Cold City Smoking
The city draws in its breath strong on Friday nights, sucks me right into its belly, long past families are safely tucked into cotton-sheeted beds. Tonight, feeling deviant again, a little sideswiped, I wander out onto the concrete ribbons¾ looking for all that a good girl should steer clear of¾boys will be boys. This night I stray too close to the fringe, the end-line.
I park my car at the corner of South Halsted and Lake Street, place the key in the magnetic box, tuck it under the wheel case, and walk east towards the lake. Chicago bars, in cold weather, make for ample hunting grounds¾lonely men, boys¾sometimes women. I pass up more than a few, sniffing the doorways for possibilities. Darkened windows glow with neon invitations in the form of Budweiser and Corona signs humming to frosted windows. If the bar smells stale, too weak or cancerous, I don’t bother opening the wooden doors separating dingy, stagnant dens from the moving world. I walk for blocks, watching my shadow grow taller as I pass each streetlight, liking the sound my boot heels make as they rhythmically click the pavement.
This crazy late-night bar, “Sullly’s,” under the L-tracks in the frayed edge of the south Loop catches my eye so I head in for fresh meat. Hell, I was hungry for it¾it was Friday night, right? I let my eyes adjust from the bright street light to the mellow golden glow of booze bottles in front of mirrors¾my modus of operandi is to scan the booze shelf like I’m looking for my favorite brand, but I look at reflections of patrons in the mirror, to see if anything’s worth playing with. Men sit on their barstools like sausage displays on a butcher’s rack; some clean shaven and plump; others mangy and lean. I prefer them tall and dark, meaty with good bones. If I’m feeling good, I pick one who’s off by himself, holding his drink or cigarette like it’s his last. I want to take those men and pull them into me, hear their breath ache for a minute¾make their blood move inside them and know I did it; but sometimes, when feeling mean, I want a happy one, an innocent¾someone out with friends, or better yet, with a girl. I like to steal them away, break their male spines¾hear the snap in their throats when they stop laughing because I whisper honeyed insults after they give me what I want. And I always take more.
I see the one for tonight¾yeah, I know he’s it¾he’s perfect. A little Johhny Depp thing going on; but this one’s beefier. A little wool cap sits atop dark, wavy hair that hangs past his coat’s collar like an invitation. What really sold me is he’s only got one arm. I get a quick-flash vision of me unbuttoning his shirt while his eyes turn the color of grateful. The jukebox is playing an old surfer song…what the hell is it? Misirlou! Perfect stalking music; I slow my tracking steps, feeling like a panther-cat. I hover between chosen prey and the old guy to his left who’s wheezing and wiping his nose. Not an empty seat in the place, but that’s ok¾a little less conspicuous that way; but at 5’11 in my boots, in black leather pants with dark brown hair near waist length, I get noticed. Sure as Pops here to my left has the buds of tumors in his lungs, I always get noticed.
I feel the usual blood rush coming on¾loving it: setting bait, the control¾then walking away when it’s over. After a few seconds of waiting for the bartender to work my way, one-armed “Johnny” turns his head from his smoke and asks me in a soft accent if I’d like a drink. Is he Russian? I teeter for just one immeasurable second, sensing, what? But precariously attracted to this one-armed man, I lean in to him and say, “Sure do sweetie,” as the chords of Misirlou heat up.
An hour later, after liquor-infused verbal exchanges, we head to the back alley¾it’s cold out, but I’ve been here before¾I know a little alcove to escape the wind. My body’s wound anticipatingly tight for his one handed grip on my ass while he lets it go. We lean in against the wall; I want to pin him to it¾unbutton his woolen shirt in the frosty air¾see his nipples tighten; but he beats me to it. He pushes me against the brick, mumbling strange words in an alien language. He grinds mean against me. I tell him, “Hey…slow down…no rush!” and try to kiss him. He speaks words that sound like “pacnithar sooka” and pushes me back harder with his shoulder, using his one arm’s hand to rip my pant zipper down. In a millisecond he flings his hand upward, slaps me hard across the face and then it’s down again, tugging harder. Panic?¾shit!¾I feel warm blood from my nose. I think this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I fucked up. He was the animal I’d avoided till now¾preservation mode and adrenalin kick in¾ I knee him in the groin and don’t wait like a stupid bitch in the movies¾I take off running toward the short end of the alley.
Alcohol in my blood and brain take me down a few wrong streets till I find my sweet little rusty ride waiting on South Halsted. Picking the key out from its hiding place, I slide onto the driver’s seat, lock the door, and light a smoke. I take it in deep, then exhale smoke-laced fear. I watch how the smoke’s vapors hang in the air, meeting the cold head on.
It was only a little after two a.m.¾I think about heading north, towards Diversey¾maybe some college boy or husband out late after work who should have been home long ago to one of those cotton sheeted beds. Turning the ignition, I pull it out slow.
