It was only a dream...

Reposted from 7/18/07

It was muggy in Chicago today. Even with the breeze, the humidity made it feel like it was at least ten degrees hotter than it really was. I was downtown for a dinner meeting, and the thick clouds were pressing the sky down against us. It was the kind of evening where you just pray that it rains...anything to snap through the feeling of swimming down the sidewalk.

We walked from the office, about ten blocks north and east to the restaurant. Crossing the river, everything seemed a bit quieter than usual, like the city was packed in cotton, waiting to be unwrapped. We were all a bit wilted when we arrived. Neither the great steaks, cold beer, nor delicate background music could shake the stickiness.

I left a bit earlier than the others, as I live the farthest out. It was already 9:00, and I had been up early. I stepped outside, and was immediately startled by the spray of raindrops against my face. The awning was no help. The wind was swirling madly enough to drench everything immediately. I had no umbrella.

The valet hailed a cab, and I ran to the curb and slipped in. My shoes were already soaked, and the portfolio I had been holding over my head was drenched. I laid it on the seat beside me, and looked out the window at the young couple on the sidewalk huddling beneath their umbrella. They looked very small.

It's amazing how everything changes in those streets during a nighttime thunderstorm. The lighted signs glow brighter, the sheets of rain seem movie-unrealistic, reflecting headlights and thundering against the roof of the taxi. Lightning branches across the sky, and the crackling thunder takes on a surreal quality. It's like being in a movie, where everything is exaggerated for effect. The tops of the buildings are swallowed by clouds, the air smells of city things and ozone, and every silhouette is sharper, cleaner, and more vivid than usual.

The Civic Opera House had letters missing from the marquis. I've never seen that board less than perfect...but noticing that made me realize that I was as hyper-aware of my surroundings as one would be in a slow-motion dream. Every detail struck me as relevant as we traveled south on Wacker Drive. Lower Wacker was barricaded closed, and policemen stood beside large white vans, keeping people from sneaking down the ramp. I remembered a story I'd heard on the news about the filming of the new Batman movie beneath the city, and how Heath Ledger had been seen in full Joker makeup directing traffic a few days ago. I imagined him standing in the rain, and the macabre scene it would create, with the colors melting down his cheeks. All I really saw, though, was a weary policeman in a poncho, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world but there.

At the corner of Wacker and Adams, there was a (presumably) homeless man standing beside a newspaper machine. He had a push cart full of belongings, and was carefully, methodically trying to cover the cart with papers. The wind was grabbing the corners, tearing pages from his hands, and blowing them into the river of rainwater rushing along the curb. He made no attempt to cover himself...and hadn't even raised the fur-lined hood of his thick parka against the torrent. He blinked and watched the papers fly away as I passed.

The cab pulled up beside the office. It was pouring even harder by then....oceans of fat drops splashing on the sidewalk, and me in a suit and heels. I felt out of place as I paid the driver, opened the door, and paused for a moment.

I took a deep breath (and wondered at how the smell from the Blommer Chocolate factory can travel so well in the rain), held it for a moment, and took off across the sidewalk. It was less than twenty feet to the door. By the time I got there, though, I was soaked to the skin. My pants were plastered against my legs, my shoes filled with puddles, and my hair dripping down the back of my neck. I crashed against the door, and smiled ruefully. I felt like a little kid.

Inside the door, I hunched down the escalator to the walkway that leads to the parking garage. I stopped to shake my clothes free, and looked up. On the wall is a larger-than-life picture of several people in my group...a cheesy PR shot that's supposed to inspire confidence and trust in our services. It struck me that beneath the plastic smiles, they all looked sad. One, I knew, always carried that look. His wife is dying of cancer. The others I couldn't explain. I wondered if I looked as hollow as they do when I smile at my clients.

I made my way to my car, slipped inside, and started the engine. The seats were still radiating the heat they'd absorbed earlier from the hazy sun. The radio was too loud. The water was pouring onto the windshield from one of the upper levels of the garage, and I was fascinated by the thought of its journey downward, like from the bucket in the game Mousetrap. Winding, following gravity along a meandering path, driving furiously toward the ground. The deluge against the glass had a strange, lonely beauty of sorts. I sat watching for a few minutes before pulling out of my spot.

The Kennedy was packed, but moving. Everyone wanted to get home. The lightning skittered across the sky, and I picked up the phone. I wanted to talk about the clarity of the last few moments. I needed to share adjectives about the smells, and wind analogies around the differences between the vibrant city and the quiet hum of the suburbs. I felt such a strong desire to ramble on about all of the details, and see where they took me.

But then I realized that there wasn't anyone with whom I could have that conversation, so I just picked up my text messages. There was one from a friend about the rain. I decided to call him. I could talk to him about what a long day it had been, and he would tell me about going to Starbucks for a mocha.

He didn't answer. I sighed, in both chagrin and relief.

Instead, I counted seconds between the thunder and the lightning as I drove, and plotted an outline for a blog entry. Sometimes it's a blessing to be able to pour everything into something that means nothing, after all.