One minute I’m looking out at the oppressive Saturday afternoon sky, thinking that rain never falls on Chicago anymore, even when it looks like it will. Extended forecast: hellish; 99 percent chance of perspiration.
On the grass strip between the sidewalk and the curb, an oscillating sprinkler goes on sprinkling.
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I light a cigarette and cross 55th Street, aiming vaguely for the museum, but before I get to the park at 56th the rain returns.
A glum-looking couple in their 20s are sitting at the next table. Their white sneakers are unsoiled, their white shorts are creased down the front, and their hair is perfect. They stare out at the storm, mournfully chewing their sandwiches.
She shakes her head. “What a day for this.”
“Check out the guy in the bikini,” he says.
The girls have discovered a gurgling stream running several inches deep down the middle of my alley. As I turn in toward the back steps, the rain priestess bounces in front of me and sits down–splot!–in the deepest part. I grin at her and she laughs, half embarrassed, and throws water at her friend.
