Coming home from the L stop tonight I made a short detour for the nearest 24-hour Jewel store. The wife, you see, had no more orange juice and this task being well within my capacities I took it upon myself to fetch some. The snow had been coming down with some regularity for the better part of the evening. Several inches of powdery stuff had settled across the city. This trek was not nearly as effortless as I had imagined.
The snow gave testament that I was plodding through ground where no man nor beast had been foolhardy enough to tread for several hours. Taking exaggerated moon steps I slowly made my way across the drifts. My shoes — ill-fitted to this kind of weather — allowed my socks to become soaked. I gratefully acknowledged that it could be worse: it was much warmer than it had been the previous two nights.
Rarely one to back down from a challenge such as this I eventually made it to my destination, picked up two cans of frozen orange juice concentrate, the smallest box of cereal I could find that looked tasty, and a beer because by this point I felt I’d earned it. At this hour only one teller manned the registers: his own and the nearby self-service kiosk. Knowing I’d be carded for the beer I chose the former. It needn’t have mattered either way because the numbskulls who chose the self-service kiosk seem to have never attempted to master such a device and struggled to manage even the simplest of tasks. Unfortunately, they also brought produce.
The teller was preternaturally cheerful about the whole endeavor. I don’t know from whence he derived his good nature, but it was pretty goddamned heartwarming. When I asked him how he was doing this night he answered with gusto that he was doing “Great!” and seemed generally touched that I inquired. Truly he’s some sort of all-night grocery store saint.
Chicago, this bustling metropolis, is eerily deserted after midnight under a layer of snowfall. On certain blocks I felt as if I had the whole city to myself, having not seen a single soul in some time. Sliding across the snowdrifts in my damp shoes I could imagine, albeit briefly, being the sole survivor of a terrible holocaust. It could be quite peaceful being the last man on earth.
Gee, I hope that orange juice thaws before Staci wakes up.
