He’s up and wagging, frisky for an old dog. Smart too, knows what I’m talking about–a walk in the forest preserve. Who says dogs can’t understand English?
But there’s no one around today. Must be some kind of Latin American holiday. So now what do I do?
Our poor old alley looks like the set from some socially conscious movie–garbage, graffiti, broken pavement, bleak brick walls. It’s the kind of place photography students used to seek out when they wanted to do something artistic. When I first moved into this neighborhood I was afraid to walk out here after dark. Now it feels like home. In fact, it is home. But that doesn’t mean I never want to leave it.
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Always, at moments like this, I’m reminded that only a few short years ago I was the police. Not Chicago police (or the Real Police, as they like to call themselves), but certainly a sworn officer of the law who had full authority to tow any vehicle blocking the right of way. Whatever else anyone might have said about my department, we were hell on parked cars.
Like a good citizen, I dial the nonemergency number. Call 911 for an abandoned car? I know better than that. But the nonemergency number is busy. And busy. And busy. It’s like calling for cable-TV repairs. But I’ve got all day. Eventually I get through.
So it’s back to the phone and that nonemergency number. And a new bored voice. I tell the story. Car. Blocking garage. Can’t get to work. Gonna lose job. Gonna go on welfare. No, no, you already sent someone out. Ticket. Parking ticket. How’s that supposed to help?
“Hey, Amigo! You know who owns that Cutlass?”
