chicago, writing

you should have heard the scream she let out, bro

Grantwriting at the Mercury Cafe on Chicago Avenue, distinguished by its large number of electrical outlets and its cavernous space, large enough to perform surgery on a truck.

I ask my tablemate for the wireless password. By answer, he turns to his IPhone, caresses his screen for far too long, and eventually comes up with a photograph of the scribbled piece of paper by the counter where the wireless password is written. It’s so digital it’s analog.

The writer’s group is talking:

A: She’s the kind of person who eats a bird shoved inside of a bird shoved inside of a bird.
B: I am from Michigan…
A: You’re crusty, bro.

There really is no reason to ever feel alone in this city. I have spared the readers of this blog the more graphic discussion to which the group proceeded, about genital piercing, but I had to listen to it. Count yourselves lucky.