? Bike lanes. Green buildings. Recycling programs.
    Really? Can we not do any better than that, Chicago? Can we really not be any more interesting than low-flow toilets and solar panels?
    Is something wrong with me that I would prefer fedora-ed gangsters as my civic heritage? That I find them kind of—dare I say—cool? At least compared with green roofs?
    I’ve heard these speeches—in one form or another—all before. And I’ll surely hear them again. Be like Burnham. Don’t be like Capone. Blah. Blah. Blah.
    I spend most of my time thinking about the cute drummer.
    Maria. Her name was Maria.
    It’s still snowing outside. I watch it coming down through the polished glass windows of the Trump Tower. I more or less tune out the speeches, and stare off into the distant darkness of Lake Michigan.
    Even though there’s a band, this will wind up early. These things always do.
    The final speaker finishes. No one says anything new. Nobody makes an announcement about being a candidate for mayor, which pisses me off. I boot up my laptop and file the story I could have filed from home with a beer in my hand. Then Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata plays a forty-five minute set of covers under the name “The Kitty Kats from Heaven” They’re really talented musicians—and that girl can drum!—but the song selection is tepid and predictable. Lots of classic rock. A couple of soul songs. A Wilco tune, during which Maria appears to wince. (How do you even draw up a set list for a room full of low level civic politicians and representatives from nonprofits? Maybe this is as good as it can get.)
    I kind of want to talk to Maria again, but I also don’t want to be a stalker. (Or creeper. That’s right. The girls say “creeper” now.) I’m sure I’ll be able to find her later on a social networking site or the SBVD web page. Maybe in a few days I’ll get up the courage to send her an email if I don’t decide that I’m too old.
    I give Maria a wave after the last song. She waves back from the stage, wiping sweat from her forehead with an embroidered Hello Kitty towel. Her mascara is running a little. It is super-hot.
    I beat a quick retreat out of the Trump Tower and head for the nearest train.
    Once outside, I realize the snow is not so bad. It’s not even sticking.
    So at least there’s that.
    The El ride back to my neighborhood is noisy and cold. I stare out the windows when the train goes above ground. The buildings are just visible through a blue-orange haze of streetlights and snowflakes. The wind is picking up, and sometimes it rocks the train a little. I find the sensation pleasant and calming.
    I exit at the California Avenue stop and walk down the salted metal staircase connecting the platform to the street below. My neighborhood, normally bustling, is almost deserted. The few people I do see are scurrying here and there in heavy coats. (Maybe the forecast has changed and a blizzard is now predicted.) A weird tension pervades. Nobody is stopping to chat with anybody. I’m guessing they’re hitting the grocery one last time before the snow starts piling. Or maybe the liquor store.
    I ponder whether or not I am still in a beer and pizza mood. I decide, no. I’ll just head home. Maybe pull up the SBVD web page and see if there is a “Photos” section.
    Creeper, indeed.
    I trek down a couple of side streets tracing the familiar path to my apartment. My block is relatively quiet. My