Escape Velocity
September 2002

It was unseasonably windy and cold. As I drove around the Ukranian Village, I experienced my most profound regret to date that I did not move there when I had the chance. I saw endless miles of brown and red brick, worn fences around small dying gardens, vines crawling up walls losing their paint, quiet-looking people in dark clothes walking home from work, slim attractive women cavorting around their parked cars. All of these people live here, I thought, Why couldn�t I? I felt like once again I�d taken the easy way out, and now I was paying for it. What were my reasons again? Not enough money? Shit, I�m broke in Iowa City and I get by; how hard could it be there? It�s not like I could make any less in Chicago than I do at a bookstore in IC. Everyone says Chicago is too cold, too barren. I like the cold. And if I�m cold I want it to be among the withering city trees and buildings, everyone huddling and scooting between cars and down alleyways to the next warm place.

But maybe it�s not really Chicago I�m lusting after, it�s just anything different. That�s not hard to fathom. I parked the car and went up to Aden�s place�what would have been my place�and we in turn went up to Tim�s. Tim has a balcony overlooking the street, and everything was dark and windy, the way I picture Chicago in my perpetual imagination. I sat out there and got chilly and loved it. We grilled burgers and drank some whiskey.

... After the show, we followed some guy we barely knew north up Paulina to his loft apartment, which was huge and impressive, but generally a mess�cluttered with AV equipment, computer paraphenalia, and musical instruments. Why bother having such a nice place in a nice location if it�s going to be in a state of perpetual squalor? I didn�t stay long; I was anxious to get on the road. I was sobered up by the time I took my leave, caught a cab back to Aden�s, and climbed in my car. I cranked the new Underworld and got the hell out of Dodge, not without some remorse. If I lived here, I�d be home by now. I wouldn�t have to make the mind-numbing four-hour drive on the tollway every time I wanted to see my friends, or a concert.

But I think I know that I�d have just as many problems, maybe more, if I lived there. I can still do great things here. I can get the ball rolling. I can�t use location as an excuse. I realize, more than most people, that our lives are not as contingent upon geography as we�d like to think, that it matters much less than we want it to, and that the place we bed down may be a status symbol, but it�s little more than that.

So I gunned it, relishing the freedom of the empty Eisenhower at 3 a.m., such a stark contrast to the rush hour traffic I always hit coming into town. I sped recklessly away from the city, saluting the Sears Tower on my left and turning up the music, always louder, louder. Thank god for Underworld. And then Kenna, and then Blinker The Star, and a dozen others ...

Eventually, I settled into the placid monotony of 88, switched to mellow music�old Genesis, singing along with Peter Gabriel, actually getting choked up at the end of �Supper�s Ready.� I drank some coffee, didn�t have too much trouble staying awake. Got home in time to get ninety minutes of sleep before I had to be at my confounded job, another insane, sleep-deprived shift.

And that�s how I broke free of the city�s gravity, pulled 290 taught until it snapped and I was freed from the town, and its freeways like tractor beams. Sour grapes�that�s how I would reconcile my decision not to live there�Whew, that was close! Nice place to visit, but I wouldn�t want to live there. It�s the small-town boy in me. Maybe someday I�ll have to face him down, but maybe I shouldn�t have to.

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