Setting: the Chicago neighborhood Rogers Park, outside the Morse Red Line stop. It's like the nicest day of the year so far. Shouldn't I be hanging out in a graveyard?
Three youths are strolling toward me. Thug life, etc. They survey the landscape with a satisfied air of ownership; it seems the lovely weather is their personal doing.
I'm headed the other way, looking for the house of woman I've never met but already gave money to for a piece of African fabric with Barack Obama on it. When I find it, I will ring the buzzer, next to which will be written the woman's name, followed by "Anthropological Consultant." I will wonder sadly if this is the fate of all bozos who graduate from Peace Corps University. I will notice that she pronounces "Kenya" "Keenya," and grant that this is probably because she's actually been there. I will meet her other middle-aged friends, one of whom will remind me of Jean Stapleton but with none of Edith Bunker's sweetness. I will ask the woman, since she says "Keenya" so authoritatively, if she knows what the Kiswahili under Obama's smiling face means. "Something about peace, maybe. Are you staying for potato soup?" This invitation will be extended in an oddly accusatory manner. I will say something stupid about needing to get back to my cat, because the three of them look like witches.
Right now, though, I'm on Morse, and the vainglorious youths have me in their sights.
"Damnnn!"
"Heyyyy...."
"Hey, pretty girl...."
We pass. I can tell by the pause that they're checking out my ass.*
One more try:
"I'm over 21!"
*unintentional vulgar couplets: another reason I appeal to horny young men.
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