It’s a summer day in downtown Chicago and my first time in a big city. I’m eight years old. My humble hometown of Kalamazoo, Mich. is insignificant by comparison. Just driving in a straight line through the city, we have already passed more Starbucks than I have ever seen in my life.
We’re in no particular rush. I think that’s why my parents enjoy going out to the city so much – its bustling, mindless energy is tranquil compared to the clamor of their everyday working lives. I’m happy to tag along with my mother across the wide streets that stretch infinitely. We’re masters of the art of window-shopping, on the street, at the mall – we stand for minutes at a time, our heads as close to the window as possible, hands cupped against the glass to avoid the glare of light. The traffic astounds me in its intensity, with columns of cars that stop and go, stop and go. Street bands perform on corners, and every so often we stop to watch them. A large, burly men with trash barrels that wrinkle their noses while concentrating on the beat; a lone man with a guitar croons with his back against brick.
My mother spots something bright in the distance and we start walking there. The sharp honks of car horns snarl at each intersection. But we pay them no attention, we’re entranced. We step closer to what looks like a glorious metal pedestal near the corner of a park. I see a distorted reflection of myself in its polished surface.
There’s a man on top of the pedestal. He glistens. Steel streaks line his pants, his shirt, his face; even his sunglasses are metal. I see myself in his plated vest that looks to be made of some cool precious material – silver, I figure. The man is standing completely still, his hands snared in karate-chop position. He seems to be eternally trapped in a reflective purgatory. An empty soda can at the foot of this shrine is filled with coins and leafy bills, offerings to this stoic machine. The crowd is mesmerized. The glare of the sun reflects into our eyes, and we remain silent. His stagnant nature has hushed the crowd, and even the traffic around us seems to have stopped in meditation.
Somewhere deep inside me I know this isn’t really a statue, but for now, I note the grainy texture of his sneakers, the smell of sidewalk trash and the monotony of footsteps around us, because I know there’s something wrong with this magical statue that towers above us. He, this enchanted silver being that watches the skies, commands a silent power over the city. In my awe, I grasp the sleeve of my mother’s jacket to anchor myself in his stare.
And then the clouds above us break the silence with a flood of rain that pounds onto the pavement. The figure in front of us, the silver statue man, slowly dissolves as if from the set of some perverse Twilight Zone episode, waves of metallic paint flowing down his face as ruddy human skin appears. We’re all still standing there as he takes off his sunglasses in one jittery motion. “I apologize for the inconvenience, ladies and gentlemen,” he says with a slight smile. “But you know. Chicago summers, am I right?”
He’s an older man, in his fifties or so, with grizzled hair that looks slick with grease. His gravelly voice is nothing like the reedy beeping that I had expected from the cyborg he was a few minutes ago; the crowd laughs it off and applauds him for his performance. The stoplight has flickered green and cars drive past without a second thought. While he packs his things, I approach the pedestal and knock my small fist upon it. It’s hollow. Plastic. Pearly paint washes down into the gutter, not even the pedestal is metal like it seemed. There is an unlit, bent Newport at the man's lips and he droops over and coughs violently. A long, pink strand of saliva patters onto the sidewalk, and my mother rushes us away, away through the rain.As we walk back to the sanctuary of the mall, I focus on the occasional gum stain on the ground. All I can think about are the rivulets of silver washing down the road into the dank sewers of Chicago. Slithering down wide, busy streets populated by the scores of homeless, past bus stations awash in graffiti and through dilapidated housing projects, finally slowing to a crawl in the rank depths of the underground. That’s where it all ends up: the silver mixed with the sewage and rainwater, settling in the labyrinth of drainpipes under the sidewalk. There’s no distinction to be made.
The deluge soaks my clothing and my mind. Swaths of wind whip puddles of rainwater onto passerby, smearing grit across stories of glass. I yank my hand away from my mother’s and scrutinize the swirling clouds. I feel obscurely tormented in some inexplicable sense, so I immerse my attention in the rills of water that funnel past my bloated shoes.