Sojourn

The door closed to my room, the looming towers of glass peering into my window, and I stood alone. I was, frankly, confused as to what they meant by “Lifestyle” columnist.  This whole situation was concerning, and strange. They didn’t give me any answers. Mister Whipple seemed to be unsure as to why I was here, behind his confident tone.  The only answer I received was that I was wanted by PEP. From overhearing his conversation with that strange Tellurius fellow that Piotr, PEP being his initials, sent my ‘coordinates’ from the shadow zone with my name.  It seems that Mr. Whipple is just trying to find something for me to do?  He left me with a credit card and told me this room was free of charge, so that I can stay close.

It took some getting used to.  I haven’t heard anything about Josephine, but I was assured everything was being taken care of so I took to my usual routine.  I decided to resume my morning walks, though now in this metropolis rather than the quaint neighborhood I was accustomed.  There are people everywhere, but it’s just noise. My routine on my day’s off work, (and now that I’m practically unemployed) included a walk through the City park, a chat with Guillaume the clerk at the delicatessen, to finish at Café Monsieur to relax with a coffee bowl and cigarette.  I went out to ‘Millennium Park’, as advised by an exceedingly odd local I met outside, after I left the lobby to the building. Surely, I will find the time to ‘people watch’.  I don’t have much to say about that park though I tried to describe my experience there in my notebook.  I had been tasked with such a thing, after all. It was nice enough though my interest was piqued with that odd and fascinating bean.  It was so strange and silly. Who would ever build such a thing? However, It was spectacular.  The surface was crisp as any quality mirror I’ve seen.  The art piece’s title wasn’t “Shiny Bean”, to my disappointment, but “Cloud Gate” which caused me to pause for a moment. I’m not sure why. To my delight, just south of the park, a rather massive Art Museum loomed...  “Art Institute of Chicago” I dictated, scrawling in my notebook.

Slapping my notebook closed, I looked around for someone who didn’t look like a tourist.  Basing my assumption on my previous inquiry for a local park, I sought out a similar fellow.  I hustled quickly toward a nearby un Noir fellow, “Good Morning, Sir!” I said loudly.  In hindsight, I may not have needed to shout, especially approaching quickly from behind. He was startled, reaching for something in the waist band of his trousers.  He relaxed when, I imagine, he noticed I was a proper Frenchman, and not some riffraff from Genoa. “What is you doin’, dude? You don’t run up on someone like that.” – “I would hardly call that a run, a brisk walk sure.” He stood confused. “What do you want, brah?”

“Yes, right.” Clearing my throat, “Could you help me locate a nearby Delicatessen?” – “A what?”

“It’s just that you seem like you live around here… oh, uhh, it has cold-cut sandwiches.” I tried to explain that it was where you can get cured meat and cheese, usually sandwiches.

“I seem like I live around here? Oh, like SubWay? There’s one up the street over there, man.” He seemed annoyed, but I appreciated his willingness to help. Perhaps a delicatessen was not common here. I continued, “Subway? That underground train?” – “No, man, well yeah it’s a pun, you know. Like a Sub sandwich, SubWay.” – “Yes, a sandwich. What’s a Sub Sandwich? Like, an inferior sandwich? I’d rather have one that is quality.” – “No, dude, look it’s a Submarine Sandwich because, I don’t know, it’s long like the shape of a Submarine. Like, the boats that are underwater?” – “An underwater ship, you say? Interesting.  A German must have thought that up, no doubt!” – “Look, if you find’a get a sandwich, just walk down there and look for that Green and yellow ‘SubWay’ sign, stay ABOVE ground and head in there and say to the clerk, ‘yo, let me get a sandwich’, alright?”

I looked on in the direction he was pointing and indeed there was a green and yellow sign that read, “SubWay.” He was laughing, “Hey man, I gotta get goin’, good luck wit ya’ sandwich.” – “Thank you for your help, my name’s Gustave.” I stuck out my hand for a handshake. “Nine-trey. Heh, have a good day man.” – “You as well, Mr. Nine Tray.” He paused, “Nah, just Nine-Trey. ‘Mister’ is over at 71 Van Buren, homie.” He said solemnly, waving as he walked away.

I headed out at Nine Tray’s direction toward SubWay. I knew he’d have valuable information. The other local seemed much more destitute, though the cigarette he was smoking had reminded me that I had zero cigarettes.  I arrived at SubWay and pushed through the door. It was a clean little shop, relative to the general cleanliness I’ve experienced. Above the Bane full of apparently freshly prepared produce, there were hanging three large glowing panels. “What can I make for you, sir?” A Local woman smiled behind the bane, putting on clear plastic gloves.

“Y-yo, let me get a sandwich?” I said. She snorted in laughter at my request.

“What kind?” She continued to laugh, gesturing up to the menu.  The menu was too large; how could they even be prepared to make all these options? “I, uh, would like ham and cheddar sandwich.” –“What bread?” – “oh…” I noticed two types of Italian bread and took my chances with the Hearty Multi-Grain. “Hearty Multi-grain.” – “a foot long or six, baby.” – “Footlong.” I assumed she meant to say the sandwich was a foot long. Since that’s the one she lead with, the observations I’ve made today made more sense. “You want it toasted, today?” Toasted? I felt blessed, a Croque Monsieur? I may have been too hopeful. I regularly order one at Café Fleur. “Yes, that would be wonderful.” – “Alright, Teesha will help you with the toppings. What can I make for you, sir?” She waived on the man behind me, seeing now how I must have created a hold up with my inexperience in ordering.

“Okay, what you want on here?” I wasn’t sure how to answer, “Lettuce, tomatoes an’ all that?” – “Yes, just what would typically go on that sandwich, please.”  She finished assembling and wrapping it up in paper, “alright a ham with cheddar… do you want a drink and chips?” – “Sure.” – “Okay, eleven forty-nine for me today, honey.”  Pulling out my credit card I was, again, unsure what to do but she immediately gestured to an electronic device before me, with a clearly labeled opening that would fit this card. I was impressed with how easy it was, though I didn’t have the slightest clue how much I had. As the device printed, “Purchase Approved”, I sighed in relief saying, “Thanks, ladies. Have a great day,” and rushed out the door.

Feeling hurried at the counter made me uncomfortable, and of course, the workers didn’t seem interested in any lengthy conversation that Guillaume and I would have. Though disappointed by the experience, I was set to find a place to eat this monstrous sandwich.  Looking around, “Why aren’t there any benches?” I spoke aloud, “Oh, this will work.” I sat down in a plaza in front of a cozy and perhaps affordable restaurant. The table was lightly decorative wireframe with a table umbrella. The chair was surprisingly comfortable for being metal. I unfolded the wrapper and looked upon my early lunch. “Went a little heavy on the mayonnaise, I see.” I broke the sandwich down its halfway cut, “Not that I am complaining.” I do have a taste for its creamy texture.  “Before I forget…” I yanked out my notebook to take notes. I laid out the sandwich, studying its components. “SubWay’s Black Forest Ham on Multigrain Bread.” I dictated while writing, “It is an assemblage of all the standard components, that being Tomatoes, lettuce, red onions, mustard and mayonnaise blanketing a generous portion of Cheddar cheese melted on ham. The ‘black forest’ part is suspicious.” Had Bavaria created such a spectacular cured ham product that even thousands of miles away in the New World, it was sought?  Below the smattering of Mayonnaise and mustard, lie tomato slices.  I can say that I was disappointed in the coloring. They were dull. A tomato ought to be bright red, crisp. I surmised these slices were simply old stock. “These will lack any sort of flavor.”  Fine shredded lettuce blanketed the sorry slices of tomato. I was relieved to see green. Considering the tomatoes, I was expecting much of the same for the lettuce, though it seems fresh and without any browning. Lastly, the onions are unremarkable but appear fresh. 

“It’s time.” My stomach gurgled. I lifted a half and bit down into the center side.  I had managed a large mouthful that left the remaining size unaffected. I spent a moment considering the details, parsing out the flavor, experiencing the texture. It had a light and satisfying crunch from the lettuce and onion. The red onion and mustard filled my pallet immediately, as it would. The sharp onion gave way to the creamy mayonnaise, though it had an odd flavor.  Whatever oil was used in it was funky, definitely not Olive oil. It was not repulsive. It was a polluted factory slaughterhouse version of mayonnaise.  I would have been happier with less mayonnaise this time.  It was about then where I remembered that it was a ham based sandwich. I could not taste the cheddar further than what I would describe as a generic cheese taste. Finally, the ham was, generously, unremarkable. Of course, what ‘Black Forest’ means, I did not know. It was moist and lightly salty, as the likeness of a cured ham. Perhaps ‘Black Forest’ meant ‘Car Exhaust’.  I took another bite, as to my hunger was able to overwhelm my apparently sensitive palette. As I scribbled these thoughts into my notes for later, I couldn’t help but notice a man hovering by a garbage can maybe ten feet away. He kept looking over at me, trying not to make eye contact. I pushed through and managed to finish one half of this meal, wrapping it back up.

I looked over once again to the garbage can. The unkempt fellow who kept looking at me still stood there.  He looked sickly pale as if he just gotten over a cold, his filthy torn up clothes cluing me into his living arrangements. I was certain he was simply a homeless person, though some people’s fashion would lead me to believe that he was just trendy. “He’s going to speak to me, I just know it.” I muttered, standing with a forceful exhale.  My action piqued his attention, giving away that he was waiting for me to make a move, so much for being nonchalant. I approached the trash bin, holding out the rest of my sandwich to dispose of it when he jumped into action.

“Hey, woah, woah, hold on, pal. You aren’t going to just throw that away are you?” He eyed my SubWay Black Forest Ham with Cheddar I held over the opening of the bin, also holding out as if to give it to him as he was on the other side. “Hey, uhh, instead of, you know, tossing it in the garbage, I’ll take it.” He looked nervous. “Waste not want not, and all that, right? Heh…” – “If I did, would you walk away?” – “Oh, yeah, man. Sure. I’ll run away if you want, man.” I lifted my hand from the trash to him. He snatched the wrapped half-sandwich from me and hurried off, “Thanks, man, that was nice. Thanks!”  I shuddered from that uncomfortable interaction. I’m always leery of such folks. I suppose that was the most polite homeless man I’d ever encountered. In my youth, friends and I had traveled to Paris from my home in the Normandy region outside of Le Havre where we were waylaid by bandits.  I can understand the plight of a man banished from his home, but they were real jerks.

The third item on my checklist was to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. I would not have believed the hassle involved in getting a few cigarettes.  I made my way out of the plaza and back to a corner store I passed after leaving SubWay, a ‘bodega’ it’s called by some of the sickly folks. It reminded me of those small general stores one would find in small towns in the countryside. A store that had a large variety of things rather than, say, just meat as a butcher shop would have in a larger town.  Strange indeed that such a massive metropolis would have such a tiny, broad selection shop like this.  Upon entering I concluded that it wasn’t so much a general store as it was a Cigarette and Alcohol store with a section of individually packaged food products. I shall return to sample these items, such as ‘Doritos’. The packaging indicates they are corn chips with a ‘nacho’ flavoring. There were about a dozen different flavors. Surely, I have my work cut out for me.  Lo, there was a fresh brewed coffee section, as well.  I was unimpressed by the smell. I was impressed with the wide selection of tobacco products.  I was, again, suspicious that these brands were likely the same thing repackaged.  I hoped that it was just a cynical view I got free of charge from SubWay.  I tried to divine an answer to my burning question, “which one of these is of good quality.” Scanning the shelves, I landed on ‘Turkish Royal’.  “Ah. The Turks, of course… and royal, at that!” The cashier looked exhausted, or bored. “Good day, ma’am. I would like a package of Turkish Royal Cigarettes. Thank you.” She slumped out of her position on a stool and shuffled over to retrieve it, tossing it causally onto the counter.  “ID Please.” She sighed. – “a what?” – “You’re driver’s license or whatever.” – “I don’t have that. What does driving have to do with a package of cigarettes?” – “I can’t sell you these without proof that you are over 21 years old.”

I stood there, bewildered. “Ma’am, I am 51 years old. I have clearly visible gray in my black hair.” She just sat there with glazed eyes, staring blankly. “Ma’am, just outside there is a man smoking a cigarette who is clearly some sort of Opium addict. Are you saying that the local magistrate has granted him permission to drive a vehicle?” She stared for a moment longer then responded, “look, it’s illegal for me to assume your age.” I could tell I wasn’t gaining ground with this woman.  I bid her farewell and exited, walking straight away to that man I pointed out.

“Good day. Would you be so kind to spare me a cigarette? I have no Identification and I was not allowed to purchase my own.”  As I finished my question, the man turned to me and, to my shock, it was the same gentleman I had given my sandwich leftovers. 

“Woah! Hey!” He was happy to see me, clearly. “Yeah, sure, buddy.” He opened his jacket and pulled out a package of cigarettes, ‘Pall Mall’ it read. “Here, have two.” – “Pall-Mall? I’ve been known to enjoy Lawn Billiards.” – “What?” – “Yes, It’s a spectacular game. Is it popular here?” – “I don’t know what you are talking about; these are just cigarettes, man.”  I went on to explain that Pall-Mall is a game where you have a lawn with large balls that you would smack with a mallet.  Apparently, it is now called ‘Crochet’ and it is not popular anymore, particularly with the well-to-do types.  What I did find interesting is that a different lawn game involving mallets and balls that is popular internationally. It’s called Golf, to think that old game from Scotland would be so renowned! The mallets are longer and club shaped and the balls are considerably smaller with a goal of sinking it into a hole. What’s more is the lawn field is huge, hundreds of yards from end to end. It’s changed little over the years, at that! The name of these cigarettes invoked a certain aristocratic appeal, however the taste was not. It was overly dry with a faint sulfuric acidity.

“You don’t look busy. If you did me a favor and purchased a package of Turkish Royal, I’d be happy to buy whatever else you’d like in that store…” – “Woah, really?” – “…within reason.”  I didn’t want him leaving the ‘bodega’ with an armful of Brandy bottles. I took a huge risk and handed him my credit card and stood by the door, mentally preparing to chase him down the street.  I peered through the window, mostly obstructed by advertisements.  He weaved between the aisles toward the back, scrupulously contemplating his choice of hard liquor, holding other items I can’t make out. Again, I poked my head between an advertisement for “Hurricane Lager” and a board displaying the cost of ‘Kool’, I reckoned yet another brand of Cigarette.  He presented a small card as the cashier came back with a large box from a storage room behind the counter.

The door flung open, Pall-Mall Man bearing three plastic bags of items. “Hey, I know it looks like a lot but I feel like it was within reason! I initially thought to buy just one pack but I had the brilliant idea to buy you a whole carton. It may be possible I never see you again, as well as your issue of being denied service.” He scoffed, “and I thought, ‘hey, dollar on the dollar sounds reasonable to me’, took me a moment to add up mentally in my head the cost, y’know!”

“Clever man.” I slapped him on the back, “I had a feeling about you!” – “Anything for Sandwich man.” He grinned. I had never asked him his name, nor have I actually introduced myself. That was so unlike me. “Gustave d’Evreux”, I stuck out my hand.

“Carl Kaczmarek.”

“Kaczmarek? A Hussar, excellent!” He didn’t share my enthusiasm and he was actually a local, born in the town of Elgin and had come to Chicago as a child where he has resided since.  “Carl, please join me for coffee. I am hopelessly out of my depth in this place. Can you recommend an establishment that serves quality coffee?” – “Yeah, sure. You can get coffee anywhere but if you want good stuff, you gotta avoid shit like Starbucks or whatever.” He paused for a moment, “places where they do the fancy coffee that they hand pour hot water over grounds are probably the best. They’d actually appreciate you asking for ‘good coffee’, hah.” – “is there one you prefer?” – “No, I don’t go to fancy coffee shops, my man. I just get coffee at the BP in River North, ha.” – “Oh.”  I took moment to reflect.  My desire to cling to some normalcy lent to selfishness that was unbecoming of me.  This gentleman was aware of quality that could be found, yet having not an interest in it. Besides, what would I find, just another hustled line of disinterested locals? Guillaume always had an ear for the details of my last match of Tennis, knowing he rarely played himself.  “Carl. Say, why don’t you take me to, ‘beepee’, for some coffee instead? My treat.” – “Oh, alright.” He grinned. “I need to stash my haul, first!”

I don’t know if I will regret hanging out with this Tramp. His ‘stash house’ was actually just a friend’s apartment. I don’t know what I was expecting. He told me that in order to not impose oneself too much on a friend, thereby straining the friendship, you have several friends on whom you impose. “You can’t crash on someone’s couch for a month straight, because that’s not ‘crashing’.” He taught me. “However, if you have, I don’t know… eight friends. A few days a month between all of them is definitely in the realm of ‘crashing’.”  I inquired to his employment, and he responded, “I’m not interested in that.  These companies all want you to ‘be on time’ ‘do this’ ‘do that’ ‘no, you can’t take the day off’ ‘I don’t care that you wanted to sleep in’.  The whole thing is a scam, and for what? I do jobs when the situation calls for it. I understand I’m supposed to do what they say, but I ain’t about that. Maybe in a different life where I had, like, a real job that paid enough, I don’t know.”

The BP, which is an acronym for British Petroleum of all things, was surprisingly clean. I used the restroom and expected a urine damp cave decorated with a network of fecal cave paintings artfully crafted by revived primitive men disguised in modern apparel. The ammonia smell was certainly powerful, but a spring breeze on the banks of the Somme in comparison.  The shop was similar to the ‘Bodega’ from before, but it also sold gas. I’d say its primary function was to sell alcohol and tobacco to people who need fuel for their vehicles.  The shop had an area for premade self-serve coffee in large insulated vessels, dispensed via a push tab spout on the bottom.  I noticed Carl had put a painful amount of creamer in it, “oh, yeah, it’s free so instead of a zero calorie drink it’s a two hundred calorie drink that is sweet. Additionally, it turns a bad black coffee into a better coffee flavored desert drink.” He chuckled with a wink. Taking this shrewd man’s sage advice I flooded my coffee with a river of smooth ‘coffee mate’ brand French Vanilla creamer, laid into it like a sweet drift of fresh driven snow. Among the offering, there was a bottle of caramel flavoring. I heaved down on the dispenser head, releasing a stream of whatever substance it was; perhaps it truly was the pure flavor of Caramel somehow metaphysically extracted by an Alchemist into an elixir. “Heh, that’s silly, of course it isn’t. It’s probably simply some pollution, caramel in taste through sheer happenstance.” I mumbled, sniggering at my own expense.

We left the gas station, frothing coffee desserts in hand, and into the blazing midday sun, strangled by icy gusts of wind. I patted my jacket, carefully choosing which of the ten packages of cigarettes I’d open first. “I’m going to need a satchel, my friend,” I said, reaching also for my new lighter. Carl explained, “So butane is in there and it’s like, slightly pressurized and when you press down on the button it opens it up. So, when you wheel down the flint, you press the button at the same time and it is ignited.” Boy, is this more convenient than lighting a spill off of a nearby candle or something. “What a clever device”, I said while scribbling a note. Carl cleared his throat, “Hey, umm, I didn’t want to bring it up you know, because, you know… did someone get halfway through a Glasgow Smile on your left cheek? Holy shit.” I dragged my fingertips down my left cheek. I wasn’t actually sure where I had gotten such a scar. “I was employed at a wharf in my youth. It was from an injury at work.” I had to think of something plausible. I’m glad I did. “That’s relieving,” he sighed, “unless you’re lying and are some international mafia hitman. Don’t whack me man, I don’t got any problems with anybody.” He reservedly chuckled, scratching his head. “I’m not a hitman.” – “Said the hitman!” I could tell he thought it was funny to continue to insinuate I was a hitman, so I stopped indulging him.

I had low expectations for the Turkish Royal. It served me well when I was relieved to taste a decent, lightly acidic and aromatic flavor. A pleasant mild tobacco flavor was just what I wanted.  Sometime later, I learned that the same company owns Camel brand and Pall-Mall brand.  My main take away from this information is that they aren’t simply repackages of the same product, but they really are unique blends of tobacco. My new compatriot and I strolled on the streets shadowed by the massive steel and glass spires of commerce and residence. I am yet astounded by their preeminence.  On this leg of our journey, I was interested in finding a quality side bag. “If I’m going to be on foot, I need a comfortable way to carry things, Carl.  This really isn’t different than a woodland hike.” He thought a moment and told me, “If you want to stay out of trouble you need to fit in. No offense, and not that you look bad, but you dress like a businessman or something. You won’t be hassled looking like that in Streeterville, or wherever you’re from, but it’s good to blend in. I mean, I know you don’t have cash on you, but you look like you do.” His veiled warning of danger grasped at my chest. I became aware. I had been walking around up until now recklessly oblivious. I certainly would not have wandered the highway alone, or ventured into the wilderness unprepared. “You need some camouflage, man. Without me, you’d probably get you a nice leather side strap thing that matched your outfit.” He laughed, “honestly, dude, get yourself a new setup. Things don’t have to be dangerous if you take the necessary precautions.” We arrived at a high-rise apartment complex, “You seem intelligent, so I’m not gonna hand hold you, Gus. Not that I wouldn’t love to join you in a wardrobe swap. If you tone it down, get some t-shirts, khakis, maybe like baseball hats or whatever, you will be fine. Sports or Outdoors type places have all kinds of stuff like that. You can definitely get a kit without looking like a goofy tourist. A pro tip for you to get ‘worn in’ clothes is to pop into a second hand thrift store.”  I was fascinated by his look normal and blend in style of camouflage. What I started to put together is this town was a large Jungle with small towns inside. The bodegas started to make sense to me now.  “I’ll see you around. Well, if you do it right, I won’t.” – “Is this a new place to crash?” – “Yeah, it’s my man teddy’s place. He’s in Florida for the week and for the price of taking care of his cat, I get a whole couch.” I wrote down the address. “Thanks, Carl.” – “Have a good one, Gus.”

The next two hours were entirely uneventful. Well, events had happened, such as walking to, around and then out of several clothing stores along the Chicago River. The burning questions are, “Had he found appropriate clothing?” Yes, he did. “Did his card work all those times?” It sure did. “Was he being robbed blind?” He had no way of knowing as every store had similar prices.  I noticed many individuals wearing sports team themed attire, the Bulls and Blackhawks for example.  I have never watched either team play their respective sports.  Since then, I have found that they are both teams of massively popular sports developed in North America. Perhaps someday I will watch a match of ‘Hockey’. Among the many bits of uninteresting happenings when piecing together an outfit that helps you blend in, an unrelated location of interest for me was a Cocktail Bar and Brassiere, of all things, called “Fred Francois”.  I headed back thusly to the room to dump this stuff, tout de suite.