A Day in Chicago

         It's four AM. Most people are sleeping, but I'm not. I'm just hitting my stride. Some people call me a vampire because I like to stay up at night. I like the solitude the night brings me. I feed off it. I like looking out my window and seeing the pretty lights of downtown. I love the city because it has pretty lights at night that my small little town of 1,200 that I grew up in did not have.

               At 4:30, I turn on the morning news. The anchors talk about the latest city council meeting. One alderman is in trouble for making some off-color remarks about another alderman. Now there are calls for his resignation.

               Soon the morning traffic report comes on. They're picking up the overnight construction on the Dan Ryan. There's an accident on the Eisenhower that is causing traffic problems. The map they display on the screen shows the expressway in red because it has slowed to 5 MPH. There's even a bird's eye view of the crash scene. I love the city and its morning traffic reports.

               A few hours later, I decide that I will go to McDonald's for breakfast. Most people eat breakfast for the first meal of the day. But I eat it for the last meal before I go to bed.

               I take the elevator downstairs to the lobby. After I drive out the front door, I take a right to go down the ramp in my wheelchair. The ramp is out of the way and makes me feel like I'm an afterthought. I understand that this building was built long before accessibility became an issue. That's what happened in old cities.  I hate the city and its inaccessible buildings.

               I wait at the bus stop at Damen & Taylor. There is a crowd of five other people gathered at the bus stop. A gray-haired man is wearing a black windbreaker with faded blue jeans. He is standing behind a woman wearing hospital scrubs and looking like she just got off from work. Three other women are standing near her. They look like they are college students on their way to an early morning class.

               I see a bus coming down the street. The bus is blue and white. On the side, there is an advertisement for the newest sitcom on the local CBS station. There's a scroll broad that says the name and number of the route in the upper right-hand corner.

When the bus stops, I wait for the other people to board the bus. Being in a wheelchair, I know I have to wait for everyone to board first. It's just easier that way. Once everyone is on the bus, the driver deploys a ramp to get on the bus. The ramp folds out very slowly, at a snail's pace. I love the city and its accessible transportation.

I then drive my electric wheelchair onto the bus. I quickly scan my bus pass and head to the area designated for a wheelchair. It is here I have problems. The fold-up seat doesn't want to move. I try three or four times to lift it, but it doesn't budge. Finally, the bus driver comes and helps me pull it up. I feel embarrassed because I know I'm causing the bus to be delayed. An old man adds to my embarrassment by saying, "you know people like you should have special buses." I hate the city and the rudeness of its citizens.

I manage to hide my embarrassment and get my wheelchair into its place. I don't know whether to be hurt or angry. If I had normal speech, I would say something to defend myself. But I have a speech impairment and can't talk back. If I was with family or friends, they might be able to protect me. But I moved to the city not knowing anyone and I must weather these types of incidents alone.  I hate the city and the loneliness of it.

The rest of the trip goes without incident, and I get my McDonald's breakfast. Two sausage biscuits and a large glass of orange juice. Most people would say it was a great way to start the day. But for a vampire like me, it's a perfect snack before bed.

I take another bus back to my apartment. As soon as I get in the door, I hop into bed. I sleep until 2:30 PM when I have to wake up to be ready for my 4:00 appointment.

At 3:30, I go down to wait for the campus bus. The campus bus is white and looks like it's from the 1960s. The bus driver opens the door and rudely says, "The bus can't take wheelchairs today. The lift is broken." And then he goes on his way. I say a couple of swear words in his wake because it's the fifth time he has told me the lift is broken. I'm beginning to think the lift isn't broken, he just doesn't want to help me. Again, I the city and the rudeness of its citizens.

I quickly go through the options in my head. I could call and cancel, or I could drive the six blocks to my appointment. I debate for a minute or two and decide that I would travel the six blocks. It's sunny out, and I could use the fresh air. Plus, I love driving around the city.

About halfway into my drive, I stop at the intersection of Harrison and Ashland. There's some construction but nothing I can't handle. One sidewalk is blocked by green fencing, and my wheelchair sticks slightly out into the street. I hate the city and its never-ending construction.

As I'm waiting for the light to change, I look down and fiddle with my iPod. I put on my favorite song Pnk’s Here for the Party. Ten seconds later, I look up to find the light has turned green. I floor my wheelchair as fast as it can go to cross the street in time. When I'm halfway across the street, I hear a horn honk. I hate this city and its Impatient drivers. I make it across the road just as the light turns red and continue to my appointment.

After my appointment, I decide that I'll take a drive by the shore of Lake Michigan. It takes about twenty minutes to take the bus there.

When I arrive at the shore, I stroll along the beach. I take the bike path. I pass walkers and joggers. I pass a mother in a pink shirt and white shorts pushing a black stroller with a toddler. A little farther down, I pass a group of teenagers with gothic clothes.

 I look into the harbor at all the sailboats. Further out into the water, there is a lighthouse that catches my attention. It's white and has a red roof and rocks at the base. I drive my wheelchair for an hour just taking in the sights and sounds of Lake Michigan. I love the city and its beautiful shoreline.

After a few hours at the shoreline, I make my way downtown in my wheelchair. It's too much of a hassle to get on a bus for only a few blocks. And I remember what happened earlier in the morning with the old man, and I don't want another repeat.

I realize that I'm hungry, so I make my way to a McDonald's. I navigate the sidewalks like a true Chicagoan even though I've only been in Chicago for a few months. The crowds of people would fluster most people from a small farm town. But I'm not. I feel right at home in the crowds. I love the city and the crowds of people.

When I get to McDonald's, I have to pass by a group of homeless people near the door. There are three of them. They are wearing tatter coats. One has a Bull's coat on that looks to be from the 90s. I wouldn't know they were homeless except one of them is holding a cardboard sign that says, 'Need money for food.' I would give them something, but I had a bad experience once. I took out some money to give to a homeless person. They took a $20-dollar bill I had. After all, I couldn't defend myself because I had a disability. Now I don't give money to homeless people. I hate the city and its homelessness.

Inside, I get in line to order. There are three people ahead of me. A mother with two children. They order, and it's my turn.

The young girl at the cash register looks panicked. I know the look. She doesn't know how to deal with a disabled person. I get that look more times than people might think. Suddenly, she says, "This register is closed." I'm annoyed, but I move to the next cash register.

There are four people ahead of me in this line, so it takes about ten minutes. Finally, it's my turn. The same young girl is at the cash register with the same panicked look on her face. She looks at the man standing behind me, and says "What would you like, sir."

Now I have short brown hair and get mistaken for a boy quite frequently. So I'm not sure if she's speaking to the short man behind me or me. I begin to say my order. But she goes, "No, you sir." Pointing at the man behind me.

I'm not sure what to do. I want to demand service. But my speech impairment makes an impossible challenge. My speech impairment makes my speech intelligible if I get upset. I know it's no use to voice my displeasure because she won't understand anyway.

I'm about to turn around and leave. But suddenly, the man behind me says, "Here I'll order for you" It takes me a few seconds to realize he is talking to me. I feel relief that somebody is going to help me out. I quickly tell him what I want to eat, and he orders for me. The young girl looks perplexed when he gives her the order. I love the city and its Good Samaritans.

After I get done eating, I make my way to the “L” stop. I'm going to take the train home. I make my way through the wheelchair-accessible turnstile. Once on the other side, I have to find a transit worker to get the bright yellow ramp. I don't take the “L” lot because I have to track down a transit worker to help me. It takes about ten minutes to locate a free worker.

I then go to the elevator to go up on the platform. Immediately I smell urine when the elevator doors open. It's the typical smell for an elevator at an “L” stop I have discovered. I'm not sure why the elevators smell like urine. I suspect that homeless people use it as a bathroom, although I have never witnessed it. I have learned to plug my nose when I need to use the elevator. I hate the city and its public urination.

Once I'm on the platform, I go to where the front of the train will be. I have learned that where they put people with disabilities. I'm thankful to be so near the front.

When the train arrives, the transit worker lays down the ramp to board the train. It's a simple process that takes ten seconds. I love the city and its accessible transportation.

After a twenty-minute train ride, I'm back in the medical district. I'm about to go back to my apartment, but then I realize that I need to go to the grocery store. I remember that I need a few things.

I dodge and weave my way through the urban landscape to the Jewel grocery store. It's about four blocks from the 'El’ stop. I have to be careful of cars. In my months in the city, I’ve learned that cars don’t watch for pedestrians. I have to watch for vehicles, especially at parking ramps. Cars always zoom out of those in a hurry. I hate the city and its people always being in a hurry.

It takes me about an hour to get all my groceries. I always get a basket because I figure whatever I can fit in the basket, I can fit on my wheelchair to carry it back to my apartment. However, today I calculate wrong, and I end up with too many groceries to fit on my wheelchair. The store clerk looks at me with a look of bewilderment when she can’t fit the groceries on the back of my wheelchair.

“Can I help you take these to your car?” She asks.

It’s a reasonable question. But I don’t have a car.

I say, “My wheelchair is my car.”

She gives me a strange look. I don’t know if she can’t understand my speech or if she doesn’t understand the comment.

I quickly think through my options. I could put back on the shelve some of the groceries and come back for them tomorrow. Or I could leave some of the groceries behind at customer service and come back for them later tonight or tomorrow.

Suddenly, the manager comes over and asks, “Can I call you a cab?” This baffles me for a second. I never thought about taking a taxi. I think about it for a few moments.

I say, “Ok.”

I take my groceries and go outside to wait for the taxi. While I’m waiting, I observe the people coming and going. A family of four is getting out of their red mini-van. The children, a boy and a girl, look to be around eight. The parents are a cute-looking couple in their mid-thirties. A few moments later, I watch an elderly couple walk out of the store. Both of them have short gray hair. She wears a red coat, and he wears a light t-shirt.

After twenty minutes have passed, the cab shows up. Immediately, I know there is a problem. The cab is a car, and I’m in an electric wheelchair. My wheelchair is three hundred pounds and can't fold up---it can’t fit in a car. I forgot to tell the manager I needed an accessible taxi. I didn’t even think I needed to specify it because I was sitting in my wheelchair. But in her defense, she probably never had to think about accessibility.

Now I have to think about what to do. The driver is giving me a bewildered look. Suddenly, I come up with a radical solution. I ask the driver if he could drive my groceries to my apartment while I drive my wheelchair there. I know it’s an unusual arrangement, but I don’t feel like waiting for an accessible taxi. The driver agrees, and I give him my address. I love the city and its taxicabs.

It takes me fifteen minutes to drive my wheelchair back to my apartment. The yellow cab is waiting in front of my apartment. The driver was nice enough to carry the groceries to my front door. I pay him and say thank you. I can’t imagine what is going through his mind. I take the groceries inside. It takes me two trips.

I spend the rest of the evening in my apartment watching TV waiting for night to fall so I can become a vampire and enjoy the lights of the city.