I’ve lived in the city all my life. I’ve had guns put to my head, knives thrust at my midsection, once I was threatened with a machete. I didn’t drive until I was past 30. I’m a nervous guy anyway, or that’s what people have told me. I’m not fearful; I don’t normally approach the unknown with trepidation. I don’t worry about the bomb, or the judgment of an unmerciful God, or my wife’s old boyfriends. These are beyond my control.
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I don’t usually read the horoscope–it’s like a fortune cookie without the cookie, and longer–but it was the day before my birthday, a few hours before my one getaway weekend of the summer, so I checked Sydney Omarr in the Sun-Times. What he said gave me pause: “Automobile requires ‘shakedown.’ Check batteries, tires, steering wheel.” How did he know? I went to the gas station and filled the tires. I checked the fluids, oil, and antifreeze, I pinched the spare for flab. I sat at the wheel, turning it left and right. With a sweaty finger I wiped the residue off the positive terminal on my car battery. As a result of a flat earlier in the month, I had one new tire on the car. We were ready to load up and beat it out of Chicago. First, though, we had to pick up my brother-in-law, whose brakes were so bad he was afraid to drive himself.
