TheOtherJack

To Michael and Astro’s House

Michael and I began talking on this website. I gathered he was a bit of a gearhead. He offered to let me stay on his couch relatively early on. I had declined early on because I was suffering from a bout of insomnia and wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway.

The night after I was robbed, for the second time, there was a big storm. There was rain, wind, and a little lightning. I was limping from an injury during the robbery, and I did not want to spend the night in the rain. Once you’re wet, there’s no getting dry for several hours; being soaked and trying to use the train with its overpowered air-conditioner is misery. I took the easy way out and asked if Michael’s offer was still open; he said yes and even offered to pick me up once I got closer.

Standing under the shelter, waiting for the train, the wind seemed to be blowing from all directions. I was wet, but I didn’t care because I knew that I’d be able change into something dry before the night was through.

On the train, I was shivering and simply couldn’t get warm. The train was going slower than usual, but the wind was shaking it from side to side. As we entered a tunnel, the lights went out and we came to a stop.

Having warmed up since the air-conditioner cut off, I noticed the people around me for the first time. Illuminated by phones, I saw fifteen to twenty drag queens. After a few minutes they began vamping, singing, and performing standup. I assume they were rehearsing their acts. Most of them were quite good, a very few leaned too heavily into cringe humor. On the whole, it was a pleasant way to spend an hour in the dark.

Meeting Michael

After another, much shorter delay, I arrived at the station where I was to meet Michael. He had practice and was volunteering with inmates earlier.

I was expecting a middle-aged car guy. However, I found Michael waiting near the rear of the station, a tall, good-looking young man. We made small talk as he drove to his apartment. He drove like he was in an urban race: cycling through gear, quick stops, hard down on the accelerator. I’ve only rode with him once, so I can’t say how much of this was how he usually drives and how much for my benefit. He told me the story of his first car crash. The only time he seemed shaken was when we shot past a cop; I felt Michael tap on his brakes, the cop wasn’t bothered enough to do anything.

As we drove into his neighborhood, I saw a fire hydrant that had been illicitly opened. I had seen this before in movies, but I didn’t know people actually did it. Michael said it was mostly kids trying to beat the heat. The fire hydrant wasn’t closed until the afternoon of the next day.

Meeting Astro

We arrived at Michael’s apartment a little after midnight and were greeted by his cat Astro. Astro is a large-eyed, black and white cat. He was not at all skittish; he came right up and headbutted me (in a friendly way).

According to Michael, Astro’s eyes are bigger than his stomach; from what I’ve seen, this is completely true. He likes to sit in one of his window perches and chirp or chatter at the rats he sees in the street. The rats are usually about half as big as Astro—they would make a fine feast or two. His hunting instinct does not extend to small prey as he refuses to go after flies and other insects that make their way into the apartment; he simply doesn’t think something so small is worth the effort.

House Rules and Order

Their apartment is clean and very well ordered; there’s no clutter and everything has its place. Even though he said it’s okay, I’m afraid to use anything in his kitchen because everything is so well organized, I think he could cook while blindfolded.

Michael, being a vegan, had only one rule, that being: should I cook meat, I would clean anything I had used. He did not wish to police what I was eating; he just didn’t want to deal with animal products.

Since I didn’t plan on being there during mealtimes, I endeavored to simply avoid animal products during my stay. I blew it almost immediately, when I used the generous bonus from my first temp job to buy French fries and coffee. I didn’t know that McDonald’s fries contain animal products. But I didn’t use any utensils to eat them and Michael didn’t seem to be upset.

Michael Points-out Segregation in Chicago

Michael is from Chicago; I’m not sure if he was born here, but he’s been here since he was a child. He’s had a lot more time than me to observe this city.

Chicago is almost laughably segregated. I hadn’t really noticed it until he pointed out. As you ride the Red Line between the Loop and its terminus, the skin tone of the riders gets darker and darker; ride in the opposite direction and the reverse is true.

There are unofficial ethnic enclaves dotted throughout the city’s various neighborhoods; this is even true of the suburbs, where various ethnic minorities seemed to have concentrated themselves in a limited number of towns. For instance: Schaumburg seems to have a comparatively large South Asian population whereas Cicero seems to have a larger Spanish speaking population. In city though, this segregation seems to go street-by-street or block-by-block: there is one example of strip mall with places meant to appeal to a mostly East Asian demographic and on the opposite side of the road are stores, almost mirrored one for one, meant to appeal to a Black clientele.

Michael’s Volunteer Work

Michael works with an organization that helps people who have been released from Cook County Jail; from what I understand most were released after being arraigned or having a bail hearing.

He has been helping a man named Ramón, pronounced “Raymond” for some reason. Originally from Colombia, Ramón is an elderly man suffering from some form of cognitive decline or clinically diagnosable dementia. He is/was effectively homeless after his release. Due to his dementia, he may have some difficulty complying with his conditions of release.

Michael has been helping him to attend doctor’s appointments, by facilitating communication with family members outside of Chicago, and by securing shelter space after his release. Michael was disgusted that a man of such declining faculties was released onto the streets instead of to some responsible party. Michael has gone above and beyond by connecting Ramón to a case worker and even trying to find out whether or not his medical condition had some bearing on his alleged offense.

Michael at Work

I’m not exactly sure what Michael does, but he works mostly from home doing computer stuff. I don’t think he likes the company he works for (for ethical reasons), but he does seem to like the work, at the very least he finds it interesting.

One day he worked for about 6 hours straight, had a meal, the worked a further 6 hours; the entire time he was tapping and clicking away at his computer.

He seems to be even more enthusiastic about his hobbies. He either spends hours or has some sort of alert system in order to find parts, accessories, and tools for his car. He can perform repairs that would typically require a professional in his spare time. Sometimes he’ll forget to eat or work into the early hours of the morning.

Update on My Situation

I had been limping recently due to an injury from the robbery; I further injured the same foot through a series of other screw ups, which led to the development of several small blisters. Unbeknownst to me, one of these blisters became infected. Unfortunately, I did not realize this until it was too late as my foot was already sore and my sense of smell has been substandard since I started chemo. In any event I ended up excising some of the flesh from my foot. After making the first cut, I could easily smell it. I’m surprised Michael didn’t say anything, I think he was being too polite; the smell of necrotic flesh is distinct and unpleasant.

I had to attend another series of courses to maintain my status within the program—I’m mostly hedging my bets in case the other thing falls through. I also go to the center to look for temp jobs; I’ve found out that sometimes I can manage to get two fairly simple data entry-type jobs in one day if I’m registered with more than one temp agency. The only downside to this place is that the dispatcher likes to watch old Fox animated shows: King of the Hill, The Simpsons, and Family Guy; sometimes she watches a new one called Bob’s Burgers; on Fridays she watches Ancient Aliens. My gripe isn’t her choice of programs, it’s the volume; she’s not hard of hearing but she sets the television to its beverage-rippling maximum, I believe in an attempt to let the entire building in on the fun.

I’ve kept up my illicit doctoring, which I should be able to do until their regular guy gets back from vacation on Friday. Things have been fairly tranquil, so I haven’t been getting the number of callouts that I had estimated. Between my temp work and this, I’ve managed to earn about $1800; this means I’m about $850 from securing an apartment.

I want to thank you all for everything you’ve been doing for me: for helping out, for donating, for reading. It really does mean much more than I’m capable of putting into words.

I normally write when I can’t sleep. Recently I’ve been fairly busy and sleeping most nights, so I haven’t been writing. For that, I apologize. In no particular order, here’s what’s been going on over the past few days.

I May Have Found a Place

I’ve tacitly found a place. It’s on the South Side of Chicago, near public transport stops, and the rent is affordable. The downside is that because I have no credit (I’ve never rented anything, taken out a loan, purchased my own insurance, or even had a credit card) my initial deposit is unusually high, on the order of several thousand dollars. Between your donations, some of you directly and many of you through the GoFundMe, and my various odd jobs, I have nearly enough to cover the deposit.

Odd Jobs

I’ve stopped devoting all my time to seeking a permanent job and have begun doing temp work.

My first temporary job was a data entry gig. It was scheduled to last three days; I wrote some scripts that allowed me to finish in one day. Instead of being brought back for the last two days, I was paid for one day of work (about $60) and given a $10 McDonald’s gift card to thank me for finishing early. My second job played out much the same way, except there was no gift card.

My third, and current, temp job is the same except this time I’m deliberately going slow to earn a bigger paycheck.

Michael and Astro

I met Michael on this website. He offered to allow me to use his couch for a while. On a very rainy, windy night I took advantage of his offer. After a long power outage on the Blue Line, I met Michael and his cat Astro early on a dark and stormy morning.

I’m going to write more about Michael and his very friendly cat Astro in my next post, because this one would probably be well over three-thousand words if I didn’t. But I’d still like to thank them here.

We Have Become a ~~Grandmother~~ Crime Doctor

I met one of you, through this site, who connected me with a friend of his. Said friend gave/lent/traded me some money for a favor to be performed at a later date.

That date came and I was asked to tend to the wound of someone who was injured while doing something I knew better than to ask about. I arrived at the address I had been given and was greeted quite warmly; from there I was shown to a “clinic” that had been set up in a back room. I was shocked at how well stocked the place was: it had every manner of suture, an ECG, a vitals monitor, an AED, a nice portable ultrasound, an autoclave, a wide variety of surgical tools each in its own sterilized packaging, diagnostic equipment, infusion pumps, a ventilator, et cetera…there was even an IO drill. The drug locker was equally well stocked with hundreds of medicines in pills, suppositories, creams, ampules, and vials.

The patient was a large man with a severe though non-life-threatening injury. I worked on him for about an hour. I’ve been back several times to check on him, I think he should make a full recovery with no lasting harm and only minimal scarring.

I was called back a few days later. The new patient had a deep cut to his forearm. I assumed it was crime related, but on a follow-up visit I learned he had been trying to juggle knives. He too will make a complete recovery with minimal scarring—if he stops picking at his stitches.

I never wanted to go into medicine, and I certainly didn’t want to practice in the U.S., but needs must when the devil drives.

I Got Robbed, Again

I was robbed again. They roughed me up a little this time and made off with my phone and about $120 I was on my way to deposit. My phone was still insured and I got a new one the next day. The cash is gone forever.

Evgeni

While waiting for a bus back from the suburbs, I saw an older man; he was 70 if he was a day. He struggled putting his bicycle on the front of the bus. Once he was done, a younger woman handed him a crate she had been carrying and gave him a small hug. He wedged his backpack and crate into a seat on the opposite side of the aisle from me then he laid out the contents of his pockets on the seats of the back row. Short, toothless, and shabbily dressed, he tried to get off the bus for a cigarette before immediately getting back on followed by the bus driver. He laid down across the back row and quickly fell asleep.

The bus took a sharp turn, and his crate flew into me: a large Bialetti coffee maker crashed into my leg before falling to the floor. “Oh, I can’t see; you have to look for me. Is it dented? Does it still screw together?” he asked in a thick Russian accent. The coffee pot was in good order.

He introduced himself as Evgeni and we began to talk. He works in facilities maintenance for one of the local colleges. “I work there since I first got here. I been doing the same job for 25 years.”

He explained that at this time of year, he’s expected to clean out dorm rooms and get them ready for the fall semester. “Everybody I work with loves me. For my birthday they take up a collection and they give me twenty-two hundred dollars—everybody loves to work with Evgeni. You know why?”

He looked at me as if he expected an answer to his rhetorical question. Just as I opened my mouth to answer in the negative, he jumped back in, “Because I show up two hours early and leave an hour late every day, and I don’t ask to be paid for it. They get that time for free.” I asked him if he wouldn’t be happier getting paid for that time.
“No,” was his response. “I seen so many people get let go after a semester or two because all they want to do is complain. Not me. I go with the flow; I do what I’m told and then some. And for twenty-five years they keep me on.”

“And you’re happy doing that?” I asked.

“Yes! Of course,” he said with a wry little smirk. “Always I am happy. Do you know why?” He paused, waiting for me to answer this new rhetorical question. “Because I have the secret to happiness,” followed by another brief pause, “Do you want to know my secret?”

Doubtful that he could but intrigued that he might tell me, I answered in the affirmative. He leaned over to me and spoke in a slow whisper: “I rob them all blind.” The little old man sprung back and let loose in a loud burst of laughter.

“I haven’t bought groceries in twenty years. Oh one of these apples is bruised—the entire bag must go…home with Evgeni. Potatoes, flour, beef—I get it all when I clean the kitchens.” He took out his phone and showed me a photo of him standing next to a television of nearly the same height. “The university said ‘It’s broken, [I] can have it,’ they didn’t need to know I just pulled a couple of fuses.” He opened a black garbage bag in his crate to reveal what looked to a nearly brand-new woolen Hudson’s Bay Point Blanket. “The student, she says, ‘You must take, if you don’t I’ll just have to throw it away, I have no room to pack it.’ And so I take it,” he gave a small wink, “reluctantly.”

As we pulled into the station, the now spry Evgeni retrieved his bike from the front of the bus, tied his crate to its fender, and rode off into the night.

I grew up in a military town in North Carolina. Both of my parents were Marines. My family was not particularly religious; even less so when compared against the backdrop of a small(ish) town in the Bible Belt. Still, I grew up sheltered; I was an only child in an environment firmly under the control of my parents: I wasn’t allowed to learn how to drive, only doing so after I left for college; we lived in the only house on a cul-de-sac surrounded by dense woods; I wasn’t even allowed to play school sports because my mother feared I would be injured. Despite my family being firmly working-class, I wasn’t allowed to get an actual (like proper, above board, pay-check paying) summer job; the one year I did, my parents punished my defiance by refusing to pick me up or drop me off at work—I refused to backdown, and spent that entire summer walking or cycling to and from work out of spite.

When I was junior in high school, I was selected for a summer program that required me to spend six weeks away from home on the opposite side of the state. My parents were both proud that I was accepted, but my mother was apprehensive about letting me attend—one of my teachers finally convinced her by telling her how good it would look on a college application. I loved that summer because I was allowed to do my own laundry and choose what I wanted to eat, among other things.

I started college at Duke University. This was my parents’ choice. While I had applied to two other private schools, my “dream” schools, far away from my hometown, these were both in other states; if I had to go to school in North Carolina, I would have preferred to go to Chapel Hill or NC State, where my friends from high school had gone.

In my sophomore year at Duke, my mother died. While sorting her things, I found acceptance letters and scholarship offers from my two “dream” schools; until that point, through some subterfuge, I had been led to believe that both had rejected me. I also found a marriage certificate and many medical records. My father explained that my mother’s first husband had been killed in an automobile accident; this was why I hadn’t been allowed to drive. He also told me of the many miscarriages they both suffered before I was born, thus explaining their overprotectiveness. Although I was still quietly angry, I had found a new sympathy for my parents.

Once I was certain that my father had things under control, I applied for a passport. Still angry and grieving, I decided to spend some time with my biological grandfather in South America. In retrospect, I was surprised by the number of ideological exiles from the former Eastern Bloc there; in school, after the end of the Cold War, we had been taught that no one actually believed in communism, that party members were just going-along-to-get-along, and that the Second World was just doing it because, “they hate America and our freedoms."

My grandfather introduced me to my then future father-in-law. His daughter asked me out and we were married within a year.

My father-in-law had been an officer of the East German government; after the Wall came down, their family had been left in a state of precarity before he was eventually recruited to a position with the Cuban government. He came to my wife, who also worked for the Cuban government, and me with a list of liberal professions and told us to choose which one I would pursue. He reasoned that even in the event of regime change or a color revolution, doctors, lawyers, and the like would still be employable; this was his method of ensuring stability for his daughter and her family. My wife and I decided that I would pursue medicine and I enrolled at (roughly) Cienfuegos Medical School. I graduated slightly early due to credit from my prior education and some luck. We lived in Havana while I completed my post-graduate training and further education.

Once I was a fully qualified medical doctor, my wife continued her work for the foreign service of the diplomatic corps. Typically, I would be granted a position in a hospital of the city housing the embassy or consulate my wife was posted to.

Occasionally, I would be sent to some crisis area “near” where my wife was posted. I worked very briefly as an Ebola doctor towards the end of the epidemic. In Siberia, I contracted cutaneious anthrax. In Syria, I was mostly relegated to performing triage at a forward hospital, aid station work, and making various reports and recommendations. I was the Institute’s point of contact for field work concerning MERS. In Viet Nam, I treated several patients with cases of what would become known as COVID-19.

My wife eventually got her dream posting to Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam. I was employed at City International Hospital, and our daughter was born. We were the happiest we would be, a true high-water mark. The city was very modern with many cultural outlets; we lived a thoroughly metropolitan life.

My wife died of a ruptured brain aneurysm. Our daughter and I returned to Cuba; less than a year later she died of a congenital heart defect. I was distraught—I existed, not truly present, just going through the motions, for some time afterward. Eventually I returned to the United States. My father died soon after my return and my distress continued.

While I was making arrangements for my father’s estate, I realized that I had lost quite a bit of weight; I had gone from 180 pounds to about 120 and eventually just under 100. After some scans, my first oncologist thought I had end stage (heavily metastasized) cancer, after some biopsies, I was diagnosed with several different stage 1 cancers. I was recommended to an oncologist in the Chicago area, where I moved to.

(While receiving chemotherapy infusions, one of my nurses introduced me to the Chapo podcast and this website.)

I eventually blew my savings seeking treatment. I sold off almost everything of value. I was eventually cured, but found myself homeless, jobless, and in a place that was effectively foreign to me.

I am happy to announce that I have a job. It will last only until after the Independence Day holiday, but may come with a valid reference for future employment.

I have been hired to tutor a college student who is taking a condensed course differential equations. His mother intends for him to become an engineer, in her words, “of any sort". While I have found him to be a generally bright and insightful young man, when it comes to mathematics, he is, frankly, thick as pig shit. We spent the entire first day of my employment reviewing basic calculus; I spent the entire second day re-teaching him the basics of multivariable calculus; and the third covering more advanced techniques before finally touching upon differential equations. This was despite his mother, backed up by a well worn collection of textbooks, utter insistence that he had, “a very good understanding of calculus”. If his retention over the past few days is anything to go by, then I do believe he may just barely pass his course, especially as I have been given the assurance of his mother that these abbreviated summer courses are “always" graded on a heavy curve. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he wants to pass and I know he doesn’t want to be an engineer.

The best part is that I am being compensated in something other than experience and a good recommendation: for the extent of my tutoring period I have been given the cheapest hotel room in the area (I’ve honestly checked, out of pure curiosity) and two free meals per day at any of his mother’s many restaurant franchises throughout the area.

Getting to the hotel was a bit of a task. I first had to walk several blocks from the library where I had agreed to conduct the lessons to the nearest stop of The L. I then took that train to the Loop, transferred to the Blue Line, and rode to its penultimate stop. There I waited, and waited, and continued to wait for a further 38 minutes for an uncomfortably cold bus and its surly driver. (I have come to suspect that this obscure route is a sort of punishment for CTA drivers.) After 63 stops, my fingers, somehow both numb and in pain, were just able to signal for a stop. Then, after walking for about half a mile, I had finally reached the hotel. In either direction, my commute now takes between 2 and 3 hours with the lower end being favored.

Given my experience with cheap hotels, even I was surprised by this place. There was an ambulance outside with someone being treated with an oxygen cylinder. Upon entering, I was greeted by the sweet scent of acetone. I normally don’t find acetone that obnoxious but this gave me a headache after just a few minutes of exposure; the desk clerk, I would later find out, was being tended to in the ambulance outside for difficulty breathing. Someone must have used or spilled a large amount of the chemical just prior to my arrival.

My first room had the overwhelmingly strong smell of an ammonia like chemical—I would say cat urine, but in a place like this, we all know it wasn’t cat urine. My second room had a similar but less strong smell; it also featured a variety of used needles tucked into places where used needles wouldn’t typically be found. The hotel manager made me show him my second room before granting me a third.

The third room featured a great number and variety of insects. Instead of being given a fourth room, I was told to drop my stuff at the front desk and return in several hours whereupon I would find my room ready, having undergone fumigation.

A few hours later, I returned to find littered with scores, if not hundreds, of tiny corpses. It still smelled slightly of the fumigation chemical. There was a gap between the door and the floor of about one and a half inches in height. The arms of the “husband chair" / cuckold’s throne were covered in cigarette burns. The shower did not drain properly so that after 10 minutes, I found myself standing in calf-deep water. Still, the bed was comfortable, the air conditioner worked beautifully, and I had a recently unknown degree of privacy when I placed the spare pillows and my bag against the door. I figured that this room, as it now was, was probably the best I could hope to get. I fell asleep before the sun had set.

I woke up to a headache and a rash on those parts of my body which had been directly exposed to the bed’s sheets. I laundered them myself before hanging the “do not disturb” sign and leaving to tutor. I spent much of the day itching and rest of it drowsy due to a high dose of certain, popular, over-the-counter antihistamine. Due to the side effects of the drug: no matter how many times I did urinate, I still felt as though I had to; my eyes were painfully dry; and I found even ordinary lighting to be painfully bright.

Back at the hotel, I found that my do-not-disturb sign had been ignored. I thought about spending the night fully clothed but the bed had merely been made with the linens left unchanged, as too were the bin liners and towels. I went to bed.

I recalled a time early in my former career, when I had just been granted a license to practice independently: I had been invited to the home of one my professors, an elderly Finnish man who had fled due to his political leanings. Elderly is a bit of an understatement—dirt was a relatively new invention when he was born.

The visit, like all visits to his house, involved coffee and a trip to his sauna—tropical climate be damned. In the sauna, he handed me my coffee, sat his down, and climbed in—all of this done naked as the day he was born. As he climbed in, I saw a tiny bit of liquid shit, more than a drop but less than a stream, fall from him into and slightly around his coffee.

Before I said anything (NB: not before I could have said anything, merely before I had said anything), he had drunk his entire cup of coffee in a single gulp. I found this surprising as coffee, at least at the time, was a rationed product and I thought he would have liked to savor it a bit more. Instead of saying anything, I sat there like Bartleby, preferring not to act: I am unsure of whether I was uncaring, unwilling, or incapable of acting.

I do know that I was thinking about the implications of any decision. If I had said something, then his leaky anus would have been forever in the background of our relationship; saying nothing, I allowed my friend to eat shit. There is the possibility that he could have rejected my warning and drank the cup anyway. What if he drank the cup but discovered the splatter sometime later? I am uncertain as to how it compares to being lustful and stealing pears, but I’ve always felt guilty about it. I believe the hotel room may be cosmic punishment for my inaction.

In the mornings there are a few new insects that show up to feast upon the bodies of their fallen comrades. When I return by the evenings, they too have died.

In compensation for the state of the hotel, of which I seem to be one of but a few guests despite there being three floors of at least fifty rooms each, I have endeavored to have the most expensive meals imaginable while keeping within the scope of our agreement. For my first spite meal, I had a noodle dish with such a variety of add-ons that it had become almost entirely inedible, but nonetheless very expensive. Soon, I realized that it would be more effective to order “family style" menu items—these are single menu items meant to feed several people. The most expensive of these family-style items has been just about three-figures before tax and tip. I am not the first to have been compensated in such as at least one shift-leader referred to my order as the “tutor special".

4 June 2023

This was my first full day being unhoused. It’s a Sunday; many places are closed, I have no interviews- there’s not much to do. I’ve been waitlisted until later this week for the hostel style men’s shelter I was planning on living at.

I spent most of the morning wandering around between Chicago’s Illinois Medical District and Logan Square, trying to be inconspicuous and avoid being in any one place for too long. A little after 10 o’clock, I was approached by an older, slightly disheveled gentleman who called himself Charlie. (“Charlie” is a nickname he either gave himself or that he adopted based on a crude joke about his I.B.S. and a certain novel by Roald Dahl.) He recognized my pattern of wandering as that of someone who found himself newly on the streets.

Charlie describes himself as a “lifer", meaning that he has either no desire or given up hope of finding permanent housing; he insisted that in his case the former is true. He’s a talker and he likes to give advice. He told me to make use of the transit system, particularly the Blue Line, between the city and O’Hare, where I’d blend in with the tourists and other travelers. He told me to call 311 and book myself into one of the city’s emergency shelters for the night. He then revealed some of his more unsettling history and I chose to cut conversation short.

I called 311; they took down my information and told me one of their affiliates would phone and tell me where to go for the night.

I spent the day biding my time before I was placed in temporary housing by more-or-less living on various CTA trams, referred to collectively as The “L". Charlie was right in that I definitely did blend in on the Blue Line: my bags match; my clothing, though unfashionable, is in good repair; and I’m fairly clean. There was a noticeable difference between how I, crypto-homeless, and those who were more obviously homeless were being treated. Whereas I was treated like any other passenger, just an anonymous person like any other, the obviously-homeless are actively ignored. There are voids, bubbles about which other passengers will not sit or stand. On more than one occasion I observed a passenger do a slow blink when turning their head in the direction of a homeless person, so as to avoid even the slightest chance of accidental eye contact. And I want to be clear: these were not people suffering from any obvious mental illness or exhibiting aggression, most of them were just somewhat unkempt, a few had on tattered or dirty clothing.

On the Red Line, there were hawkers of such things as “purple za" and “loud", both of which are cannabis. They moved between cars announcing their products, but no one seemed to buy or even pay them much attention.

At about 4 in the afternoon, I discovered that the CTA has no public restrooms. I began to regret not asking Charlie where I should relieve myself. I was fortunate to find a gas station with public facilities near a station.

A few hours later I got my emergency housing placement call. Unfortunately the call was dropped as the tram passed through a tunnel and by the time I could call back, the organization had closed for the day. I resigned myself to spending the night on the tram and in various stations.

At midnight, I noticed a young man who I suspected was in a similar situation. I had seen him several times today. I think he'd been hopping between lines whereas I had stuck to the Blue Line since mid-afternoon. He was unaware that he should call 311 for emergency housing. I believe it must be easier than I had previously thought to find oneself desperate and without any resources. I don’t think 311 is very well advertised as a resource for the newly unhoused.

As it got closer to 1 in the morning, the Blue Line filled with women in iridescent sequin dresses and drunk people of all genders. I have no idea why, but it may have had something to do with Taylor Swift. One of the drunken men, who looked like a skinny-fat version of Conor McGregor, carved his name into a seat and then loudly explained, to no one in particular, that this was a tradition that united generations of Chicagoans-- The mutilation of The L.

I’ve noticed that many of the homeless people who ride the L seem to have jobs. They wear uniforms or work gear. There was a big influx between 9 and 11 at night. Many of them ride to one end of a line, then fall asleep while riding to opposite terminus. Some are even woken up by name by the tram operators. By 3 in the morning some cars have a sort of “sentry" enforcing a quiet on behalf of the sleepers: stopping the hawkers before they start and asking more ordinary passengers to keep conversations to a minimum.

5 June 2023

I spent most of Monday sending in job applications. I only got one reply so far; it was a no.

I phoned 311 again today, earlier than on Sunday. Today I received no response whatsoever. I knew I would spend another night on the tram.

After some time in a public library, I spent the rest of my day on the L. There’s a McDonald’s near the Blue Line that’s open until 1 in the morning and has facilities. They print the bathroom code on receipts so that only customers can use it but some comrades always seem to leave their receipts near but not in the outdoor trashcan, on the windowsill of the entry way, or tucked into a certain bench.

It was at this McDonald’s that I met Mike, an older, homeless man. His clothing was faded but otherwise in good repair. He was fairly well groomed. He even offered to teach me how to “take a whore’s bath". He may be an alcoholic, but his signs and symptoms are more inline with the side effects of long term use of certain early psychiatric medications. According to Mike, his main problem right now is that he doesn’t have any ID. The state issued him a new one, but it was sent to his address of record, his old group home. (To clarify: Mike was kicked out of his group home for losing his ID; he was deemed “too irresponsible”. His letter of expulsion states as much.) They simply threw it away because he wasn’t a current resident when they received it. Without ID he has no income because he can’t cash his “government checks". (He didn’t specify whether the checks were a pension, from disability insurance, or from a legal settlement.) Mike can’t qualify for a bank account and so he says he can’t get direct deposit. He must use a check cashing company: he loses slightly less than 2.5% of his already meager income just to gain access to it. His newest ID is being sent to his social worker, but won’t get to them for at least two weeks.

Mike’s other complaint is the shelter he was assigned to kicks all of its residents out at 5:00 a.m. each morning. Mike’s problems could be solved with postal banking and social housing.

I’ve been awake since 6:30 Sunday morning and it’s beginning to show.

I found out today that I am officially cancer-free; so, I am just elated. I've had 11 job interviews this week.

I want to thank all of you who shared words of encouragement.

To those of you who donated to the GoFundMe: I want give you a special thanks. I didn't want to ask for money because I didn't think I'd need it. But with everything you raised, I was able to get some interview clothes from the Goodwill and Ventra card for the CTA. Basically if I get any offers in the next week or so, it's complete down to you.

For context: whenever I would travel for work, my daughter would surreptitiously place one of her stuffed animals in my luggage so I "wouldn't get lonely". When I came here for treatment, I took some of them with me because, well, hospitals are pretty bleak, especially when you know you're going to be there for a while. A few months after my dad died, his lawyer sent a big box of old photos, yearbooks, and my parents' funerary flags to my hospital room. And so, without u/corgiwithalaptop I probably would have lost every photo from my childhood, every photo of my parents in their youth, and the reminders of what an awesome little girl I was lucky enough to help raise. I don’t even have words to express how thankful I am to them.

I just want to say thanks for this community and thanks to all of you.

I moved to the Chicago area several months ago to seek medical treatment. While the treatment was successful, I spent those months hopping between the hospital and various rehabilitation facilities; I also managed to deplete virtually all of my life's savings. I never really planted roots here and thus I don't really know anyone in the area. I'm an only child, both of my parents are dead, as are my wife and daughter; so I don't really have any family.

Cutting to the point: I have a large suitcase full of family photos, some of my daughter's toys, and various other keepsakes. It's too big for a shelter or transitional housing. I'm looking for someone to look after this suitcase while I sort out my housing and employment situations.

Thank you.

EDIT: At the suggestion of u/HeyDarnold, I've created a GoFundMe. I've kind of resigned myself to my situation so fundraising is only of secondary importance to me. I would be thankful for any donations at https://www.gofundme.com/f/me-find-a-place-to-live-and-steady-employment?utm_source=customer&utm_medium=copy_link&utm_campaign=p_cf+share-flow-1