It was Karen’s first vacation in six years and we decided to have lunch one day. She picked the Goose Island Brewery, just off Clybourn Avenue and not quite on Goose Island. It was a sunny Tuesday and traffic was light as we cruised down Clybourn past the Webster Place theaters and the Treasure Island and the Thunderbird Bar & Grill.
“Maybe he got hit by a car,” I decided. This sounded somewhat more logical.
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I got out of the car. There was a row of houses across the street, most of them marked with For Sale signs. A black woman was standing on one of the porches. “What happened?” I called.
There was a small grill south of the houses and, miracle of miracles, it had a pay phone. I punched 911 and the police answered and said they would send someone out.
A taxicab had stopped several car lengths behind me. The driver crossed the street and helped the man to his feet and then started walking him down the sidewalk. From the way the man staggered it appeared he was drunk.
We ordered a couple more.
“It was more than anyone else did,” Karen said.
