The Walk

The host looked at me, half-concerned as I said: "Just for one, please," solitary in a light summer dress.


Minutes later he passed my table (a booth in the back), handing me a copy of the day's Tribune.

"I thought you might like this," he said.

I smiled and thanked him — in spite of myself — knowing full well the reason for his generosity.


But I was grateful, in a way, scanning the front page to busy myself from thoughts of the day, my eyes immediately consumed by the juxtaposition of two lead stories.


There was, above the fold, a photograph of three Burmese infants (one sleeping, one eating, one crying), filthy and homeless in a devastated nation.

And next to them: a story about how the slowing economy and rising gas prices have forced one Lincoln Park tricksy out of Saks Fifth Avenue and "into Forever 21."

[Though, she later confessed, she refuses to cut back on her Dulce & Gabbana perfume.]

Seeing that story next to the world's-away photo somehow increased my sympathy tenfold for the children so-pictured. And it was funny, in a way, how that picture meant everything to me precisely because the nearby words meant so little.


And so I started to write, my thoughts interrupted by the clop-clop-clop of an elderly woman's shoes [bright red dye job, and even brighter lipstick]. Nearby at another table, the sound seems to disturb a Fragile X boy as he shrieks to cover it — noise upon noise — his parents quieting him with a gentle hush.

Soon my waitress stops by, laughing and moving on when I tell her about the eggshells.

But I wasn't kidding, I thought, There are shells in my eggs.

[Breakfast for dinner is among my favorite treats.]

But she was on to another table, a family, smiling and catering because — as we all know — there are better tips at bigger tables.


And so the nature of my visit hits me: rising later and paying my bill, not stiffing her on a tip despite her poor service.

I walked, then, on to the gallery's reception and decided that — no — now was not the time to enter.

So I grabbed my camera and retraced my steps to take a picture of a plastic bag competing with the American flag for airspace.


Marveling at how, all around me, disparate worlds seemed to collide.


But there was no avoiding the evening's objective: no sense driving home when I'd yet to accomplish what I'd set out to do. So I walked, ever-so-slowly, overcoming my nervousness — my hesitation — just as I realized it had nothing to do with where I was going.


And everything with how I was arriving.