Chicago: City on the Make: 50th Anniversary Edition, Newly Annotated

by Nelson Algren

I generally mark everything I “consume” as being worth it, because if it wasn’t I wouldn’t finish it. That said, this was a tough one to swallow. Algren was clearly angry and bitter and seemed to have pretty much given up on Chicago by the time he wrote this. He spends most of the book detailing how clout, corruption, and greed have shaped the city from day one, but I couldn’t even understand a lot of it because at least every other sentence refers to some person, event, or scandal that might have been familiar to people in his time, or historians, but means nothing to me. Having the annotated version helped with this, but it was still slow reading.

On the other hand, Algren obviously loved the people of the city, although he might not have had much faith in their ability to ever make good. This is the essay where he gave us this immortal and beautiful line:

“Once you’ve come to be a part of this particular patch, you’ll never love another. Like loving a woman with a broken nose, you may well find lovelier lovelies. But never a lovely so real.”

(This is the inspiration for the title of Never a City So Real.)

I enjoyed the stories of the wacky Chicago characters the best. Many of these are referred to only in passing by Algren, but are fully explained in the annotations. Just one tidbit: Streeterville is named after “Cap” Streeter, who parked his boat offshore and claimed a sort of island, which had been created by landfilling in the lake, as an independent province. He refused to pay taxes, and the city took him to court. There were also gun battles in the area as he held off law enforcement. Eventually, Chicago won, but a neighborhood near all these shenanigans still has Cap Streeter’s name.

Reading this has definitely led me to look at my new home differently. This city has a hell of a lot of heart . . . but how about a soul?

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Last Friday, the 25th, was Towel Day. I failed to observe it, and in penance I am rereading the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy (all five volumes). I’m on the last one, having started two days ago, because they’re very quick reading. I remember them being laugh-out-loud, roll-on-the-floor, cry-and-pee-on-yourself funny, but this time, I’ve found that I mostly just chuckle affectionately. Of course, I’ve read them many times, starting over 15 years ago, so I remember everything before I read it, plus I’m more jaded and cranky, and less impressed by clever turns of phrase than I used to be. Then tonight, something funny happened. I got a bit drunk and now I’m laughing out loud again. Even gasping for air sometimes.

Nothing like alcohol for recapturing the wonder of bygone youth. I recommend Goose Island 312, not because it’s especially youthful, but because it’s really good in the summertime. If you’re from Chicagoland, it’s also local.

Both Douglas Adams and beer make me think of the British. They love beer. They get out of work and go straight to the pubs - I mean, you see them standing around in their suits, still holding their briefcases, getting a little drunk before they even go home for dinner. Like, every day. I wonder how they ever get anything done at all. If you start drinking right after work, how do you ever manage to vacuum, or feed the dog or cat or whatever, or call some cousin whose birthday it is and whom you don’t feel comfortable talking to when you’re a little drunk? I wish I knew how they do it so I could do it too.

Of course, that’s sort of how I feel about the British anyway. I realized just recently - when watching Spaced I think - that I not only love but adore the British in a way that is all out of proportion given their actual role in history and the world. I mean, I’m Indian and from the USA - I know a lot about their (impressive) bad side. But still . . . I get all misty-eyed about them, and their castles, and their constant drizzle, and most especially their accents. The recent revelation I had is that I feel about them the way some people feel about Elves. They’re just . . . magical.

I’m sure any actual British person would feel weird hearing this, and realizing that I really do mean it. But hell, white people exoticize me all the time, and turnabout is fair play.

My mother is British - naturalized, not by birth - and I’m a British citizen. So maybe I’m a tiny little bit magical too.

I went to a reading by Kelly Link last night, which was part of the Bookslut reading series. She told us this ghost story, and said she has been trying to spread it around. So I thought I’d help her do that:

There was this girl (I think she might have been from Texas, but maybe she didn’t say that) and she kept having a dream that a man was walking towards her. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she knew that when they met something terrible would happen. One night, she had the dream again, so she tried to talk to the man. “Hey! Who are you?” “I’m Sammy.” The girl woke up and was so scared she couldn’t go back to sleep. So she went into her sister’s room, and said, “I just had the scariest dream and I can’t go back to sleep. Can I sleep in here with you?” Her sister just said, “Sammy.” “How do you know Sammy???” “I don’t. You just brought him in here with you.” The girl turned on the lights and saw her sister, asleep. She shook her awake and asked again, “How do you know Sammy? Why did you just say that to me?” “I didn’t say anything to you. I’ve been asleep!”

The girl never had the dream again.

I must admit I don’t really get this story, but the way Kelly told it was kind of chilling. Plus after the reading my friend Amy turned her phone back on (she had turned it off for the reading). Her wallpaper and ringtones were different than before the reading. Now I call her phone Sammy.