The Oasis

-

Yesterday morning, your new scale’s digital display read 133. 

Yesterday evening—after the brats, the burgers, the chips, all that beer, the brownies, the cookies, and the cupcakes at the BBQ; then after the Krispy Kreme doughnuts and the Bresler's chocolate malt at the O'Hare Oasis—after all that, the scale’s display read 138. 

Whilst standing at one of the oasis’s two walls of glass—tall and wide enough to frame a Boeing 747, nose to tail*—you slurp your shake and watch the various city and suburban bursts and showers of fireworks. And, sappy you, what you couldn’t get out of your head was: Which display was she standing beneath? And you wished she wondered which one you stood beneath. But you’re fairly certain she wasn’t thinking of you at all. You’re fairly certain you couldn’t be further from her mind.† 

The O'Hare Oasis stretches over the Tri-State Tollway.‡ Think of it as an enclosed pedestrian bridge with a food court.§ Giant panes of glass fit together to make up the north and south walls. Individually, they’re larger than your average garage door. These panes continuously quiver from the endless rush of traffic below. 

Start at either the north or the south wall, run fast enough, and you could easily smash through any of the individual panes. Or so it seems. Burst through one of these panes, and you’ll still have a leap’s worth of concrete ledge to go, and then the hindrance of a steel guard rail. After that, though, you’re home free. 

Only, you’re with Ma and Stepdude. And you’d hate to ruin the current familial joviality. 

This morning, just like your old high school wrestling coach promised, the scale subtracted a pound. That’s what everyone loses over a night’s sleep. A pound, at the least. Tomorrow, you’ll hit the weights and the treadmill—particularly the treadmill—with a vengeance. By the end of the week, you’ll be back to your ole 131.5 miserable self again. Surely girls’ll stare at gaunt you, ‘cause they never stared at chubby you. 

4 July 2005 

*[07/10/22: A slight exaggeration, and not the only one.] 

†[7/10/22: I couldn’t tell you her name. I’ve pined after so many.] 

‡[7/10/22: At midnight on 4 September 2018, the O’Hare Oasis closed forever. It was ripped out to widen the tollway.] 

§[07/10/22: If memory serves, it was mostly a food court, but not entirely a food court.] 

Popular posts from this blog

Peekaboo?

-
Last night, over the phone, Cindi told me that her Coke was looking at her.    I didn’t ask how an aluminum can might’ve sprouted an eyeball. Instead, like any protective beau, I threatened it. “Quit looking at my girlfriend!” I shouted. “She’s waaaay outta your league! And besides, you don’t exist to… to ogle your consumer! You have one job: Contain!”   The can offered neither appeal nor apology.    So, through clenched teeth, I issued this warning: “Keep it up, buster, and I’ll crush you flat under my shoe!”    In sooth,   I said none of that.   What I actually said was,   “What?”   Cindi told me to “never mind.” But I pressed her and, finally, she disclosed what I thought I heard her say. Was the eyeball, I asked, giving her an inquisitive look? The famed " evil " or " stink " eye, perhaps? Might it be a look of surprise? Or fear? No, she told me. It was merely looking at her, with no particular look.  “Ah. Well. Good !” I said. “Gives me something to jot down
Read more

Potted

-
Where I live, there’s this plant. It’s inside the house. It looks more like a small tree than your garden-variety house plant. But instead of a tree, I’m calling it a plant. Because it’s potted. And it doesn’t really have branches. So it’s more of a tree-wannabe. It “looks” out the window all day long at all the tall trees out there. And it’s envious. Or is it grateful? Whichever, this much is clear: The flora on the flip side of that window has yard-cred. And we all want cred of some kind, don’t we? ‘Cause if we’re not cred, we’re crud.  But this tree-wannabe’s always been right there, where it is, all of my life. Right there, in that pot, in that room. “The library,” Pop calls it. It’s got two shelves of books, so I guess it qualifies. Said tree-wannabe hasn’t gotten any taller; hasn’t gotten any shorter, either. Nobody ever mentions it. Pop walks into the “library” only when he’s looking for a stamp or a paperclip. He’s a paper reader. Newspapers and magazines. Books are too much of
Read more

Use The Hole

-
Nearly everywhere coffee is served in this country you’ll find what we, at Chicago Coffee Cadre #7, call a “mixing station.” I.e., a stand where a patron finds plasticware, wooden stirring rods, a variety of sweetener packets, and creamer carafes. Additionally, our mixing stations (we have two) each feature a hole, six inches in diameter. Said hole exists as the opening above a hidden receptacle. Said receptacle awaits the rubbish that results from the addition of whatever you put into your coffee.  [If this is, indeed, you, have you ever considered just how many white / brown / pink / green / yellow / powder blue paper packets of sweetener you’ve ripped open and discarded in your lifetime? What if you had to keep all of those packets with you for the rest of your days? How on Earth would you ever get by if all idiotic “single-use” things—like sweetener packets and mixing rods—were outlawed?]  Most patrons of CCC #7 understand and appreciate the function of the hole in our respective
Read more