A Mother's Tears • Ch. 10 of 16

Great Expectations, Realized

Gabriela and I took the seven-hour train into Union Station. Once there, we exited onto the concrete platform and headed up the steps toward the front doors with the entire Windy City waiting for us on the other side.

“I’m home,” I said with a widened smile. The sun shone down on our shoulders and life was everywhere. The people circulated throughout the city’s streets and back alleys like blood cells do within pulsing veins. The buildings all seemed to grow taller towards the sky the closer we’d get to them. They surrounded us in a way only a downtown metropolis could. The commotion coming from all angles sounded like an industrial symphony—, gorgeously layered and strangely peaceful. With all of that around us, I was most excited I could live out the experience with my mom by my side. The L-trains thundered on their tracks up above—, sparks flying off in all directions. We climbed the stairs toward the Brown Line and were on our way to the northern neighborhoods.

Lincoln Park was just as beautiful in person as it was in all the pictures I’d looked up the months before. Anything I’d need was a stone’s throw away. I could finish all of my errands within a single city block. One-off shops and chain stores were scattered throughout the streets, bikes and cars intermingled in a way I hadn’t seen back in Michigan, and people of all types walked in flowing waves of movement. I knew I’d found my element. Far from the rehabs and halfway homes of a near- decade prior—, I was finally feeling pure happiness.

My mom and I walked down Diversey Parkway with our suitcases in tow and reached our destination within twenty minutes. What was once a rundown hotel with people overdosing in its hallways was renovated into a brand new apartment building. A small two hundred-square-foot studio on the fourth floor is where I’d sleep for the next year of my life. We got the card-keys from the front desk, rode the elevator up a few flights, and walked into an empty space smaller than the size of most kitchens, let alone a full living area. There was no furniture so we each took a corner and slept on the hardwood floor that first night. It was truly one of my favorite memories we’d ever make. The small radio we had with us played Top 40 pop songs as we disinfected everything we could before finally ordering dinner and letting ourselves enjoy the rest of the night and week afterwards in the big city. Gabriela left shortly thereafter with a tearful goodbye and I was back to being by myself in a new home.

A Blank Canvas

From one room over, I’d hear my neighbor singing show tunes. On Wednesday nights, the walls would shake from the powerful music down in the bar below. Things were tight in that small studio. The tiny closet was overflowing with clothes, underneath the bed slid a case full of shoes, and the desk-shelf combo took over half the room. The near- claustrophobic conditions made moving around tough, but once I was on the other side of my front door, I’d walk down the hall toward the elevators with confidence. I was still living in my dream city. No matter how small the space was where I slept, showered, and ate—, I’d do it all with a smile.

I started getting used to my situation. The twenty-four-hour store right across the street was perfect for late-night ice cream runs. The cleaners around the corner began knowing me on a first name basis. Everything was as it should be. Slowly, I learned the layout of my new surroundings. I’d be able to stop and get groceries or pick up new bedsheets at the major chains or a pack of cigarettes from the liquor store all while walking home from the L-train. Everyone I’d pass on the street seemed to have the same type of smile—, deep down, they knew everything was interconnected somehow, in someway; the check-out ladies, the taxi drivers, the servers, bartenders, and beggars—, we were all apart of it. An energy that was always right beneath our feet, trapped under the concrete like a circuit encompassing the entire city, we felt its hold on our lives as we continued sailing through the waves and ripples of our everyday decisions. Which corner should I turn down? Which train should I take home? Who will I sit next to and what conversation may spark up which could possibly change my life forever? These were the types of questions which ran through my mind and I loved every minute of it. Fate had brought me here and I felt its grasp on my heart with each choice I made.

Rediscovery At Its Finest

I was sitting in my studio one night when I decided to go to the convenience-store opposite my building. I made my way downstairs, through the lobby, and past the front doors at a bit after midnight. Crossing the street, I could already see a woman standing at the store’s counter talking and laughing with the worker. I walked in and the woman immediately looked my way. Her layered blond hair spun through the air in slight slow- motion as she turned in my direction. She was taller than me, had a wider smile than mine, and I could tell she was fun even before she spoke.

“You like their food here, right?,” she asked me as if we’d already been talking.

“Love it,” I truthfully said. The question made me want to buy a few frozen burritos to stock up my fridge with and a pack of cigarettes on top of that.

“Mind if I have one of those?,” the woman asked as I was unwrapping the small box.

“Of course,” I answered, handing her a couple. We went outside to sit on a cement structure housing plants and trees while we smoked and spoke some more. We introduced ourselves and after telling me her name, she sat quietly, looking at me as if I should say something.

“Do you know who I am?,” she asked sincerely. I didn’t, so just shook my head slowly. She smiled and quickly changed the subject. “What’re you doing tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know—, nothing I think.”

“Meet me back here at eleven,” she said. “We’ll go somewhere good.” So that’s what I did. The next night we met up and took a taxi down to the bustling clubs of Ontario Street in River North. Suddenly, it became a tradition for us. We’d start our evening at the lavish Sound Bar with its violet spotlights encircling us, then cross the street and head downstairs toward Spybar for the rest of the night. She always walked to the front of the line, whispered something to the bouncers, and got us in ahead of everyone else plus free drink tickets wherever we’d go. I never asked her how or what or why, I was just appreciating the new environments.

Holy Water

When we weren’t out at the clubs, we’d walk around the neighborhood while sharing cigarettes and stare at all the beautiful buildings.

“This is going to be a church once it’s finished,” she said pointing to a piece of land still in development. She knew what every house was on every street in every area. There was something about her that made me feel secure. I’d soon find out why. “Do you know how old some of these buildings are?,” she asked. “Very old—, and there’re spirits attached to each one.” I looked at her with skeptical eyes. “I’m serious,” she said. “I can sense them sometimes.” I didn’t know what to say so just kept silent. We walked down another block and before turning around to go home, she stopped me, pulling my arm. “Let’s not go that way,” she said, staring off into the darkness as if she’d just seen something distressing.

“Okay...,” I said, not really understanding, but following her intuition all the same. We circled around and came back to where we first started.

“Tomorrow?,” she asked before heading back home.

“Tomorrow, for sure,” I replied. With that, we said our goodbyes and split ways. I laid awake for a while that night wondering what she’d seen that made her want to turn away. I wondered who she truly was and if I’d ever get to really know.

Her building was right down the street from mine so before going out the next night, she invited me up to her place so she could grab some last-minute things. Heading down the hall to her apartment, I began thinking of the evening which lay ahead, where we would go, who else would be there, etc. We got to her front door and as she was unlocking it, I spotted a discolored shape above the doorway, almost like someone smeared something onto the wall. I looked closer and realized it was actually a cross. My friend noticed me staring at it.

“Holy water,” she said. Then opened the door, walked in, and never brought it up again. We went back out and enjoyed ourselves once more. The tradition became routine though a few months later, she’d be moving to New York City. We made the most of the evenings we had left before parting ways one last time. I never did get to ask more about her story—, who she was or why she wanted to move. I just knew we clicked and made each other laugh. That was enough for me. Similar to a lot of others made in a big city, our friendship lasted only a short while. Like revolving doors; people walked in and out of each other’s lives constantly. The relationships I’d make there however, held some of the best memories of my entire life, even if for a few moments at a time.

Hereditary Dreams

Things were beginning to fall into place—, I was finally becoming who I thought I should be. One night while out, a bouncer with broad shoulders at a nearby place looked closely at my ID and asked me what my background was.

“Romanian,” I told him. He then said he recognized the name. I gave him my dad’s pen- name and asked if he knew who that was.

“I do,” he replied with a slight accent I hadn’t noticed before.

“He was my father,” I told him proudly. He then bowed his head and led me inside the front doors. I never expected that reaction and was the only time in my life I’d felt that way. I was the son of an author. I didn’t walk, talk, or act like one—, but that still didn’t change who I truly was. The thought that I’d never written something myself bothered me day and night. I knew writing was in my blood but everything I’d start, I’d eventually give up on.

Walking by the riverfront, I’d stop and stare at the elegance of the Tribune Tower and daydream about being published myself someday. Making my way down Michigan Avenue, I’d pass by the building and look at all the stones from other parts of the world placed within its outer walls; Paris, London, Tokyo, etc. Once I’d be back in my studio apartment, I’d look out the window and wonder when I’d be able to have my own collection of souvenirs from other places around the globe. On my mom’s suggestion, I decided it was time to try my luck at getting some type of advice for a future career. I dressed in some of the nicest clothes I had and hopped on the bus toward downtown. Once there, I walked up to the front doors of the Tribune and waited—, for someone, anyone to go through either in or out. A gentleman wearing a suit and eating the last bits of his lunch finally approached the doors to go inside. It was now or never.

“Excuse me sir,” I started, “I don’t mean to bother you but I was just wondering what’s the best way a new writer can land a job upstairs?” He gave me a smile and probably saw himself from years past standing in my very position now.

“Well, the way most people start here is by sending their work through our website,” he said. “I know it’s tough but keep at it, it’ll pay off.” I thanked him profusely for his time and he was off, through the doors and elevators and back to work on the higher floors. I looked up to the top of the structure, knowing it had a rooftop patio with undoubtedly amazing views.

“One day—,” I said to myself, hoping to see it in person.

New Beginnings

Even though I was getting accustomed to my new surroundings, I still maintained my Michigan connections. Good friends would come out and see me every so often and I’d show each around as much as possible. Their presence always made me miss home, but to have them in this new environment was so good for us. My mom would either fly out or take the train every couple months to see me. If she couldn’t make it, I’d go see her instead. Rarely did more than three months pass by without the two of us reunited in the same room again. Half a year into my move, we’d learned where our favorite restaurants were, which movie theaters had the reclining seats, and all the best views of downtown from the lakefront. We made it a tradition to go to The Edge every time she’d visit. It was a local bar and grill that never closed—, ever. Not on Thanksgiving, Christmas, or New Year’s, it stayed open for all to come in and eat whenever they’d please. It became our home away from home. I ended up making memories within its walls with each one of my friends that’d come to see me—, both old and new.

I picked up a job back in retail and began selling expensive shoes to privileged college students and their parents alike. It was the type of place where I’d dress up in nice shirts with a tie to match. The store stood right in the heart of Lincoln Park—, where Diversey Parkway, Clark Street, and North Broadway all intersected. Floor to ceiling windows lined the walls and we’d always feel as if we were apart of the constant movement happening right outside our front doors. Every time I’d walk in there’d be a different vibe depending on who was working that day. Everyone had their own personalities that made them fun to be around, but there was a gentleman in particular who was in his last year before retiring that I especially took to.

“So you’re my replacement?,” he said smiling when first meeting me. We both laughed while shaking hands. “Just keeping it light, that’s all.” A few minutes passed by before he leaned in closer and said what’d probably been on his mind all along. “So—, are you a believer?,” he asked respectfully.

“Oh yeah—,” I said. “Definitely.” I’d gone through my own journey with God up until that point and while I couldn’t have possibly known what’d still lay ahead, believing in Him went without saying. From that day forward, my new friend became my spiritual mentor while I lived in Chicago and long afterwards. His words were a beacon of hope for me as I walked those lonely streets on my own many months later. We’d talk about faith, the deeper unanswered questions we’d each have, and Scripture which applied to us every chance we could.

“Someday, after we’re all gone, we’ll still be characters in Dre’s stories,” another older employee said one afternoon, knowing I liked to write. I smiled at the thought, not taking it to heart. I figured I’d met everyone who worked there until a delivery man dressed up in a brown uniform walked in during my first week and went straight to the back of the store. Everyone greeted him like he was a regular staffer and I introduced myself as the newest hire. He was a bit older than I was and over time, he grew to know some of my music tastes so started calling me Westside. I held the name in the highest admiration, just like I did his own character. He always made everyone around him laugh and feel good about themselves—, I took to that kind of attitude. Every time he’d walk in, the store would brighten up. That was the type of presence I wanted to have myself.

How Serendipitous

Over time, I began feeling comfortable in my new position. My co-workers all taught me different sales techniques. I had an arsenal of good advice at the ready for any circumstance—, until a mother- daughter duo finally walked in one night.

“I’m looking for something new to run in,” the woman said with a heavy accent. I showed her to the athletic section as I noticed her adult daughter was speaking my native language.

“Are you Romanian?,” I gently asked.

“Yes!—, are you?” I nodded my head and we started talking about my new move into town and how I was liking it so far.

“We were actually at a Romanian Writers Conference before we came here,” the mother told me. I immediately knew to ask if they’d talked at all about Marcel.

“Yes they did!,” she said, surprised that I even knew who that was. I felt a smile slowly taking shape.

“He was actually my dad,” I humbly said. The lady stood there amazed at the fact and didn’t know what to say next. She quickly asked her daughter to take down my information but that’d be the only time I’d ever see them. Naturally, I told my mom about the conversation later that night over the phone.

“See—?,” she started to say through a bit of crying, “he’s still remembered to this day.”

70-Something and Awesome

Work went on and I was beginning to live a normal routine once more. It was a lovely summer day when a woman in her mid-to-late seventies with short platinum-blond hair walked in and immediately started chatting me up.

“You know, this is the nicest corner of the nicest neighborhood in the city,” she said. “You’re very lucky to be working here.” She then tried to rest her fold-up mobile grocery cart against one of the chairs inside the store. It started tipping over until it eventually fell onto the floor. They weren’t that well-made but everybody had one tucked away inside their apartments somewhere—, they were invaluable for when you wanted to do more shopping than usual. She wasn’t as grateful to have hers. “I hate this thing—, I wish someone would just steal it already,” the woman said. I knew I liked her right then. We spoke for a few more minutes about my newly made move into town and I could tell she was taking a liking to me—, not in any romantic sort of way, but like a long-lost son or something. “Let’s have lunch sometime,” she suggested.

“I’d love to,” I quickly replied. I had nothing but respect for her and truly valued her experience and potential friendship. I had no idea what a fascinating person she’d turn out to be.