MOODS OVER A SEPTEMBER MOON

Today is my twelfth birthday. Dad told me a little while ago that he
has a surprise for me, told me to get dressed, that we're going out.
"Just you and me," he said. I begged him to tell me where we'd be going
but he said it wouldn't be a surprise then, "now would it?" Still, I
wanted to know. I really don't like surprises, to tell you the truth.
Too many surprises lately. Last week, Dad surprised us all when he'd
lost his job. Two weeks before that, he lost another paycheck. Mom
doesn't like surprises either. She wasn't too happy when Dad told her,
how he lost his paycheck, "on a sure thing. Couldn't have possibly
lost." I overheard him tell her this when I was passing their bedroom
on my way to the kitchen. The kitchen is right next to their bedroom
and as I was sitting there eating my Cheerios I can hear my mom crying.
I hate when Mom cries. The last year or maybe, the last two, I've heard
my mom cry a lot. Sometimes I'll see her cry but that's not very often
though. Mom doesn't like us kids seeing her cry. She does it in her
bedroom with the door closed. She knows we won't bother her when she's
in her bedroom with the door closed.
After getting dressed in my Levi's and tee shirt, Dad and me leave the
apartment. On the way to the bus stop, once again I beg Dad to at
least, give me a hint to where he's taking me.
"Okay, okay," he says. "We'll be taking the elevated."
"Do you mean the el train?"
"Yes, Ricky." He pulls from his pants pocket a couple of C.T.A.
(Chicago Transit Authority) tokens and then quickly switches them from
one hand to the other, back and forth, back and forth and now my head's
getting dizzy. He finally stops, thank goodness, and holds out his
fists. "Okay," he says, "I bet you don't know which hand they're
in."
I point to his right fist and he unclenches, revealing nothing.
"Alright, it's in your left then." I'm wrong again. Somehow, the two
tokens had ended up in his ear, and I don't know how, it just amazes
me, seeing my dad pull out of his ears two bus tokens. The bus pulls
up, we climb aboard, and again, I'm amazed. This time Dad pulls the
tokens from his mouth and deposits them in the fare box. The bus driver
looks at my dad like he's crazy or something. We ride the bus to the el
station; all the way I'm trying to guess on my birthday surprise. Each
time, Dad assures me that I'm wrong. "No, we're not going to the
movies. No, not bowling."
As we wait for our el train to come, Dad and me watch the pigeons.
They're waddling the platform pecking at bits of bread a big lady in a
dark shawl is tossing. A couple of times the big lady throws the bread
too far and they land next to the third rail of the track. Watching
those pigeons swoop down to the tracks near the third rail is getting
me very nervous. God forbid, they touch the third rail; they'd be
"fried chicken." I don't how many volts are running this track but Dad
tells me enough to electrocute an elephant. I don't think many
elephants ride this line though. They're usually on the circus train
and I think those kinds of trains are run by steam engines, maybe
diesel.



Beyond the blue spears of electric discharge, the Marina Towers,
resembling two tall stacks of poker chips rise above the ground, giving
me the chance to place another bet on my birthday surprise. I bet on a
trip to the museum. I heard it's downtown somewhere. But this bet
doesn't pay off either. Try again. Dinosaur bones, mummies and whatever
else they have enslaved at The Field Museum would have to await my
young and unwavering curiosity for another time. "
As the el train whizzes along, I feel as though I'm flying. Through
the window I see nothing but the city below. There's nothing in
between. No track, nothing. Veering to one side, my body pressed
against the cool steel, I see the expanse of blue just beyond the line
of gray edifice. It looks like the lake, the very big lake. The beach,
that's it, I bet we're going to the beach.
"Dad, we're going to beach, right?"
"No, Ricky."
After negotiating another turn and then straightening out, in the
distance, well beyond the breakers, boats, all kinds of boats begin to
eclipse my view. I bet that's it. I feel really good about this one.
"Dad," I say, "are you taking me on a boat?"
"Yes, Ricky," Dad answers. "We're going to take the two-hour scenic
tour on Lake Michigan," he says soberly. Now I'm getting excited, real
exited, so excited that I nearly piss on the graffiti-laden seat. What
a great surprise! Never been on a real boat before, only a small
rowboat up in Wisconsin when I was either nine or ten or perhaps
seven.
"Dad," I ask, "why did you decide to take me on a boat?" He looks up
for a second, puts his index finger to his chin and begins to ruminate
that his own father, my grandfather who I had never met, who died
mysteriously well before I was born, took him on the same tour, but
back then, "things were different, well, you know, the city wasn't
built as high as it is now, didn't have a lot of these buildings we
have now and no Ricky, no John Hancock building and no Playboy Bunny
atop the building next to it either."
As the train begins to sweep around the outer edge of The Loop, with
buildings tossing shadows and shadows casting streaks across Father's
face, I'm kind of enjoying this ride aboard the elevated, although I'm
starting to feel more anxious and excited about getting off this darn
thing and getting on that boat. I feel a trickle down my leg. I'm kind
of embarrassed so I look around at my fellow passengers, people of
various age and color, most of them in light summer clothes, and
realize they are all ensconced in business of their own and pay me no
attention, none at all.
The train lunges into a tunnel and then snakes out into a clearing,
where the mid-September sun penetrates and emblazons the crayoned
swastikas and spray-painted gang insignia that are worn tightly and
selfishly upon the walls of our urine-smelling compartment. Across from
Father and me, slumped unconsciously forward, sits a man with decrepit
overcoat, clutching a brown paper bag. A closer look reveals a puddle,
a yellowish bubbly puddle below his knees. I reason with clear
conscience that we should switch to another car. But Dad says, "We're
off at the next stop." I put my face in my hands and think about the
meatloaf that Mom will be cooking for me later on. I have simple tastes
and meatloaf is what I want and not some swanky Porterhouse or Lobster
tail. Besides, Porterhouses and Lobster tails probably cost too much
money anyway and I don't think there's much money for things like that,
well, not since Dad lost his job last week. I feel the train losing
speed. I lift my face off my hands and look at Dad, who is now staring
pensively at the man across from us, the one slumped in drunkenness,
and I wonder if Dad's being reminded of his own self as he was five or
six months ago, when he, himself, was drunk a lot of the time, falling
down and knocking things over and sometimes passing out on The Elevated
and missing his stop, probably missing a bunch of stops. That was then,
before he vowed never to take a drink again. Dad is sober and I'm proud
of him and we're going to spend the day together. I'm so happy.
I feel the train slowing. Dad nudges me and then he gets up and grasps
the handrail. "C'mon," he says.