The Digs

I had a friend back in high school who rented an apartment near a busy railroad station shortly after graduation. His friends all thought that he had it made in the shade (pardon that 70’s expression please). Here was a guy who had just turned eighteen and he had his own place already. Wow! We – the posse – were not only chartreuse with envy, but everyone also knew that from that day forward we’d forever (or at least until he got evicted) have a place to P-A-R-T-Y!

Can I get a “Hell Yeah!” Y’all know what I’m talkin’ ’bout, right?

To say his place was a little small would be like saying Texas is a little warm in the summer. The roaches had to work in shifts. And the mice had to commute, because there was no place for them to sleep.

Speaking of commute…

Did you ever hear a commuter train traveling down the tracks at about seventy miles per hour? Let’s just say you can feel it coming long before the sound gets to your ears. And when that happens, look out below!

Take a peek out the front window of your home right now and imagine three sets of railroad tracks about where the street is located. On average, roughly twenty-five feet away. That’s how close the tracks were to party central. The first time I was on hand for this mind-crushing event, I thought I was in an explosion.

All day long commuter trains would rumble-by. First they would head into the city during morning rush, then they’d bring ’em all back in the afternoon and evening.

It really got interesting after dark – around 10PM – when all the weary travelers were safe at home and tucked into their beds. That’s when the freight trains would roll. And roll they did, until morning, when the whole ritual would start all over again.

Did he get a break on Saturday and Sunday, you ask? Nope. Weekends were simply less folks and more commerce. My head hurts just thinking about it.

He had it made alright.

I also had my share of interesting dwelling places in my lifetime. Not the least impressive (but it was close) was my eighth floor apartment on Pratt Avenue in Chicago. The exclusive North Shore. But this was a little slice of heaven that was as far from upscale as you can get without being on some sort of government aid program.

Not fit for man nor beast, this place had a wonderful view of Lake Michigan out the bedroom window and a potentially profitable view over the left field wall of Wrigley Field – home of those lovable losers the Chicago Cubs. I say “profit” based on the highly unlikely event the team could stop losing just for one season, so I could charge folks money for my great view of the game. I wasn’t holding my breath!

Sounds pretty tasty doesn’t it? Hmmm?

First of all, this was an “artists’ community” that featured futon stores, over-priced bistros, wine caterers, and head shops – call them “smoke shops” if you want to, but I know what folks were smokin’ in those “hookah pipes” (read: bongs) and it wasn’t crab grass.

We had two movie theaters that the neighborhood aristocrats and visiting jet setters called “fine arts” centers. Centers? Heck, I went there to watch movies. Don’t know what y’all were lookin’ at?

Every Friday and Saturday night, at midnight, for as long as I lived in that neighborhood, one of the so-called fine arts centers played the Rocky Horror Picture Show. The other rotated the Star Wars trilogy. Movie goers came in full costume – every weekend – for both films.

It was not uncommon to take a late night stroll only to spot several Rocky Horror cross-dressing movie buffs (wearing Fredrick’s of Hollywood leather and lace attire), Chubaka, and R2D2 on the same street corner. Oh, wait, that could have been three hookers with a homeless guy standing by a city of Chicago garage can? I used to drink a lot back in the day.

Then, in the dog days of summer, when the Cubs were in town, the beer flow was like a frothy river of sudsy fun. After all, if you’re a Cubs’ fan, you’re also a hefty drinker. What else is there to do when you’re watching them blow another pennant?

There was a bar about every other doorway on Sheridan Road – the main drag. (Sorry, poor word choice there.) Loyola University provided much of the clientele that wasn’t part of the fine arts masquerade party.

Since when was Meatloaf (the singer, not the dinner) promoted to art? Did I miss something? Sorry, I digress.

Speaking of dining adventures in the area…

A greasy spoon that served a very tasty breakfast 24/7 was really the highlight around Pratt Beach, but only if you ignore the little adult book store and sex toy shop as being off the grading curve. (Editor’s Note: wear old shoes if you ever go – the floor’s a little sticky. In the restaurant, I mean.)

The apartment itself was a little charmer. Flush a toilet six blocks away and the water pressure would dip to a dribble. And if that flush came whilst you were taking a shower, you’d better bail out of the tub in a hurry unless you like being scorched by a scalding drizzle from a low-flow shower head. Ouch!

Not a single window in the place actually fit into the opening it had originally been designed to fit. It was not unusual to see one-half-inch of space between the window and the frame. Now imagine a forty mile per hour wind blowing at minus seven degrees.

Yeah. Brrr! Y’all got that right.

Fortunately, the building had those old steam heaters, which were always hot enough to bring a pot of water to boil if you had occasion to put one on top of the heater itself – like if you forgot to pay the electric bill and the stove didn’t work. Not that that ever happened to me.

Moving right along…

When the decision was finally made that a move was needed, haste was the order of the day. You see, maintenance had “taken care” of a “bug problem” on the main floor. Only problem with that was the “bug problem” moved up about eight floors.

I was lying in bed watching TV when a dog ran across my set. I’m sure you’ve all seen the TV commercial for Orkin where the roach runs across the screen, but not really. I hit my TV with a hammer the first time I saw that one. I lived it! My visitor was real – big too. It was like the film Joe’s Apartment, only not nearly as funny.

So many places, too many to talk about here, that provided the road map of my life.

I lived in St. Louis for almost one year. The Central West End was another artists’ haven that in no way resembled my horror show on Pratt Avenue in the Windy City. This classy setting of thriving night life was actually a fun area to live. Could’ve been that I could see a Hooter’s neon sign from my window though? Relax! I only went there because I like chicken wings.

(pause for groans and eye rolling)

When I moved to Texas back in 1996, I had to learn the hard way what they actually mean when they say, “location, location, location.” I moved into an area to be close to work, but that also put me pretty doggone close to the ghetto. Well, as ghetto as Fort Worth gets anyway. I was used to Cabrini Green and the Robert Taylor Homes – I assure you, Texans would not allow these two places.

To be fair, it took eight years of Texas living before I got robbed at gunpoint. Thirty-five years in the gun crime epicenter of the Universe – Chicago – and I had to move to Texas to be the guest of honor at a stick-up. Who knew?

During the last month of my East Side of Fort Worth stay, I counted four home invasions that happened at night when folks were at home asleep. That’s pretty brave if you ask me. Most folks have guns in Texas – this ain’t Illinois where the politicians disarm honest folks to make it easy on the crooks. Only reason that I didn’t get robbed in Chi-town was because I knew all the crooks and where to go get my stuff back.

Brings to mind a local police chase near Ennis, TX some years ago that featured several municipalities, state troopers, and even some Texas Rangers. The crooks took law enforcement on a whirlwind shootout tour of a number of towns southeast of Dallas. When the dust settled and the bad guys were behind bars, they pulled over one-hundred slugs out of the suspects’ vehicle and could only attribute half of them to police. The rest came from civilian guns.

Don’t mess with Texas! Y’all got that right too.

I just moved – again. I’m still in Fort Worth, but on the fashionable West Side. I don’t suppose I’ll be going anywhere else any time soon. I like it here. And I found a new place in a neighborhood I had been drooling over ever since I came to the Lone Star State sixteen years ago. It’s no bigger than the train stop dwelling my school chum rented. No trains (or critters) here though.

I call it my Man Cave and I dig the new digs. I’m snug as a bug in a rug. If you’ll pardon the expression?