My favorite piece of trash.
Nine months ago as I was stretching my legs over by the Adler Planetarium while my trolley passengers were taking pictures of themselves in front of the skyline, I saw on the ground a smashed up top half of a toy school bus. I reached down to pick it up and I noticed that it had the word "Chicago" printed in red on the roof of the bus. For some reason this piece of trash made me laugh. I assumed (having spent the last six years talking about Chicago's worst disaster or tallest building or oldest shopping center) that this was perhaps Chicago's smallest disaster. Thirty-five tiny lives lost in the great school bus smashing of '04. So I put it in my pocket so that I could show others and perhaps add it to my tour so that the visitors from outside of the U.S. could become even more baffled with the stuff I say as the day grows long.
I get tired toward the end of the day, as does everyone. In my job as tour guide, being mentally tired makes the job especially difficult. Most tour guides have at least major portions of the tour on this imaginary CD in their heads. At the end of the day, the CD skips a lot. For instance: "To the right, The Merchandise Mart, the fourth tallest building in the...sorry. My CD skipped." or as your pulling into the Field Museum, "This is Navy Pier." It happens. So around 4pm, I'm hoping that one day the tour will sound something like this: "Okay, folks. If you were wanting to take some pictures of the skyline, this is the worlds busiest agricultural fire survivor. Please be sure to ask one of our 45 retractable skyscrapers when the Blue Man Group is going to start the fireworks tonight so that you can get half off the free day at the 144,000 Art Institute covers in the city. And now, I'd like to bring down the lights and talk to you seriously for a moment. Do you see this tiny top half of a bus that says, 'Chicago'? The tiniest disaster in Chicago history. 35 tiny lives were lost. Many believe that my right jacket pocket is haunted to this day. Sometimes there's a little girl in there running around on Dennis Rodman. Thank you and try some of the Cincinatti Chili while you're snorkelling in the Adirondaks."
You see, it's a strange dream, but it's a dream nevertheless.
However a few months ago (I didn't even really notice) I lost contact with the tiny bus wreck. It was about that time that tiny things turned up missing. Tiny pieces of furniture were being moved around. Tiny ghosts? No. Tiny Jerks. So, any reasonable person would assume, I guess that great piece of trash is gone forever.
So two days ago, I'm walking out to my van to start my day. Another day of trolley driving. I was about a block and a half from my apartment and a flash of yellow painted metal caught my eye. As it was before, it was half buried but I recognized it immediately. I looked down and boggled at the coincidence. Then I quickly picked it up and inspected it. This was the exact same piece of trash that I had found nine months ago on the museum campus. Apparently some undeterminable period of time ago I lost it. Also apparent it the fact that no one in all the time it laid there had anywhere near the same interest that I had in my tiny tragedy. Or perhaps someone did like it, used it until they were tired of it, and coincidentally, just happened to throw it away or lose it a block from my home.
I like to believe that those 35 tiny lives weren't lost until I lost them. And now they've found their way home. It's not Chicago's Tiniest Tragedy anymore. It's Chicago's L'illest Miracle.
Happy Daylight Savings Time!
I get tired toward the end of the day, as does everyone. In my job as tour guide, being mentally tired makes the job especially difficult. Most tour guides have at least major portions of the tour on this imaginary CD in their heads. At the end of the day, the CD skips a lot. For instance: "To the right, The Merchandise Mart, the fourth tallest building in the...sorry. My CD skipped." or as your pulling into the Field Museum, "This is Navy Pier." It happens. So around 4pm, I'm hoping that one day the tour will sound something like this: "Okay, folks. If you were wanting to take some pictures of the skyline, this is the worlds busiest agricultural fire survivor. Please be sure to ask one of our 45 retractable skyscrapers when the Blue Man Group is going to start the fireworks tonight so that you can get half off the free day at the 144,000 Art Institute covers in the city. And now, I'd like to bring down the lights and talk to you seriously for a moment. Do you see this tiny top half of a bus that says, 'Chicago'? The tiniest disaster in Chicago history. 35 tiny lives were lost. Many believe that my right jacket pocket is haunted to this day. Sometimes there's a little girl in there running around on Dennis Rodman. Thank you and try some of the Cincinatti Chili while you're snorkelling in the Adirondaks."
You see, it's a strange dream, but it's a dream nevertheless.
However a few months ago (I didn't even really notice) I lost contact with the tiny bus wreck. It was about that time that tiny things turned up missing. Tiny pieces of furniture were being moved around. Tiny ghosts? No. Tiny Jerks. So, any reasonable person would assume, I guess that great piece of trash is gone forever.
So two days ago, I'm walking out to my van to start my day. Another day of trolley driving. I was about a block and a half from my apartment and a flash of yellow painted metal caught my eye. As it was before, it was half buried but I recognized it immediately. I looked down and boggled at the coincidence. Then I quickly picked it up and inspected it. This was the exact same piece of trash that I had found nine months ago on the museum campus. Apparently some undeterminable period of time ago I lost it. Also apparent it the fact that no one in all the time it laid there had anywhere near the same interest that I had in my tiny tragedy. Or perhaps someone did like it, used it until they were tired of it, and coincidentally, just happened to throw it away or lose it a block from my home.
I like to believe that those 35 tiny lives weren't lost until I lost them. And now they've found their way home. It's not Chicago's Tiniest Tragedy anymore. It's Chicago's L'illest Miracle.
Happy Daylight Savings Time!
posted by Churchill at 11:27 AM
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