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The Great Grey City Of Chicago
'Their shit don't stink in Chicago,' he said, accelerating to cover up his fear. He gave me an outsiders view of the oncoming devastation, as the great grey city of Chicago loomed closer like a gigantic treeline. The city covered the whole horizon, a sunset of buildings, the great unknown lake chilling its back. 'If you take the wrong exit and end up on the south side you'll be pulled out of your car and shot. Is as simple as that.' A previous driver had told me that car jacking was now becoming popular in the suburbs. He was a Canadian, frightened and apologetic towards the US. 'It's a black and black and white war zone. I haven't seen the ghettos and I don't want to, but I know they're out there.' The Canadian had been a bore. I was now quietly focused on deciphering the long drawl of the southerner. I hadn't seen a city of this size and immensity. The dangers did not register so I just had to go on good advice. From the moment I saw my first huge city I went on instinct. I felt like a field mouse scurrying towards a huge sugar cane field populated by tropical snakes. When instinct finally failed me, I went on faith. I'm not used to a place where there are restrictions on where you go, or of the city being out of control. Soon the person in the car next to me, that I had already forgotten the name of, became the focus of my mistrust. Suddenly, he had become as strange and as threatening as the great grey city. Yet my fear soon manifested itself as numbness, so that nothing could touch me. Pretty soon it would take the whole of the city of Chicago to crumble into ruins and me beneath it, crushed but still untouched, my backpack touching my skin, the diamond ring around my neck, in order to feel anything. Such a lack of feelings had created a problem with my lift the day before. I had spotted a dead dog run over on the freeway. A dog who had been looking at horses through the fence palings. A dog who had run a hundred different routes away from his owners through the snow, taking himself on his own huge walks that had soon turned into adventures. Now simply a dog who had got unlucky and was struck down on the way home. I had made a mistake of getting a lift with a driver from Brooklyn, New York. When he drove right by the body on the road without a second glance, I said, 'Hey, stop for the fucken dog, it could be hurt.' 'No,' he said. 'It's fucked, it's fucken dead okay.' I said, 'I don't care if the dog was dead, you should have stopped for the fucker.' 'Okay, okay, fuck you!,' he said and pulled the car over. 'No, fuck you!' 'NO, FUCK YOU!' 'WELL, FUCK YOU MOTHER FUCKER!' I kicked the mudguard from the rear as he screeched off down the road. I said, 'You think you're ALL THAT! Fuck you!' I knew he hadn't stopped for the dog, because he hadn't even the slightest association with his own power or compassion. Most likely they hadn't as yet been introduced. He had made an excuse that he had been living in the city for too long and had lost contact with nature. But that has nothing to do with compassion. I didn't even know if he knew what the word compassion meant, so I never pushed it. Most likely he thought it meant cross between competition and passion. Besides he looked too tired and burnt out for either of them. He looked like he had been fried inside his own skin, then left alone to cool down for a long long time. As we approached Chicago, I wanted to tell that guy from Atlanta to just keep driving through it. I wanted to say, 'Just keep driving until we get to the Arctic or Antarctica, the last places in the world to go down.' A big tablecloth is cleverly pulled out from underneath us, and Chicago, London, New York, Paris, Tokyo and Toronto are the main dinner set. The best china is always the first to break. Australia, New Zealand, and Canada with the snowy elk are the cutlery, that you already see your reflection in. We think we are safer being from 'the lucky countries', but soon we are all apocalypse prone. Ultimately we are all going down the same way, as voyagers into rubble from the well-set dinner table. Nine hundred murders a year in Chicago, with eight point five percent tax on top of all the other taxes, and one in two people will suffer a violent assault in their lifetime. I look at where the most need is occurring. I have heard that Detroit is a good place to start. The vibrant heart of Chicago is still beating amongst the ghettos, fueled by the careless attitudes of wealth and superficiality. Whereas I've heard that there are worse places than this one. I've heard that Detroit stands abandoned across the river from Windsor in Canada, like a furious ghost rattling its bones. I feel powerless, in a state of paralysis. The tall lean buildings are so pretty and mean. I better keep my eyes on the street in front of me, and not look up into them for too long. Their windows sparkle like cold glitter. I might get giddy and lose all hope and sensibility. There's no chance of me living here. The United States of the Apocalypse is not the place to be poor. The buildings of Chicago represent a soulessness and a lack of compassion. To be rich is to climb them with your bare hands. This kind of activity is only for some. Yet this terrific city must be feeding itself from somewhere. It would take the twenty-four hour operation of a billion slaughterhouses to fill it for a day. It feeds from the whole state of Michigan, chopping into the landscape around it. Even small token gestures such as recycled paper bags and coffee house chat about saving the planet are pretty much phased out. 'Don't let the publicity fool you.' the wide-eyed Canadian had said, 'Here in Chicago, it's a war zone. Treat it as such. Err on the side of caution. If you haven't got any money, keep the hell out of the city and don't take the wrong turn off. You could end up in a ghetto.' Canadian fears aside, it is very dangerous. The sirens are screaming out below me for most of the night. I don't feel safe no matter how high up. I am a great snowy owl with a headache. |
