Chapter 12: Warming A New Home

August 2, 1981, Chicago, Illinois

On Sunday morning I woke up in MY apartment and felt as if I’d taken a big step. I got out of bed, showered, dressed, then put water in the percolator, added coffee, and set it to brew. I poured myself a bowl of Frosted Flakes, sliced a banana on top of the cereal, added a pinch of sugar on the banana, then poured milk over everything. I poured a glass of grapefruit juice, carried the bowl and glass to the table, then sat down and ate.

By the time I was done, the percolator had produced coffee, and I poured myself a cup, then went out onto the small landing outside the door to the apartment and breathed the warm morning air. It smelled very different from back home, though there were lilacs planted along the garage which tempered what I had come to known as the ‘city’ smell. One thing I was sure of, I wouldn’t miss the smell of manure, but that said, I wasn’t sure the smell of a big city was better.

“Hi, Jonathan!” Lily called out as she came out of the house.

She looked very cute in a light-blue, knee-length dress that showed off her figure quite nicely.

“Morning!” I called back.

“We’re heading to Mass. Do you go to church?”

I shook my head, “No. Never have.”

“OK; see you when we get back!”

My idea of a good Sunday morning was breakfast, a good cup of coffee, and the Sunday comics in the newspaper. I’d called Friday to start the Chicago Tribune and my subscription would start Monday morning. My uncle had, despite my protests, paid for a subscription to the Wall Street Journal. There was no way I could afford that at this point, but he insisted because, as he put it, I needed to know what had happened in order to get an idea of what would happen.

It had bugged me, but he’d insisted, promising to let me renew it going forward. I’d added THAT to my list of things I needed to budget for, but by the time the subscription ran out, I planned to be sitting in Nick’s chair making more than double what I was as a mailroom clerk. I’d still have to watch my expenses carefully, but every additional dollar made a big difference.

I watched and Mr. and Mrs. Andros joined Lily in the car and then drove off. My friends wouldn’t arrive until late afternoon, so I decided to take my bike out for a test drive, which would let me check out the neighborhood more than my brief walking tour had when I’d first signed the lease. I drained the coffee from the cup, went back inside, put on shoes and socks, then went down to the shed where I’d been given permission to store my bike, unlocked the door, got the bike out, got on, and pedaled away.

I first rode around the block, then rode an additional block and made a second circuit, then repeated that a few times, making larger concentric circles, though I chose not to cross the Eisenhower Expressway. I’d save exploring north for another day. For my final leg, I pedaled down Halsted Street to 31st, then turned left and went east until I came to IIT. I circled the campus, taking note of what Gudia had said about the area, then headed back to the apartment.

I put the bike in the shed, walked past the Andros’ car, which told me they were back from church, and then went upstairs to my apartment to take my second shower of the morning. When I’d washed all the sweat away, I dried off, dressed, and poured myself a second cup of coffee. I shut off the percolator, and went outside and sat on the landing to drink my coffee. It was going to be another warm day, and I would probably need to turn on the air conditioning to cool off the apartment for bed. It was only my second day, but both days counted towards the ‘over 80°F’ term in my lease, so with eight more during the rest of the month, I was sure that I’d have to kick in the surcharge when I paid next month’s rent.

“Hi,” Lily called up from the bottom of the steps, disrupting my thoughts.

I looked down to see she was wearing red short-shorts and a thin, white cotton t-shirt. Her long blond hair was draped over her shoulders and her blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

“Hi,” I replied. “How was church?”

“Same as every Sunday. They never change anything except the homily the priest gives and the hymns we sing.”

“I wouldn’t have a clue. I’ve been to exactly one church service in my entire life, and that was a funeral.”

“You weren’t baptized as a baby?”

I shook my head, “The church my grandparents and my mom went to before I was born didn’t baptize babies from what I understand, and mom never went to church after she left home.”

“You weren’t here when we got home.”

“I took my bike out for a spin. I was checking out the neighborhood and then took a ride down Halsted Street to check it out.”

“Find anything interesting?”

I shrugged, “Just the usual stuff, I guess. Is there anything interesting in the neighborhood?”

“I’m not sure what you’re interested in, so I suppose you’ll need to search to find out! What are you doing today?”

“I have some friends coming over around 2:00pm for a housewarming.”

“Mind if I ask who?”

“A couple of guys who are in the process of becoming Chicago firemen and their girlfriends, plus one of the girl’s sisters. What are you doing?”

“I didn’t really have any plans. My best friend is in Arizona visiting her grandparents who moved down there, and my other best friend is in Florida at Disney World.”

“Want some coffee or a Coke?” I asked.

“I don’t drink coffee, but I’ll take a Coke.”

She came up the stairs and I got her a Coke from the fridge and poured the small amount of coffee left in the percolator into my cup.

“You did a good job decorating,” she said, surveying the room.

“You can thank my friend Rachel for that,” I said. “I don’t exactly have an eye for decorating!”

We hadn’t really done much — the bedspread and sheets, the tablecloth, the vase with flowers, and a few pictures I’d brought from home. But it did feel more like home.

“Is this your mom?” she asked, pointing to one of the pictures.

“Yes.”

“She’s pretty. No pictures of your dad?”

I shook my head, “He died before I was born. I never met him.”

“Oh, wow! I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Asking about him.”

“Why? I think biology requires everyone to have a dad, even if they never met him.”

Lily laughed, “Uh, yeah! But I thought I might have offended you or made you sad.”

I shook my head, “You didn’t. It’s how things always have been.”

“LILY?!” I heard a female voice call from outside.

“My mom,” she said, rolling her eyes and sighing. “OK if I come back later when the old lady chills about whatever it is?”

“Sure,” I chuckled.

She took her bottle of Coke with her and hurried out of the apartment and clomped down the steps. In many ways, she reminded me of Bev, and she responded to her mom the way Bev had responded to hers. Bev had, for some reason, always gotten along better with her dad, similar to Lisa, though without being a spoiled brat. Lily didn’t strike me as a spoiled brat, just a normal teenager, again, like Bev.

Lily didn’t come back before lunch, so I made myself a salami and cheese sandwich with a bit of mustard, grabbed an apple, poured myself a glass of milk, and sat down at the table to eat. I finished my sandwich and apple, cleaned up, then grabbed a book to read. I lounged on the couch, reading, until nearly 2:00pm, when I heard voices and footsteps. I put the book away and went to the door to welcome Tom, Maria, and Teresa, who were carrying grocery bags.

“As promised, a feast fit for a king!” Tom said, setting the bag down and shaking my hand.

“If I see any kings, I’ll let you know!”

Maria gave me a quick hug, and Teresa a hug and a quick kiss. About two minutes later, Stuart and Lucy arrived, with Stuart also carrying a bag. The girls put everything in the fridge or freezer, and then Tom passed out cans of Old Style to everyone.

“It’s not champagne, but it’ll do!” he grinned. “Congrats on getting your own place!”

We all touched the cans together and drank, then everyone sat down, with Teresa and me sitting cross-legged on the bed leaning against large pillows which I’d found in the closet.

“Looks like you’re all moved in,” Stuart said, surveying the room.

“A friend of mine from work helped me get everything set up yesterday,” I replied. “Without that help, plus a shopping list another friend made, I’d have been totally lost.”

“Maria helped both Stuart and me get set up,” Tom added. “Same deal. Neither of us had a clue!”

“Ask Stuart about the first time he did laundry!” Maria teased.

“Or don’t!” Stuart growled, but then laughed.

“That was one thing my mom taught me,” I replied. “I know how to do laundry. I can cook well enough to stay alive, but I’ll need to improve my cooking skills. Fortunately, I can experiment and the only risk is to my taste buds!”

“You’ll be amazed at what you’ll tolerate in certain circumstances!” Stuart laughed. “It took me close to a year to get the hang of it. But that’s an important skill for a firefighter.”

“Really?”

“Sure. They take turns cooking when they’re on shift. The fire stations all have nice kitchens. The firemen on shift kick in for food, then the guys cooking run over by the Jewels for stuff so they can cook fresh meals. I don’t want to be ‘that guy’ who always makes spaghetti and sauce!”

“All volunteer back home, so our fire station was basically a garage for the two engines and a tiny office.”

“How does that work?” Maria asked.

“The guys all carry pagers and have lights and sirens on their personal cars, which are mostly things like Jeep Cherokees or something like that. They keep all their gear in their Jeeps and when their pagers go off, they head to wherever the fire is. They get that info via a radio in their Jeep.”

“How does the engine get there?”

“The guy who drives it heads to the station to get it. Back home it was the guy who ran the local Ford dealership. He worked across the street from the station and lived less than a mile away. He’d get the page, then run over to the station, fire up the engine, get a radio call from the police dispatcher and head out. The trucks had to carry water, too, because mostly we didn’t have hydrants except right in the center of town.”

“That is just so bizarre!” Maria said, shaking her head. “What if they ran out of water?”

“Then they had to fill up from a pond or lake or creek or swimming pool. Our neighbors had a big cistern they used to catch rainwater for drinking and watering their lawn. It was meant to supplement the well, but in an emergency, the fire department could draw water from it.”

“Well? Like with a hand pump?”

I chuckled, “No, this wasn’t Dorothy’s farm in Kansas! We had a well with an electric pump that provided our water. Everyone on our street did. We also had septic tanks, instead of sewers.”

“What’s a ‘septic tank’?” Teresa asked.

“Basically a big cement box where, literally, all the crap and everything else goes. From there, pipes run out into something called a ‘leach field’ where the water is dispersed. A couple of times a year, a truck comes by to pump the crap out of the septic tank and take it away.”

“No outhouses, then?” Tom laughed.

I chuckled, “No. But one of the guys from school had them. They farm, and until about ten years ago, the outhouse was what they had. Now they have a proper septic system.”

“Proper?” Maria said, shaking her head. “That’s just weird. You have phones, right?”

“Sure,” I grinned. “But I had to go outside and climb the pole, just like they did on Green Acres.”

Everyone laughed.

“Oh you did not!” she said, trying hard to control her laughter.

“No, but our phones were all those old heavy-duty black ones with actual dials, not the pushbuttons. That was true for all my neighbors, though some had white phones instead of black. And before you ask, yes, we had electricity. But our heat was propane. There was a tank behind the house because we didn’t have gas service like you do here.”

Tom grinned, “No phone, no lights, no motor car; Not a single luxury; Like Robinson Crusoe, It’s primitive as can be!”

Everyone laughed again.

“I think I’d choose Petticoat Junction, if it were me,” I grinned. “Betty Jo, Bobbie Jo, and Billie Jo!”

Stuart grinned, “I always wondered about that. The train went past Petticoat Junction to Hooterville, right?”

“So the story went,” I agreed.

“But with those three chicks, it seems to me that ‘The Shady Rest Hotel’ WAS Hooterville!”

Lucy squealed and smacked him while the rest of us laughed.

“I wouldn’t mind swimming in the water tower!” Tom grinned. “Skinny dipping with three sisters!”

It was Maria’s turn to squeal and smack him.

“That would be a lot for any guy to handle,” I grinned.

“I’m up for the challenge,” Stuart replied.

Tom and I groaned and the girls rolled their eyes.

“You happy the baseball strike is resolved, Jonathan?” Tom asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

“Yeah, but it’s another week before they start playing again. I’m not sure I like the idea of a ‘split season’ the newspaper said was possible.”

“Did you see the Trib sportswriter who objected because you could easily end up in a situation where a team had the best overall record and didn’t even make the post-season?”

“That would suck,” I replied. “And honestly, the players caved on free-agency compensation, which is what the owners wanted, so it was a complete waste, really.”

“Want an even shittier possible result?” Stuart asked. “It’s possible for a team to have an overall losing record and still make the playoffs.”

“Now that’s just fucked up,” Tom groused. “How?”

“If by some chance the Royals, Mariners, or Twins won the second half of the season. The Sox had a winning record, but finished second, so they’d have a winning record if they won the second half, but they could finish second to one of those three teams who could have an overall losing record. And if that happened, the Sox would be excluded because of a team with an overall WORSE record.”

“That’s pure bullshit!” Tom exclaimed. “I think we write off this season and worry again next year.”

“The Reds could easily end up like the White Sox,” I replied. “It’s all stupid, really. And I read they aren’t even going to require the teams to play the same number of games. So you could, in theory, lose because you had to play more games or because you didn’t have another game to play. It’s a total mess.”

“Maybe the Bears will have a decent season,” Maria said.

“Fat chance!” Stuart replied. “Walter Payton is awesome, but when your entire offensive playbook is Payton runs right, Payton runs left, Payton up the middle, and some random dude punts, you aren’t going anywhere!”

“How’d you guys do with the Chicago Fire Department this week?” I asked.

“I’m sure we aced the tests,” Stuart said. “Piece of cake.”

“And we’re both sure we did well in the interviews,” Tom added. “We’ll know for sure in about two weeks, and then we’ll start at the Fire Academy on September 14th.”

“Very cool,” I replied. “How does that affect your free time?”

“It’s weekdays, so we’ll still be around on the weekends,” Stuart said. “And it means no more Saturday or Sunday shifts at Connie’s for Tom. Of course, when we get assigned to stations, then we’ll work the usual twenty-four hours on and forty-eight hours off. We’ll both get construction jobs for our off days. That’s common for firefighters and between the two jobs we can make really good money. And at age 45 or so, we can retire with full pensions with over twenty years of service.”

“Retire at 45?” I asked.

“You have to figure at that point, even a stud like Stuart is going to start having trouble passing the physical fitness test for a firefighter. Now, if we got to be officers, then maybe we’d stay longer, but it’s tough, back-breaking work if you think about it. A two-inch hose with a brass nozzle and under pressure needs two or three guys to handle it. The water can be at as much as 400psi. And then there’s the bunker gear, the oxygen tanks, other equipment, not to mention extreme heat, and you’re not going to be able to do it once you get older.”

“Interesting. Some of our volunteers are in their fifties, but I guess it’s different when you take what you can get, as opposed to having a professional department.”

“What’s the tallest building you have?”

“Three stories, I guess, maybe four at the most.”

“Think about trying to fight a fire in the Sears Tower or Hancock Building, or heck, where you work. I bet at home you didn’t have much in the way of chemicals or anything around.”

I chuckled, “Never worked on a farm, did you?”

“No,” Tom replied, shaking his head.

“Trust me, it’s ALL chemicals. Some farmers used manure, but mostly it was chemical fertilizer to go with the herbicides and pesticides. And I bet you didn’t know that a grain or corn silo can explode. Those things are dangerous as hell.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. Methane gas can build up from decomposition, or grain dust can catch a spark and the thing will blow itself to hell. Not to mention all the equipment used in silos, and on a farm in general. Grain elevators, reapers, harvesters, plows, and tractors in general are really dangerous.”

“And you have volunteers handling that?” Stuart asked.

“Only if things go wrong. The farmer is supposed to know how to deal with it and prevent it. At the feed store where I worked, we had a spiral-bound safety book we sold that explained all that stuff in case the farmer didn’t learn from his dad or whomever. Mr. Eaton, who owned the store, would quiz anyone new who came in about that and a bunch of other stuff. If they didn’t seem like they were aware, he’d make them buy the book before he sold them anything else.”