Dad And I Got The El Out

Today is my tenth birthday. Dad told me a little while ago that he has a surprise for me, told me to get dressed, that we're going out. "Just you and me," he said. I begged him to tell me where we'd be going but he said it wouldn't be a surprise then, "now would it?" Still, I wanted to know. I really don't like surprises, to tell you the truth. Too many surprises lately. Last week, Dad surprised us all when he'd lost his job. A few weeks before that, he lost another paycheck. Mom doesn't like surprises either. She wasn't too happy when Dad told her, how he lost his paycheck, "on a sure thing. Couldn't have possibly lost." I overheard him tell her this when I was passing their bedroom on my way to the kitchen. The kitchen is right next to their bedroom and as I was sitting there eating my cereal I could hear my mom crying. I hate when Mom cries. The last year or maybe, the last two, I've heard my mom cry a lot. Sometimes I'll see her cry but that's not very often though. Mom doesn't like us kids seeing her cry. She does it in her bedroom with the door closed. She knows we won't bother her when she's in her bedroom with the door closed.

After getting dressed in my jean pants and tee shirt, Dad and me leave the apartment. On the way to the bus stop, once again I beg Dad to at least, give me a hint to where he's taking me.

"Okay, okay," he says. "We'll be taking the elevated."

"Do you mean the el train?"

"Yes, Ricky." He pulls from his pants pocket a couple of C.T.A. (Chicago Transit Authority) tokens and then quickly switches them from one hand to the other, back and forth, back and forth and now my head's getting dizzy. He finally stops, thank goodness, and holds out his fists. "Okay," he says, "I bet you don't know which hand they're in."

I point to his right fist and he unclenches it, revealing nothing. "All right, it's in your left then." I'm wrong again. Somehow, the two tokens had ended up in his ear, and I don't know how, it just amazes me, seeing my dad pull out of his ears two bus tokens. The bus pulls up, we climb aboard, and again, I'm amazed. This time Dad pulls the tokens from his mouth and deposits them in the fare box. The bus driver looks at my dad like he's crazy or something. We ride the bus to the el station; all the way I'm trying to guess on my birthday surprise. Each time, Dad assures me that I'm wrong. "No, we're not going to the movies. No, not bowling."

As we wait for our el train to come, Dad and me watch the pigeons. They're waddling the platform pecking at bits of bread a big lady in a dark shawl is tossing. A couple of times the big lady throws the bread too far and they land next to the third rail of the track. Watching those pigeons swoop down to the tracks near the third rail is getting me very nervous. God forbid, they touch the third rail; they'd be "fried chicken." I don't know how many volts are running this track but Dad tells me enough to electrocute an elephant. I don't think many elephants ride this line though. They're usually on the circus train and I think those kinds of trains are run by steam engines, maybe diesel.

Beyond the blue spears of electric discharge, the Marina Towers, resembling two tall stacks of poker chips rise above the ground, giving me the chance to place another bet on my birthday surprise. This time I bet on a trip to the museum. I heard it's downtown somewhere. But this bet doesn't pay off either. Try again. Dinosaur bones, mummies and whatever else they have enslaved at The Field Museum would have to await my young and unwavering curiosity for another time.

As the el train whizzes along, I feel as though I'm flying. Through the window I see nothing but the city below. There's nothing in between. No track, nothing. Veering to one side, my body pressed against the cool steel, I see the expanse of blue just beyond the line of gray edifice. It looks like the lake, the very big lake. The beach, that's it, I bet we're going to the beach.

"Dad, we're going to beach, right?"

"No, Ricky."

After negotiating another turn and then straightening out, in the distance, well beyond the breakers, boats, all kinds of boats begin to eclipse my view. I bet that's it. I feel really good about this one. "Dad," I say, "are you taking me on a boat?"

"Yes, Ricky," Dad answers. "We're going to take the two-hour scenic tour on Lake Michigan," he says soberly. Now I'm getting excited, real excited, so excited that I nearly piss on the graffiti-laden seat. What a great surprise! Never been on a real boat before, only a small rowboat up in Wisconsin when I was either seven or eight or perhaps five.

"Dad," I ask, "why did you decide to take me on a boat?" He looks up for a second, puts his index finger to his chin and begins to ruminate that his own father, my grandfather who I had never met, who died mysteriously well before I was born, took him on the same tour, but back then, "things were different, well, you know, the city wasn't built as high as it is now, didn't have a lot of these buildings we have now and no Ricky, no John Hancock building and no Playboy Bunny atop the building next to it either."

As the train begins to sweep around the outer edge of The Loop, with buildings tossing shadows and shadows casting streaks across Father's face, I'm kind of enjoying this ride aboard the elevated, although I'm starting to feel more anxious and excited about getting off this darn thing and getting on that boat. I feel a trickle down my leg. I'm kind of embarrassed so I look around at my fellow passengers, people of various age and color, most of them in light summer clothes, and realize they are all ensconced in business of their own and pay me no attention, none at all.

The train lunges into a tunnel and then snakes out into a clearing, where the mid-September sun penetrates and emblazons the crayoned swastikas and spray-painted gang insignia that are worn tightly and selfishly upon the walls of our urine-smelling compartment. Across from Father and me, slumped unconsciously forward, sits a man with decrepit overcoat, clutching a brown paper bag. A closer look reveals a puddle, a yellowish bubbly puddle below his knees. I reason with clear conscience that we should switch to another car. But Dad says, "We're off at the next stop." I put my face in my hands and think about the meatloaf that Mom will be cooking for me later on. I have simple tastes and meatloaf is what I want and not some swanky Porterhouse or lobster tail. Besides, Porterhouses and lobster tails probably cost too much money anyway and I don't think there's much money for things like that, well, not since Dad lost his job last week.

I feel the train losing speed. I lift my face off my hands and look at Dad, who is now staring pensively at the man across from us, the one slumped in drunkenness, and I wonder if Dad's being reminded of his own self as he was five or six months ago, when he, himself, was drunk a lot of the time, falling down and knocking things over and sometimes passing out on The Elevated and missing his stop, probably missing a bunch of stops.That was then, before he vowed never to take a drink again. Dad is sober and I'm proud of him and we're going to spend the day together. I'm so happy.

I feel the train slowing. Dad nudges me and then he gets up and grasps the handrail. "C'mon," he says.

We walk for what seems like forever. Dad says we have time before our boat lifts anchor, and besides it would be good to walk and talk and look at the various landmarks and different people who, too, are out taking advantage of this most perfect day. On this day, everybody is out. This day is warm, warmer than most September days and Chicago is alive with its many children, who are carrying on and enjoying what this perfect day has to offer. For some, it will be a day at Lincoln Park Zoo. And for others, a day unfurled on a stretch of sandy beach. Today, there will be family picnics, slow-pitch softball games. Horseshoes will be tossed, volleyballs slapped, basketballs dribbled. Today, perhaps one last romp before the sun turns its face and the leaves fall from the trees and then the snow builds icy fortresses along the avenues and boulevards, keeping the city's many children hostage until Spring comes along again and pays ransom.

We come to the Michigan Avenue Bridge and cross over it, below us the Chicago River gleaming in the sun. Once on the other side, Dad takes my hand and leads me down a flight of stairs to the dock. Awaiting our embarkation is the boat that'll take us down the river and then out to the lake. Today I'm a sailor and I feel so proud. Scampering across the planks, head held high, I know that there are worlds to conquer. I'm young, full of hopes and dreams and ambitions and nothing could stop this boy from accomplishing his mission. I look up at Dad and he, too, is beaming with pride. He knows that he'll duly fulfill his obligations to his family and his country and nothing will stop him. He'll find another job, a good job and finally buy me that bicycle I wanted for the last two years. And maybe that shiny electric guitar I saw in the window of Morley's Music. With his new job, we can move into a bigger apartment, maybe one with three or four bedrooms. Maybe Lenny could have his own room and big sis Trish, hers. And little Wendy, she could get that canopy bed she had wished for. Yeah, things are going to be great. I know this, Dad knows this, and the entire world will know it.

We board the boat. Tourists gather at the bow, cameras strapped around their shoulders. They stare and point and talk amongst themselves in a foreign language.

We choose a seat facing the aft. Dad reasons, "to see better where one has been and not worry so much what is yet ahead. Because whatever is ahead, we will soon pass. Ricky, do you understand?"

"Yes, Dad," I say.

He nods and then closes his eyes. He put his hands together, prayer-like and begins whispering. I try to listen but I cannot hear what he's saying, his soft and tender words suddenly being drowned out by a loud ruckus emanating from mid-ship. My attention to my father has been thwarted, derailed, stolen from me by a gang of hooligans who are in the process of antagonizing a smaller, innocent boy looking not much older or bigger than myself. I could hear:

"Hey punk, you got a problem?"

"You wanna put a bag on that ugly face of yours? You might scare those Japanese people!"

"Hey punk, aren't you listening? You better put a bag on your face before one of those foreign people jumps off this boat and drowns. Hah, hah, hah...

I endure this bantering and tormenting and taunting for a good three or four minutes before all becomes quiet again, except for the sound of the motor under us, revving and purring and preparing for the journey ahead. I'm excited and happy again. I turn to look at Dad and I see a stream running down his cheeks and onto his chin. "Why?" I ask.

"I'm okay," he says. He then unfolds his hands and places them on my shoulders. "Happy birthday, Ricky."

"Thanks, Dad."