After I dropped my daughter off at high school–she was running very late–I made the mistake of taking a right turn to go home instead of a U-turn and found myself in a maze of one-way streets. At Damen and Rogers I came to a stop sign and watched a rather slim man with matted hair drop a small plastic bag on the sidewalk. Another man bent down, picked it up, and went on his way.
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I put the car in park and watched him make another sale, a wad of money sticking out of his left hand and plastic bags slipping through his fingers in the other. After the third transaction I drove home, called the police, and heard a droll voice say over and over and over and over again how everyone was busy, but the next available officer would answer my questions and please stay on the line. After listening to this voice without interruption–sort of like hearing fingernails on a blackboard for ten minutes–I had to hang up. His voice didn’t give me any recourse.
I called 911.
“The corner of Damen and Rogers. Let me see, um, the northwest corner. Yeah, Damen and Rogers right by the store.”
“Yes?”
“Rogers and Damen are not in our jurisdiction.”
“I know it’s in Chi–”
