Midnight Move

The roaches would fall on my head from the ceiling in the middle of the night, waking me up and sending me scrambling for the light. Often times, in my panic, I would knock over the half empty can of beer that was on the nightstand next to the lamp and once the light was on I would see the roaches crawling out of the can. I made the mistake once of drinking from the can one night and almost swallowed a roach. It was the most disgusting feeling, having an insect crawl around in my mouth. I’d gotten up and puked in the sink, then rinsed my mouth with the lukewarm water the tap offered. I learned from then on never to leave out an open container that I wished to drink from again. If I couldn’t finish a beer I would put it in the fridge before I turned off the light. But most times I passed out while I was in the middle of drinking it so the roaches got it.

The room was probably ten feet by ten feet, a cramped little shoebox. It had a sink, a small refrigerator and a bed and dresser. The rent was sixty-five dollars a week and was located in the Ukrainian Village off of Ashland and Division in central Chicago. You could see downtown from the window but it appeared a lot closer than it really was. In between Ashland and downtown was a no man’s land-if you were white-of projects and crumbling buildings. I learned that the hard way by taking a walk through there one morning after I’d just moved into the neighborhood.

On my little excursion a woman tried to run me over with her minivan, kids threw rocks at me out the window of their tenement and a guy in a vest and jeans looking straight off the set of ‘Warriors’ snarled at me, showing teeth. It was over when a gang of young toughs turned their attention on me when I was within about fifty yards of them, looking as if they were ready to accost me. I turned and fled. When I got back to my building I ran into a gin soaked diabetic man named Tim who took one look at me and asked if I’d walked east on Division.
“Yeah,” I said, still breathing hard from running. “They’re not too friendly down there.”
“Are you a fucking idiot?” He said, his grizzled, unshaven face looking waxy and pale in the mid morning sunshine. “That’s Cabrini Green down there. They don’t like people like you.”
“People like me?”
“White people.” He explained and he didn’t have to tell me twice. That was fifteen years ago. Since then it has been bulldozed and turned into an area for rich folk's homes and condos. You wouldn’t even recognize it if you knew it from before. The people that lived there all migrated to the neighborhood I was living in and further west. If I thought the Ukrainian Village was bad when I lived there, well, I’m sure that now it’s a whole lot worse.

Funny enough, my living quarters, as bad as they were, were a step up from the conditions I’d been enduring before I got here. I’d been living down in Atlanta, Georgia in my car for several months before it was totaled in an accident and then in a warehouse that was later condemned. I was badly addicted to cocaine and could tolerate such hellish conditions. After that I stayed with some acquaintances in an abandoned lumber yard and while I was there I decided to go cold turkey from the rocks and powder and get my life back on track. I quit the job that had ushered me into the habit in the first place and took on work in a Jamaican restaurant as a line cook. I began smoking a lot of weed, which helped me with the coke withdrawals, and after I’d amassed about six hundred dollars I decided to get out of Atlanta and head north. Chicago seemed like a good place to relocate to resume pursuing my musical ambitions. I’d saved up enough money to get my guitar out of hock and buy a small amplifier.

When the Greyhound bus deposited me at the terminal in downtown Chicago I rode the El to Wriggly Ville, which I was familiar with because of a club there called the Metro Cabaret. A lot of my favorite bands had played there over the years and I thought that area would be a great place to live. I bought a paper and within an hour I found some places that looked promising. I wasted about two bucks in quarters calling from the pay phone by the front door but got nothing but answering machines until I called the rooming house in the Ukrainian Village. The woman on the other end of the phone told me I could come right down and meet her, giving me directions from Addison Street which runs east/west, bordering Wriggly Field where the Chicago Cubs play. I hopped on the El again and when I got off at Ashland and Division I noticed that the neighborhood was considerably seedier than the one I’d left, but I didn’t have a lot of money so I figured I had to take what I could get.

I found Paulina Street and there was the building, surrounded by homes that-save for a modest strip of lawn between them-almost touched each other. The neighborhood didn’t look so bad, I decided. Hell, it looked a lot better than the war zone I’d come from so it was an improvement. I was moving on up; at least, I thought so at the time.

The woman who ran the place was named Phyllis and she looked like a picture perfect caricature from children’s fairy tales depicting witches. Maybe like the one from Hansel and Gretal. She was a large woman with enormous breasts that hung down to her stomach and her cruel looking mouth was puckered in a permanent sneer that, when it was opened wide enough, revealed several missing teeth. She had a low, throaty voice and talked in such a strong southern drawl that it was hard to make out what she was saying. She told me she was from Missouri and took me up to the second floor to see the room. I suppose, looking back on that first day, that it looked like Heaven to me because it would be my own space, inside, heat included. Sure it was tiny but it was furnished. Little did I know that I was going to have hundreds of little visitors that were going to be staying with me.

I found work within a week at a telemarketing agency, selling radio airtime to small businesses. It was in northern Chicago but the El entrance was two blocks away from the building and the train deposited me within six blocks of their office. All in all the commute took about an hour so I had to get up pretty early in the morning, but the first few weeks I really didn’t mind; it was late October and the fall colors were starting to fade and the cold wind was blowing off of the lake. Winter was on its way and it seemed like a blessing from the intense heat I’d suffered in the south. I was from the north so I was more accustomed to this kind of climate anyway.

The job sucked, however, and the only airtime I sold was to a man who was from my hometown in Wisconsin who had known my grandfather. Small fucking world. He was probably totally pissed when he saw what he’d purchased for five hundred dollars but my grandfather was long passed and there was no way he could reach me to complain so what the hell did I care? In the two months that I was there that was the only thing I sold. Seriously. Managers and sales pros worked with me but I just couldn’t sell the shit. I wasn’t a very good salesman. They reduced my pay by a buck fifty and let me stay, but that was only because they were hard up for workers. The place was full of the walking dead, people who had come from other careers and had nowhere else to go. Guys whom were fifty years old that had been downsized from respectable offices and now they were groveling on the phone for a measly eight bucks an hour. But they were making more than me, so what the fuck could I say?

I quickly found that it wasn’t enough money and I had to take on a second job, one in the evening. Another telemarketing job. After years of restaurant work I simply didn’t want to cook anymore but I didn’t have any other skills. Sure, I could maybe do retail, but all of my clothes were crappy and worn, my hair long and mostly unkempt. The only places that would hire me were the places where I had no direct contact with the intended customers. The second job was selling theatre tickets. Now, Chicago is renowned for the high quality of its theaters and the plays that come through town. In fact, at that time, Donny Osmond was Performing ‘Joseph and The Technicolor Dream Coat’ at The Vic on Broadway and it was selling out nightly. But, same as the radio airtime job, I couldn’t sell a thing. Nothing. It was like a black cloud hung over my head. People cursed me and hung up the phone. The only people who let me get through my pitch were old, lonely people with nothing but time on their hands. I asked them how they were doing, actually listened to them when they told me. The manager would hover around me and I would pretend I was launching into a sale, cutting off the old lady who was telling me that her cat died and soon the line would go dead when the recipient of my call realized they were no longer being paid any attention. Man that must suck, being so lonely that you welcome a sales call from a stranger.

On my days off I would ride the El around the city and walk around downtown, fascinated by the enormity of it all. Atlanta was a large, thriving metropolis but Chicago was even bigger, older. The buildings had such a gothic look about them. The thing was, most of Atlanta’s downtown had burned in a fire a long time ago-I don’t know how long exactly-and so the city was very ‘new’ compared to Chicago. Chicago had these charming old bridges that looked they were built at the turn of the century and buildings that reminded you of movies from the forties and fifties. Another thing that impressed me to no end-don’t ask me why-was that it was the perfect example of a ‘concrete jungle’. Everything was paved and there was neon everywhere. My neighborhood was so urban there was nothing but the occasional blades of grass growing through cracks in the sidewalk and thin trees planted by businesses and homeowners to beautify their space. The trees were so young that it would take them years to grow to any reasonable size, but by that time they would probably be cut down because they would be getting in the way of the street signs or the shops name over the door.

Eventually working the two jobs began to wear me down. I would leave the small room at quarter of seven in the morning and catch the train to be at the first job for eight, then catch another at quarter after four to be at the other one for five. At nine I caught another train and got back to my room just after ten. I would buy a two dollar six pack of Busch or Old Milwaukee at a seedy liquor store down the block and then sit on my bed and drink and watch the small black and white TV I bought for ten dollars at a pawn shop, growing drowsy. Then, in the middle of the night, the roaches would start falling on my head and wake me up. What a waste of my time; I hadn’t auditioned for any bands since I got here, didn’t hardly even play my guitar that sat dusty and unused under the bed. This wasn’t going at all like I expected. And even with the two jobs I was sometimes behind on my rent.

I was so broke that I had to buy the cheapest foods possible, living on baloney and processed cheese sandwiches on white bread and generic peanut butter. I ate so much peanut butter that my shits were black and hard-don’t ask me why. I felt like I was always hungry. I would get back to that crappy room with my shitty six-pack and realize that I had nothing to eat. Several times I went to bed early so that I could try and forget how hungry I was, and I took advantage of fast food places that had the occasional two for one deal. A treat to myself was the ‘buy one Big Mac get a second one for free’. I waited all night, trying to ignore my rumbling belly, just waiting for the McDonalds to open. I needed to do something. I needed to change my life or get out of there, simple enough.

And then a stroke of luck came from out of the blue: A coworker offered to sell me a 1984 Mazda GLC Deluxe for two hundred dollars. He told me that it ran great, it was his sisters and she had bought a new car and didn’t need it anymore. It was rusty as hell and the turn signals and windshield wipers sometimes didn’t work but it started up every time. So began the calculations in my head, weighing out the pros and cons of my situation.

While I was working the job selling theatre tickets I met a girl there, a pale, pretty red head named Paula. Anyone that knew me was well aware of my fixation with redheads. Even I didn’t know why but I was intensely attracted to them. Sure, I’d dated all types of girls: blondes, brunettes, auburn and jet black hair-but the women that fascinated me the most were redheads. Paula really struck a chord with me and I desperately wanted to take her out but I felt the only way to do so was if I had a car. I didn’t want to invite her out somewhere and ask her to drive or have to meet her at an El station; I was a man and I needed to act like one, even if I didn’t do so in other aspects of my life. Besides, she was to be the deciding factor of whether or not I stayed in Chicago. I had nothing here and my life was a rut of running from one place to the next to procure money that barely fed me and kept a crappy roof over my head. I was lonely. Not lonely enough to receive phone calls from strangers selling shit-not that I could because I didn’t have a phone-but lonely enough to know that I needed some human contact or I would go mad. While I was strung out on drugs I didn’t need human interaction so much as it was a means to an end to get more drugs. Sober-well, without coke-I began to need people again and this solitary existence was beginning to wear on me. I needed a partner, someone to help me. Paula looked like she could be that person.

What I decided to do was withhold paying rent for a couple of weeks to be able to buy the car. Phyllis knew that I worked two jobs-my collateral-and one day I persuaded her that I would pay her for the month-at the end of four weeks-if she would let me slide. Begrudgingly she did. I couldn’t muster a single sale at either job but somehow I sold her on this. Maybe I just needed to be face to face to sell someone something, or just be fraught enough to really plead my case. At any rate she agreed, but told me that I would have to pay interest as a penalty, to which I agreed.

What I did next was stop buying beer and food. Well, I began to live solely off of peanut butter and generic bags of pretzels. It was hard to go without the beer but I really wanted that car. I was starving all of the time but the carrot at the end of the stick was enough to keep me going. I really wanted to take Paula out; I was obsessed with her. This was at a point in my life when my belief was that a woman was going to save me from myself. I was a miserable son of a bitch but there must be a woman out there somewhere who could help me be a better person, could help me make some sense of my life. I’ve long since given up that silly pursuit but back then I didn’t like who I was, couldn’t stand the idea of being so alone. I was going to have her and I needed the damn car to do it.

The day I bought that Mazda was one of the best in a long time. I drove up and down Lake Shore Drive, putting my arm out the window to signal lane changes when the blinker didn’t work. I drove downtown underneath the El tracks and thought ‘Goodbye El, I don’t need you anymore.’ I was newly excited about living in Chicago; I now felt that I had things where I wanted them. And now I could ask Paula out.

When I did I was quite nervous but I kept my composure and, surprisingly, she said yes. I don’t know whether or not I thought she would, but I was very happy that she did. What I didn’t expect was the catch: she would meet me at the theatre instead of me picking her up. I rolled with it. We went and saw the movie ‘Pulp Fiction’ and I remember being amazed at seeing the hypodermic syringe so large on the big screen. This was before I began my needle phase-which would cost me so much later in life, from overdoses to seedy characters robbing me of my money and drugs-but for some reason it fascinated me. After the movie we went to a White Castle and it was what transpired there that soured her on me. Long story short I got into it with a homeless guy who was begging for change and she was so embarrassed that she left the restaurant and got in her car, almost driving away before I could catch her. The cops had been called so I had to speak quickly:

“I’m really sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Whatever.” She said, putting her car in reverse. “I have to get going.”

“Really, I’m so sorry.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I guess I wasn’t.”

“See you at work.” She said and began driving away.

“Okay! See ya!” I called after her but I knew it was over. Depressed, I went and bought some cheap beer and got drunk in my room. The next day I called in sick to both jobs and continued drinking through the day. I hated spending so much time in that room with the roaches but I didn’t want to be out in public, didn’t want anybody to see me. The following day I skipped the first job but decided to go to the second, to see Paula. It was all I could do to get her to talk to me and when she did it was clear that she wanted nothing more to do with me. It was then that I decided that Chicago wasn’t going to work out for me after all. It was time to go. I quit the job right then and there; I walked up to the manager and told him I was through. He was a gay man who had been so kind to me, had let me keep the job even though I hadn’t sold a single ticket.

“Fine,” He said. “Get out of here.”

When I got back to my room and flicked on the light I noticed that the roaches didn’t even run when I turned it on anymore. They were more of a fixture in the place than I was. They could fucking have it. I was leaving and I was doing it tonight. All I had to do was wait until everyone was asleep and then I could take my few possessions, pack them in the car and simply disappear. I ran to the liquor store for a six-pack to calm my nerves and sat in front of the TV until two in the morning, figuring everyone should be well out of the way by that time.

As quietly as I could I assembled my things but, as I looked around, I realized that it was going to take maybe four or five trips to the car. I had three cardboard boxes full of clothes and personal belongings, the TV, my guitar, a boom box I’d acquired and a wooden tape case that held fifty tapes. It wasn’t simply a matter of slipping out the door unseen but of having to do it four or more times. The problem was that the door to Phyllis’s room was right next to the front door, and the front door was in need of some grease because it squeaked loudly. I had to do it very slowly and silently and hope for the best.

The first two trips went pretty smooth; I was able to take two of the boxes and the radio. But the third box was big and bulky and I had to set it down to open the door. As the cool night air washed over me I realized that it would take more trips than I’d initially thought, maybe five or six.

As I got to my car I heard the sound of breaking glass from down the block and, startled, I almost dropped the box. Two guys were walking up the street toward me and they looked decidedly unfriendly. I hadn’t planned on this. When they were abreast of me one of them stopped, asked me if I had a light. I didn’t have my lighter on me so I said I didn’t smoke.

“What about the lighter in the car, huh?” The other said boisterously. “What about that?”

I suddenly had a vision of these guys punching me out and stealing my car and the thought made me mad. I would be damned if my escape route was going to be taken from me.

“It doesn’t work.” I said forcefully-but still quietly as I didn’t want my voice to carry-and I’d have to guess that the vehemence was enough that they got the picture: leave me the fuck alone. It worked, they moved along, muttering curses at me. I sighed in relief. Two more trips to go.

I was bringing out the guitar and the TV when the door opened in front of me and the superintendent walked in. He looked at me strangely, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes smelling strongly of cigarette smoke and booze. I realized at once that he was drunk.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He said loudly, his voice echoing up the stairwell. He wasn’t too steady on his feet but he was a big guy with thick, muscled forearms and a construction worker’s build. Even two sheets to the wind he could stop me if he wanted to. I had to think fast.

“I’m selling these things to my buddy,” I said in what I hoped to be a relaxed voice. “I need some extra money.”

The lie worked for him because he ‘understood’ immediately. Anyone who is intending to sell his or her possessions in the middle of the night needs it for one reason: drug money. He thought I was selling off some shit to buy more drugs. He giggled.

“Have a good time then.” He said, continuing past me and up the stairs.

“Good night.” I said and he giggled again.

“Yeah, goodnight.”

I knew that he lived on the third floor and I waited until I heard his steps recede before I continued. My hands shook slightly as I opened the door. Man, that had been close.

The last trip I had reserved for the wood tape case and my backpack. When I picked up the tape case I saw two or three roaches scurry out of it and it made me pause. Maybe I should get the bugs out of there before I put it in my car. I extracted a tape and there was a large roach on it. I dropped it to the floor in disgust. No matter how much I had been through with these fucking bugs they still made my stomach turn. I began to pull tapes out and as I did what I saw made me realize the extent of the bug problem: they had taken over the case, in fact were using it as a home/breeding ground. I pulled out tapes that were covered with what looked like their eggs and, when I fully emptied it, I saw that it was full of hundreds of roaches, babies and adults alike. I upended it and shook it furiously but every time I looked in it I saw that they hadn’t budged; those little sons a bitches were glued in there.
Maybe a few fell out but the majority weren’t going anywhere. Finally I dropped it, deciding that they could have it. It had been a present from a girl I dated years ago and I’d dragged it around with me on all of these moves but this was to be its final resting place. I even decided to leave some of the tapes, as the cases were so befouled that I couldn’t bring myself to take them. I didn’t want the eggs hatching in my car and having the Mazda full of bugs as well. Using water from the sink I cleaned off the cases of the tapes I really wanted and deposited the rest on the unmade bed. Hell, it served Phyllis right, me leaving without paying the rent and gifting her with this mess. She should have done something about the roaches in the first place. Over and over she’d promised that she was going to spray, even told me to leave my door unlocked a couple of times-I’d installed a chain lock on the inside that she didn’t have a key for-so that she could get in and not once had she. Had I not been so broke I would have bug bombed it myself but if I didn’t have money for food I certainly didn’t have it for a Raid product. Let her deal with this. There was no way that she would ever find me.

The last time I went through the door I felt an invisible weight slip off of my shoulders. All I’d done was struggle here and at last it dawned on me what I was going to do: I was going to go home. I’d just spent a year living in some of the most God-awful places and now all I wanted was the comfort of a familiar face, the solace of a bug free sleeping area. I had some friends that lived in Milwaukee that I knew would take me in until I got on my feet, so I figured I would go down to the lake, park in one of the endless lots and sleep a while in the car and leave at first light. Sure, I’d left Milwaukee for bigger and better things, but I didn’t find them, all I found was that life was hard when you were all alone, surrounded by strangers. Of course the biggest stranger was myself; I’d alienated myself from ME, from who I was, from who I could have been. Maybe I could find myself again and move on with my life, yeah, maybe…it would be an uphill battle but it was one I was ready to make. It wouldn’t so much be crawling back but returning to my roots. At least, that was what I was telling myself…that was what made it a little easier…