2001-06-25 - 11:26 p.m.

clink clink! Everybody raise a glass for Eric Bond, that prince of 25-ness, master of the macabre and the ridiculous, and a good friend. Happy birthday, you old coot! Keep up the good work!

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The lunch crowd is lingering outside at the Daley Plaza. They cater to the businesspeople down here � a dozen Asian restaurants have set up stands on the square here for lunch. In one section, two men in robes practice Akido as a third describes the art. Onlookers watch a few minutes as they suck down their noodles, then make their way back to work, their half-hour up.

And there�s me down there, watching the Akido and then staring off, looking for something or someone in this carnival atmosphere, trying to make the most of my first day off the job as the editing work hits a lull. I go wandering from the Akido and off to one out-of-the-way corner where the real action is happening.

About a hundred people have gathered here, protestors bearing sign, cameramen and reporters, each playing their role in an orchestrated march on City Hall to fight for affordable housing. A man bearing a display of buttons makes the rounds, hawking every conviction from pro-choice to Bush-bashing. Activists make pointed arguments for the cameras, wave their signs at the passersby and hope it doesn�t rain.

It does rain, a sprinkle at first and then getting a bit stronger. We huddle under an awning as speaker after speaker speaks the voice of the poor and displaced, taking a stand to keep from being pushed out of the city.

�The gray white conservatives are coming into this city,� one woman says. �This is gonna be a Republican city if we don�t stand up for ourselves.�

A woman from Humboldt Park to the west tells of property taxes doubling for some homeowners, forcing them to sell their homes. A resident of Rogers Park to the north tells of a mall with more than 50 locally-owned businesses that may be displaced by the building of a large fire station. Everyone tells of the condos moving in, the rich moving to the city and pushing the poor people somewhere else, all as developers tell residents that they are just making the city a better place to live.

�They don�t want our input,� one woman says. �They want to build around us and tell us that development will make our community better. Well, my question is, who is it making it better for? It�s not making it better for us. What they fail to tell us is once it�s better, we can�t afford to live in our own neighborhood any more.�

The crowd feels small in the middle of such a big city. A citywide struggle for affordable housing in a city of 3 million, and less than a hundred have shown up here. A tiny voice. But we�re working ourselves up anyway, despite the rain and the sense that the cards are stacked against us.

As for me, I�m still torn as to what to do, not sure if I want to be chanting or recording the chants. I�ll do both, I guess. I can buy into this struggle for now. I take a pin, labeling me a member of COURAJ, and join the mob as it parades across the street to deliver a letter to the mayor. A man with the megaphone leads the chants: �We�re gonna march on City Hall and Mayor, Daley! Cause they�re tearing down our buildings, Daley! While the rich are getting richer, Daley! And the poor are getting poorer, Daley!�

I�m sheepish at first, walking past the cameras with my COURAJ pin, but soon I�m chanting with the rest of them, trying to let myself go, feel the spirit of the movement and not get caught up in all the intellectual hemming and hawing that clog my commitment to anything.

We march around City Hall once � �The people! United! Will never be defeated!� � and try to get into the building through the wrong entrance. Go around a security guard tells us, and we�re filtered back out through a revolving door. So we march around to the other side, deposit our signs at the front door, and take the elevator upstairs.

And we stand and wait up there, watching the door with the green overhead sign that reads, �Office of the Mayor,� and hoping against all odds that the Mayor will step outside, say �Hello. I�ve heard your passionate words and read your eloquent letter and decided that from now on, condo development will come to an end and low-income housing will be my top priority.�

But no, the mayor does not come out to chat with us; there�s just a few men in suits standing by unconcerned, a few people coming in and out, oblivious to the mob that�s filling the hall because that�s not such an unusual occurrence outside the mayor�s office. Then one of the men in suits tells us that yes, the mayor has been delivered the letter, and someone will get a response from this office. And some of us vow to him that yes, we will be back, and perhaps next time we�ll demand an audience.

And that�s it. We break up and start chatting right there outside the mayor�s office, feeling that perhaps something has been accomplished, and if not, then at least we�ve done our best.

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As I step out into the world again, the thunder rolls in. It�s been raining off and on all day, but they�d might as well bring it on. No time to waste.

I�ve got a little over a week off to conquer Uptown before I am plugged back into the machine. Each day must bring a new adventure, and I must be prepared.

The mission: to adventure through Uptown, absorbing every possible experience, and then to give it meaning with the force of my pen.

My weapons, for purposes of experiencing, enjoying, interacting and recording: A CD player, piping Leonard Cohen�s Songs of Love and Hate into my brain-sphere. A tape recorder in the other pocket, to record my deep thoughts. Walt Whitman�s Leaves of Grass, for inspiration. A notebook, for more deep thoughts. And one new weapon to lance the dragons of the world � a few business cards, which Karla has just finished filing down after I�ve printed them off our printer, bearing the simple title �Writer.� Or in the case of one, �Writer Extraordinaire.�

It�s only a short ways before I spot my first victim. It�s Carrie, who by the grace of the good winds happens to be arriving at the homeless shelter just as I am passing by. I thank her for inviting me to her party on Saturday. I tell her I�m off for the next week or so, and we should get together. Then I produce the coup de grace, the business card. We make plans for next week and part ways.

I am happy and proud. I have had a random interaction. I have kept the ball rolling. Score one for me. Score one for good karma.

It�s a great karmic battle, me versus the world, in the race to justify one�s existence, and I�m keeping score.

The only way around this great emptiness, this great boredom I keep feeling, seems to be the game. Setting parameters. Why interact? Why put myself on the line? In the words of Lucas Jackson, �It�s something to do.�

I venture to the bank. Then off to the store to purchase a camera. The rain starts to come down, slowly. I am wearing this jacket�

�this jacket. I love this jacket. It�s kind of a velour, something fuzzy, just a light spring jacket. I bought it a few weeks ago as I walked home from the Mayor Daley�s Kids and Kites day. I stumbled across this sandwich board on Montrose Ave announcing a church sale from 10 to 4. Inside mostly deserted. Two men in the back, lounging on the laid-out tables and debating racism. A woman acknowledging my presence as I look around, trying to figure out just what I could use from this place, then coming up to me and saying,

�You can look around. Take your time.�

�I wasn�t sure�if it�s after 4,� I say.

�That�s okay. We�re still here.�

I flip through the one rack of shirts. This one maroon jacket jumps out at me. It�s old, it�s got a few splotches of white paint in front that I try to scratch off with my fingernail but they don�t seem to come out.

I try it on. It fits. The pockets are short. It hugs your waist, doesn�t have much of a collar, fits just right.

�I�d say� four dollars for that. We don�t charge much.�

I stop. I realize I only have three dollars in my pocket. I go through my wallet, and sure enough, that�s all I have. But then I think� wait. I fumble through my pockets again, searching for change. And there, unspent since I got it as change in a New York subway station, is a Sacajawea dollar coin.

�I have this � this dollar coin,� I say as I hand it to her. She looks at it for a moment, then shrugs and takes it. These coins haven�t made the rounds much in Chicago.

We chat a bit. This church has a sale every weekend to raise money for renovations. She walks me out, and before she leaves she shows me the entryway into the church, the Emmanuel Church of God in Jesus Christ. It�s a quietly majestic nook, awaiting its next visitors behind its nondescript doorway on Montrose Avenue.

�Come back, if you want. Come for church. Church is for anybody, you know. Church is for people.�

I thank her, and zip up my jacket for the walk home.

�I am wearing this jacket I picked up at this church sale right next to Jake�s on Montrose. I stop at the Jewel to pick up yet another weapon for my adventures � a camera. I locate the camera, wait in line, purchase it with some film. As I walk out, I want to take it out, take pictures as I walk through Uptown on this rainy day. But the packaging resists � much as I try, I cannot break the plastic seal. Score one for bad karma.

I go into Jake�s. They�ve got all kinds of things, onion rings, pie, rice milk, listed on the boards and on the ceiling. What� will� I� get? Something good, something worthy, something appropriate. Corn on the cob.

The place makes me feel immediately comfortable, surrounded by these poor people, these crazy-seeming people. I fit in much better here than I do in Starbucks or nearly any store. They don�t expect you to have money, they�re not pushing you out, and the people behind the counter don�t have the blank stares of the whipped McDonald�s employee. They�re friendly.

I�m sitting at my little booth, with my corn in a paper tray, with a little pat of butter and a sprinkle of salt to dress my cob. I glop the butter over every little bit of corn, sprinkle on some salt and dig in. The corn is soft, mushy. I don�t care if it gets on my fingers, on my face, even touches the tip of my nose. I will get every kernel, I will grind and grind until it becomes a core.

An outgoing man named Vincent chats with a woman at the grill who speaks little English.

�Thank you� what is your first name?� Vincent asks.

�Esperanza,� she says in a thick accent.

�What is that again?�

�Esperanza.�

�Esperanza. Okay� Adios. No � gracias.�

�Gracias. Yes.�

An old man stands up from his seat to approach the counter, then stops and looks around. He turns and walks to me, a paper tray in hand.

�Would you like these? They�re a little� cooled off.� He stumbles slightly on his words.

�Oh. You don�t want them?�

�They�re a little ss� Ever since McDonald�s started changing its oil, they�ve been�� Soft? Hard? Stringy? Tell me what it is that has made McDonald�s fries unstomachable, that I may indict them! I look into his cavernous mouth, where all four teeth front teeth missing, waiting for the words to spill out. But he can�t find it, and only adds ��getting old and I can�t stomach them.�

I thank him very much and take the fries. Score one good karma.

I want to write about this place. I have my business cards. I ask for Jake � he will be around tomorrow at noon if I come back, I learn.

As I turn to go, I notice a woman is calling an employee from her seat near mine.

�Excuse me. He spilled my coffee. Can you get a rag over here to clean it up?�

It was me. Getting up to throw away my corn cob, I knocked against the table, and some of this woman�s coffee splashed out. I apologize, but she isn�t listening, so I go.

I�ve taken an old man�s fries and spilled a woman�s coffee. Maybe I should score two for bad karma.

On my way home I check out the Department of Human Services on Sheridan Road. A man who has been sitting in the waiting area too long is being asked to leave.

�I swear to you I�m going to take this to the alderman�s office,� he shouts from the doorway.

�Please leave, sir,� a uniformed woman replies.

�I will take this to the alderman�s office. Do you hear me?�

�Leave, sir.�

�Just tell me if you heard what I just said,� he barks.

�Do I have to call the police?�

�I�m gonna protest. I�m gonna sign a petition that says that you�re a asshole.� He storms out.

�Comes in here every day�� she says to herself.

I ask to speak to someone about this place, try to pawn off a business card on them. They give me a name and phone number and tell me to call back Tuesday. Score one for bad karma.

So I�m back on the street and almost home. The rain that has been coming down steadily is letting up. The man who stormed out of the Department of Human Services is now standing inside a bus shelter. Around the corner, a built black man with no shirt is fuming at another man, saying little but looking to be ready to burst. All around, people are standing and watching, waiting for something to happen. But a bus comes and blocks our view, and a minute later, they�ve disappeared. I move on.

I reach my block. A man in a wheelchair is trying to get onto the sidewalk, only he�s stuck in a small ditch. I go up and help push him out. He thanks me and moves along. Chalk one up for good karma. Chalk one up for me.

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