My friend the federal judge and I are walking north on Dearborn to grab a drink at Trattoria No. 10. Just past Monroe, a young guy in a navy blue gas-station-type jacket sidles up to the judge: “Hi,” he says. “Hi. Hi.” The judge looks at him coolly, wishing he’d go away.
I pick up my pace and edge away slightly.
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“You don’t know me, do you?” says the guy again. “You really don’t know me.”
“Well, I’m Jimmy.” The guy pauses. “Jimmy from maintenance.”
“Well, see, I need $12.70 to take the train home. I promise I’ll pay you back tomorrow. I’ll bring you a $20 bill, I promise I will. I just don’t have any way to get home now. Can I borrow the $12.70?” His speech is clipped.
“Over there. Just over there.” Jimmy points weakly southeast. “It costs $1.80 to get there.”
“So do you think he’ll pay you back tomorrow?” I ask the judge.
