Lesson #56: Ugly black chicks don't give you no money.

When living in a city like Chicago, you don't always have to wait for the city to teach you some life-changing lesson...sometimes her inhabitants will gladly do it for her. While standing on the platform waiting for the train home one afternoon, I was approached by a large, African-American man whose sweat glands seemed to be on high alert due to the intense, breezy 75 degree heat. Pulling out a damp rag from his back pocket, he basically just pushed the water around on his glistening, bald head. He said something to me, but I was so distracted by the tiny, yet impressive water show on his head that I had to ask him to repeat himself.

"Ugly black chicks don't give you no money."

How do you respond to an opening line like that? Do you just agree with a polite head nod and look away hoping he will pick up on your awkward body language and move along to educate another skinny, white boy on the platform? Do you disagree and begin a discussion on racial prejudice? Do you pretend to be deaf and begin to use the only sign language you know (the chorus to "Jesus Loves Me" and the word "bathroom")? Or do you simply say, "I'm uncomfortable" and walk away?
Answer: None of the above. Unsure of what was happening at that moment, I just stared at him blankly, unable to move. I muttered something that sounded like a "humph." This encouraged him to continue. Sweet.

"Go up to any young, 22 -year-old pretty African-American girl and ask her for money, and you got 5 dollars. No questions asked. Go up to an ugly black chick and nothing. She'll pretend she don't hear you, but she do."

First, I have no idea why this man felt I was the perfect person to educate on the philanthropic habits of young, African-American women, yet here we are. Secondly, I wanted to ask why the pretty girls were "African-American girls" and the ugly girls were "black chicks." However, now was not the time to get into racial semantics, there were more pressing issues to discuss...like who is more likely to give you 5 dollars. Despite my mastery of the English language, I couldn't put together a response. I just said, "huh" and nodded. Luckily, this is all Fountain Head Man needed to continue. With another quick dab of his water-moving rag, he continued...

"I got a job, see. I don't need to beg for money. I just do it when I'm runnin' low. I got a girlfriend and she take my money. It's a real bad sit'iation."

Whoa, this life lesson has taken a sudden, personal turn. I wasn't prepared for this. Before, I was just a disconnected listener waiting for the man with the over-active sweat glands to stop talking, but now I am invested in this man's "sit'iation." I must know...why is his girlfriend taking his money? Is she a klepto? Does she have a drug problem? Is she prettier than me? Our hero continues...

"See, she looks like Beyonce. Little titties, big ass. Just color her hair yellow and boom! Beyonce! But she dranks, smokes weed, and has kids. I give her all my money for her kids but she buys weed and sells it. What am I gonna do? So, I ask pretty, young 22-year-old black girls for money. See...right there. She a young pretty 22-year-old black girl. Ask her for money, she give you 10 dollar. Guaranteed."

Before moving on, I must address a few flaws in his last monologue...
1. What Beyonce video is he watching? She doesn't have yellow hair. Maybe it was a yellow-ish blonde color when she was still with Destiny's Child and her mother was making her clothes out of plastic and the hides of zoo animals, but it hasn't been that color in years. Get a People magazine, dude. Educate yourself. Sorry, B.
2. If your girlfriend is taking your money to buy weed and then sell it for a profit, that doesn't make her a bad girlfriend...it makes her a young businesswoman...with little titties and a big ass.
3. Why is 22 the standard age for young? What data do you have to back-up your choice? I need pie charts and spreadsheets, please...and keep them away from your sweaty head.
4. The young, pretty 22-year-old black girl you just pointed out is Latina and appears to be 12. Now, I'm having trouble trusting your judgment. I was totally with you up to this point.

Sweaty McSweatHead took my silent contemplation of his last statement as a sign of self-doubt and insecurity.
"Don't worry. You a young, good-looking 22-year-old guy. You can get money from her."

I was feeling a little less than my normal pretty self that day due to my spray tan fading into blotchy patches of orange and white (think skinny, hairless Calico cat), so I gladly took the compliment. Thank you, Wet Face Person. I tell him that I'm okay and that she can keep her money.
Not discouraged by my lack of participation, he continues the conversation by changing the subject to music. Through a series of unfortunate questions and responses, we end up talking about John Travolta in drag. (Of course, to be fair...when someone asks me what my favorite type of music is, my first instinct is usually to yell out, "John Travolta in drag!") He continues...

"I saw Hairspray. It pretty good, pretty good. John Travolta was a woman! Shit! I said, 'She an ugly woman' and then I find out it John Travolta. I liked it."

At this point, I honestly don't know how to continue with this conversation. There have been so many twists and turns that I'm still scratching my head and I'm feeling slightly vulnerable. Who is this person? Why did he begin this conversation at all? Why does he think Beyonce has yellow hair? Why was everyone so impressed with John Travolta in drag? Where is the damn train?!

As if the Lord Baby Jesus heard me screaming for the train in my splotchy, Calico head, I see the train a'comin' (that's how you say "the train is approaching"...in 1893). I then begin to get nervous...will he want to sit next to me on the train and continue this bizarre conversation? Will it be rude of me to find a seat with no open seats surrounding it? Will it hurt his feelings if I jump in front of the moving train?

As the train comes to a stop, Sweat Midler wishes me good luck and walks toward another train car. Oh no! What happened? HE walked away from ME! Was I just rejected by the Mayor of Sweattown? Ouch. My pride. However, as I walk in to the train car, I am comforted by the notion that at least we had something special for just a moment. After all, he chose me to share his nugget of wisdom with. There were plenty of people on the platform, but he chose me. I take my seat feeling happy and content...and as the doors close, I hear from a distance, "Hey man, don't try to get money from no ugly black girl." Shit.

Lesson #492: Plexiglass partitions are there for everyone's protection.

The incident that inspired this life lesson actually occurred weeks ago but I needed time to cool off before I wrote about it...otherwise this blog would be nothing but expletives, making Baby Jesus cry. Now that I am more calm, I am ready to share. However, I need to warn all of you...this blog might incite anger within the deepest reaches of your being. Common sense is so void of this story that it will give you a tumor...and diarrhea. But I digress...

I think I mentioned in an earlier post that in the city of Chicago you need a sticker to park your car. On top of the permit sticker you need to purchase in order to park in the area you live in, you need ANOTHER sticker to just park in the city. Yep. That's Chicago. Anyway, when I registered my car with the state of Illinois, they told me I needed to go buy a city sticker at city hall. Well, I wasn't about to go stand in a long line just to buy this ridiculous sticker when I know that they are sold at those check cashing places...those places that sell bail bonds, cash your paychecks, etc...you know...where poor people go. Whoa, that was rude. Of course, I'm just kidding...poor people don't have paychecks. In Chicago, there are check cashing places on EVERY corner. Let me put this in perspective for my Southern readers. Picture your neighborhood...now replace all the churches with check cashing places...that's Chicago.

My first attempt at purchasing a sticker was unsuccessful because I didn't bring anything to prove my residency. My bad. I ask the woman what would constitute proof of residency and she told me that a lease or car registration would be acceptable. No problem. The next day, as my roommates go grocery shopping, I head off to another check cashing place in a less than desirable location with my car registration. When I walk in, I head to the woman who looks like she could be a friend of my mother behind the wall of plexiglass (remember the plexiglass...it is an important live-saving element in this story). She had her white hair in a short, semi-trendy cut, looked to be in her 50's or 60's, and seemed to have stepped out of a Chico's ad from 1998. I feel safe with this lady. I feel a familiarity about her. I feel confident that this old white lady will be friendly, knowledgeable, and helpful. I felt wrong.

She asks if she can help me and I slide my car registration papers under the plexiglass partition and tell her that I have just moved from Kentucky and need a city sticker. So far, so good. She looks down at the paper and a look of confusion comes over her. "This says 2007 on it," she says. What? I know I just registered the car last week. I look down and she is pointing to a hand-written date in the bottom corner of the registration.

Warning: This is where the tumor starts developing.

Yes, this lovely old woman has disregarded the computer printed information and decided that the most important date on this form is scribbled in pencil in the margin. Okay, maybe she is just confused. When she was still young enough to drive, everything was written in pencil...on cave walls. I simply correct her and say that the date she is referring to was the date I registered the title with Kentucky. The woman at the DMV had a made a note in the margin of the registration of the old title and milage. I'm thinking, "Problem solved. I have explained the hand-written note. She will feel embarrassed, make some reference to being old, say that I'm 'sharp as a tack' (the elderly use such phrases), and will now give me my sticker." Apparently, Grandma Moses with the semi-trendy haircut is still not convinced. "No. I'm sorry. This says 2007. I can't help you." I respond with, "Seriously? Look at the printed date on the form. It even has a time stamp. It's from 4 days ago. I haven't even put the sticker on the plate yet. It's still attached and says 2010. If it were from 2007, it wouldn't have a car tag that says 2010 on it. Besides, that's written in pencil. It was just a note." This piece of logic passes right over her semi-trendy hair-styled head and our heroine turns to her co-worker for support. Her co-worker (a latina who apparently had to be poured into her lycra outfit) is currently helping a family get a bail bond and has no time to deal with Nana's foolishness. She takes a glance at the paper, but Granny Check Casher has covered up the dates with her hand and is pointing to the penciled date of 2007. Jennifer Lopez, Jr. quickly says "no" and turns back to what she is doing. I raise my voice a bit and say "Wait! Look at the printed dates. This is ridiculous. That is a hand-written note about my last car registration." The co-worker who is probably irritated because she is running late for her second job at the Strip Club/Car Wash just rolls her eyes at me and goes back to her station. Old lady turns back to me and says, "I don't think we can even accept car registration as a valid proof of address. Believe me, I don't want to give the city anymore money than you do. I'm here to help, but I don't think I can take this." First of all, the last part of that statement is irrelevant. Second, the other lady at the check cashing place from attempt #1 told me it was. I ask her if there is somewhere she can check if car registration forms are acceptable and she says that there is a list on the wall...and then remains seated on her stool. "Well," I say, "can you go check, please?" She goes to the wall and begins to read the list..."Number 1. A lease agreement. Number 2. Car registration. Number 3." I interrupt, "Whoa! Stop! Car registration. That's what this is!" She comes back over and looks at it for a minute and says, "I just can't accept this."

At this point, I look around the room for cameras and Ashton Kutcher. I am definitely getting Punk'd. With a high-pitched, trying-not-to-scream voice, I say "This is a car registration form. You just said you accept them. Please. Please, take one more look at it." She looks down, then inexplicably looks around the room and says, "I can't help you" and pushes the registration papers back under the partition. I push it back and say (maybe screamed...but come on, wouldn't you?), "This is ridiculous! You aren't letting me buy a sticker because you are focusing on a scribbled note in the margin of the actual form!" At this point, I can feel my face becoming more and more red and my hands begin shaking. I'm the anemic tomato version of the Hulk.

"Look at the computer generated dates! Look at the sticker! Have you seen a car registration form before?" I try to stick my hand under the plexiglass partition to point to the correct dates, but can only fit half of my index finger under. Upon seeing a small portion of my finger under the window, she backs up off her stool. Are you kidding me? What does she think I'm going to do? Does she think I'm going to go-go-Gadget finger and poke her? Come here, old lady! Put your Chico-clothed body within a half inch of the plexiglass so I can poke you with tip of my finger! I have no idea what is going through her mind at this point (if anything), but she continues to back up until I remove the inch of my finger I could fit under the plexiglass. She pushes the paper back and turns her head to avoid making eye contact with me, her own version of the "if I can't see you, you must not be there" game. She continues to repeat, "I can't help you, sir. I'm sorry." I continue to yell, "Are you serious? This is ridiculous! Just read the form!"

I realize this is not going anywhere and that whatever poor life choices she made to lead her to this job has clouded her judgement. I grab the papers and mumble some expletives as I storm out. I feel overtaken with anger. I can't stop trembling. I have never been so thankful for a plexiglass partition. If it had not been for that, I can't say what I would have done. I have never been so physically upset over someone's complete and total lack of common sense. Following her logic (or lack there of) I could have gotten a city sticker with just a post-it containing a random date and a picture of a frog in nail polish.

I head over to the grocery store where my roommates are shopping and begin to tell them what happened. Their eyes become huge, they are silent, unmoving...I figured they were as outraged as I was. One of my roommate stops me and says, "Drew, you are screaming in the middle of the frozen foods section." The rest of the night I am silent. I can't let it go. My roommates pick up on it and suggest I go lay down while they prepare dinner. It affected me that deeply. Why had semi-trendy haircut lady gotten into my head so badly? Why is she a moron? Why isn't she in a home?

Now, this story does have a happy ending...

The next day, I drive my car home to Memphis and while there decide to leave my car instead of bring it back to Chicago. If I had dealt with a competent person that day, I would have bought a city sticker only to not have a car in the city a week later and been out 80 bucks. So, thank you, dumb poo-poo head old lady (I'm still working on my anger toward her semi-trendy hair-styled self...)

Lesson #99: When using products taken from a roommate's bathroom, read labels before use.

To fill my days, I have been wandering the city, going to coffee shops, and walking past gyms. I get up around noon-thirty, shower, get dressed, nap, and head out to start my day of exploration! On one of these jam-packed, action-filled days, I was doing a quick mirror check to make sure my weave was still in place before leaving the house when I noticed some dry skin on my near perfect face. The thought of running back upstairs to my room wore me out, so I just grabbed some lotion out of my roommate's bathroom and applied it to my face and hands. Problem solved. I had walked maybe a block when I noticed a twinkle out of the corner of my eye. Was it the sun reflecting off the clanging change in the cup of Homeless Harry? No. Was it the reflection of light off of a dead pigeon's glassy eye (yes, that happened)? No. I looked down and noticed my hands were more sparkly than usual. "That's strange," I thought. "I don't remember dipping my hands in glitter. It's just not practical." I then remembered the somewhat shiny bottle of lotion I grabbed from the roommate's bathroom. At that moment, it also dawned on me that I had used that lotion on my face. Crap. I thought the Asian lady standing outside the dry cleaners had stared at my face a little too intently. I quickly U-turned and power walked my boney butt back to the apartment to scrub. When I finally saw my face in the mirror, it looked like I had passed out face first into one of Rip Taylor's paper bags. Unacceptable. (If the Rip Taylor reference went over your head, you need to google him and re-evaluate your life choices) So, half a bottle of face wash and 2 washcloths later, I was a new, less-sparkly man. Lesson learned.

Lesson #1: Say what you mean and mean what you say.

I grew up in Tennessee, went to school in Mississippi and Kentucky, stayed in Kentucky to teach for 2 years, and recently relocated to Chicago. How in the Baby Jesus did I end up in Chicago? I have determined it was my mouth that got me here. I wanted something different. I wanted to be adventurous! There is just one problem...I am not adventurous. I do not enjoy adventure. I do not enjoy the unknown. I do not enjoy red-headed men (completely unrelated, I know...but just as important. Unfortunate). Whenever there is a new and interesting problem to solve or place to go, I am not the first volunteer. In fact, I would have been that a-hole that pushed the women and children out of the way to get to the lifeboats. Let them experience the new adventure of riding a sinking ship with Leonardo DiCaprio and his butt cut. No, thank you.

So, how did I end up on this crazy ride? Easy...I cornered myself by running my ridiculous mouth. After ending a long relationship in Louisville, people began to ask "what next for the beautiful and talented Drew?" So, like anyone with a personality disorder, I talked about Chicago (a place I had only visited a handful of times) like I already had a plan. Pretty soon, it caught on and everyone at work began saying they would miss me...crap. Before I knew it, I was apartment/job hunting, packing up my furniture and crack pipe, and getting outs the Ville.

So now that I am here, what next? Well, I lucked out and got a fantastic job, great roommates, and even a friend or two. However, my job doesn't start until September, so I'm left to wander the city for a couple months. It has been a culture shock to say the least. First and foremost, when building a huge city, apparently parking is optional. I am not a complete moron, I knew that parking in major cities sucked, but I had no idea that there is never any parking...anywhere...ever. Actually, I shouldn't say that. There is some parking available if you have some serious cash or are willing to put up your first-born as collateral. Soon after moving to the city, your car becomes an expensive paper weight. If you find a nice parking spot near your apartment, you don't move it (except for street cleaning days...I can't even begin to discuss this). Needless to say, I have begun to learn the public transit system. It's not bad. It's definitely less convenient than hopping in your car and running over to Target for a bit, but does offer certain life lessons only available on a bus or train.

Lesson #436: Just because someone is speaking in your general direction, it does not mean that they are speaking to you...and if you respond, they will be quick to correct your mistake. "I ain't talkin' to you, white boy" or some equally friendly, yet racist remark.

Lesson #72: Children are indestructible and therefore need not sit while the train or bus is in motion. Whereas, these superhero babies are indestructible, my knees are not. If my kneecap breaks in half due to it being in the way of one of God's little miracles, it is not their or their parents' problem.

More lessons to follow in future posts, I'm getting bored and distracted. Basically this blog will be filled with the lessons I have learned thanks to the random, ridiculous moments I experience here in Chicago that make life all the more fun, interesting, and kinda scary. Stay tuned, kids!