It was late last night, probably two in the morning, and I was headed to my van for to drive out for to socialize, the standard of practice for happening bachelors and critters of the night like myself. However, a young black woman, thin, not unattractive, possibly thirty, approached me and roused me from my self-amused stupor. It took me a while to figure out what it was she wanted. I live in the type of neighborhood where accosting strangers for money/cigarettes/the time is not an infrequent practice, so it took me a second to register that she was saying something different. The key words were “bleeding” and “hospital”. She slowed down enough for me to understand the whole story: she was three months into an at-risk pregnancy, she found herself bleeding, she needed a ride to the hospital or money for a cab RIGHT AWAY.

It was the “money for a cab” bit that made me think she was lying. I thought I’d call her bluff and offer her a ride to the hospital. I asked her what hospital her doctor was at, and she gave the name of a hospital down on the south side. A lengthy drive, to be sure. Not really convenient for someone who lives in Rogers Park, but you never know who needs to go where due to all this HMO nonsense. So the ride was out.

She started giving me all sorts of contact information – home phone, work phone, addresses, her doctor’s name – I got a pad of paper out of my bag and she scrawled all these things onto it. This made me think her problem was genuine, so I gave her some money for a cab. It wasn’t enough, she said, so I gave her a little bit more. I offered to give her a lift to a cab-filled street nearby, but she said she’d better run home and call a cab. I wished her luck, and she hugged me and thanked me for “not being prejudiced”.

Am I prejudiced?

I was not alone on the street that night; despite the late hour, all manner of folk were still milling about – why would she come to me, in particular? Do my white skin and boyish, non-macho gait paint me as an easy rube? Or did she simply think I would be the most likely passerby to be compassionate and help her? Does being suspicious of her story make me a racist? If a white woman came up and told the same story, would I be more likely to believe her with fewer questions? I honestly don’t know. Then again, it’s not as if I were not easily convinced – convinced, at least, to err on the side of caution. If she’s lying, what do I lose? A few bucks. A few hours’ worth of pay. If she’s telling the truth, I don’t want to stand between her and medical attention.

Was I taken advantage of? Did I do the right thing? In a few days, I’ll try to contact her – she said she would pay me back, should I demand this of her? Or would it de-value my act of charity, if it can even be considered that?

I’m drinking a White Russian right now. I dislike Black Russians. Does that mean anything? Yes – it means I adore delicious cream.

Ah, the fourth of July. It’s that time of the year when we have barbecues, light things on fire, blow stuff up, and tell our British friends to GET THE FUCK OUT. If you know anyone who’s British, and living in America, you be sure to tell ‘em we don’t need ‘em and we don’t want ‘em. Tossers, all.

Last night I hiked over to the beach. I live two blocks away from Lake Michigan, and I work even nearer to the lake than that, but I visit the shore infrequently. It’s mostly become part of the scenery. But hearing various pops and explosions last night that did not sound like the usual .22 caliber gunshots, I decided to turn off my television, which had been tuned to the live downtown fireworks display on the local FOX affiliate, and venture out. As I neared the beach two teenagers blasted past me on their bikes, nearly running me over. They were screaming at the top of their lungs. The first one was yelling, “HAR! HAR! HAR! HAR!” The second was yelling, “Buh-BUH! Buh-BUH!” Kids today. Heh. After emerging from my temporary hiding spot, I wandered out to the middle of the beach. Right overhead some half-assed fireworks fizzled and pooped out. The crowds were clumped at the south end of the beach, along the pier. To the south I could see the fireworks downtown, illuminating the nearby buildings. They were small in the distance, and I couldn’t hear them, but they were clearly visible. To the north there were more fireworks going, not quite as far away, and slightly audible. I stood there in a large open area in the middle of the beach, facing the lake, turning my head to the left and to the right to look at the two displays. The display to the north lit up the clouds around it, revealing the walls of the sky. The half-assed fireworks launched from my own beach gave way to the three-quarters-assed variety, and soon I was looking at pyrotechnics occurring at three distinct locations. It was so quiet that as I turned my head about, I could hear the fluid inside my skull rush around. The whole experience was quite meditative.

Tonight I hosted a barbecue. At no time did I hear the fluid rushing around in my head, but I heard teenagers outside (possibly the ones from earlier) lighting what was apparently a thirty pound package of firecrackers all at once. I predict that there will be more pops and explosions before I go to bed tonight, and not just because my face broke out earlier. Which it did. Pop-POP!

Every Monday night, or every other Monday night, I throw some pants on and head out to Simon’s, a fine drinking establishment here in the city. This is a tale relating one such adventure, namely the one that occurred tonight.

It all started when I decided to go to Simon’s tonight. I threw on some pants, and some shoes and socks for good measure, and readied myself for an evening of imbibing sweet hooch. As I opened the door to leave, I noticed that my bedroom light was still on. A conscientious conservationist, I reached over to turn the light off, and as I did so, my cat — who lives a horrible life here and (when he is not biting my feet) attempts to bolt at every opportunity, no matter how slight — made a mad dash for the partially open door.

“Oh, no, Snotpockets,” I said. “You’re not going anywhere, buster.” I reached down with my arm to block his path. As I did so, I bashed the top of my head full force against the door jamb.

I stumbled backwards. The cat looked at me with concern, or perhaps schadenfreude. I slammed the door shut and stumbled a few more feet backwards. I walked around in a circle for thirty seconds and then went to the mirror to see if I was bleeding, or possibly seeing any new colors. After determining that the damage was purely internal, I made my way to the train station.

I sat on the platform, waiting for the southbound train. Soon, a train appeared in the distance, then came closer, then approached the station… then blazed right by it without slowing down. “What the fuck?” the waiting crowd said in unison. When the next northbound train arrived, there was a difficult-to-hear announcement coming from within. The announcement repeated. The third time, the announcement came from outside the train: no southbound trains are going to stop at this station. If you want to go south, you have to go north first.

Having hit my head, I found this to be entirely reasonable, even though I ended up waiting at the station for over half an hour.

Soon, I was at Simon’s. I drank two glasses of beer and swore a lot. Nothing out of the ordinary for me.

I took the train home. Oddly, I did not have to go south before I went north. Coming down the stairs from the platform, I followed a very tall black man with very large white sneakers, and for some reason this was notable enough for me to remember. As I passed through the alley on the way back to my apartment, the very same man was standing there, against the wall, having a pee. He had obviously ducked into the alley, thinking no one would see him, well unaware of my regular use of the alley as a handy shortcut. Realizing this, I felt bad that I had intruded upon his peespace, and so, after walking wordlessly past him, I loudly broke wind multiple times, as if to say, “This is an alley where people should be comfortable with their bodily functions. This is an alley where people should be comfortable being people.” He shook himself out in silent approval.

And this is unrelated, but at the library today, a woman called in to address concerns she had over some “overnude notices” she had received in the mail. She hesitated briefly after she said the words in her haughty tone, but did not correct herself. I have laughed each time I have thought about it since. Does that make me immature?