Coffee with Jim

He looked a little startled by my offer but jumped up and walked with me through the drizzle to his favorite McDonald's on the block. They recognized him, he must be a regular in the neighborhood. He was taller than I thought he would be seeing him crumpled up there on the corner, he was older too. Although he had a baby face with cheeks rosy red from the cold turns out he was 26. Twenty six is old enough to have found out a thing or two about yourself and about life. He chatted almost nonstop which he attributed to the methadone he was on to manage his heroin addiction. Yes, I was having coffee with Jim the homeless heroin addict. He preferred a coffee with five sugars and an order of cinnamon rolls to a burger. Sugar addiction, add that to the list.
He quickly spilled out his life story as he saw it. Growing up bi-polar in a cushy suburb. Slipping easily into marijuana in high school to cope and fit in. Quickly transferring to heroin which was way too easy to come by. Explaining what a joke and a game rehab was. Parents at their wits end, throwing up their hands after years of trying to deal with him. Tough love I wonder. Who would willingly have their kid on the street? He offered more grissly details of his recent past. What life is like sleeping on lower Wacker in the winter. Life in the shelters. Life with his girlfriend the married heroin addict nurse that keeps him addicted. Lots of excuses, little ownership.
Quite a reality check for my bleeding heart. After a while I said good bye, I will pray for you Jim. I had nothing else to offer him. A short time out of the rainy cold, a sugar fix. He thanked me. Said people don't talk to him, I guess many don't even look at him after a while. A city dweller's coping mechanism no doubt.

I went back into Marshall Field's and I could see the colors that I couldn't see before, the splendor, the joyful riotous displays of spring flowers. I wandered around there for a while revisiting my favorite spots in that glorious building. It tells an age old story of glory days past, trying to hang on to its history while reinventing itself for its own survival. I peered into the Narcissus room envisioning what it was like in its hay day of prim ladies lunching in all their finery. The Tiffany ceiling, the Frango candy making machine silent for the moment, the children's department where Santa greets 4th and 5th generation visitors come Christmastime. The fascinating historical display a nod to Field's illustrious history graciously left on display by Federated. And of course a look into the soothing warm paneled walls of the Walnut Room.

And my peace returned. All of the tensions and agitation of the weekend left me. I ventured out once again reminded of my painful feet wondering what to do next. I couldn't pass up the chance to have a look inside the Burnham Building that was standing before me on the opposite corner. As I crossed the street, I looked back to see Jim once again positioned to work the afternoon and the passersby under the clock. The regal old Hotel Burnham did not disappoint. Elaborate elevator grates, mosaic tiled floor, a gem restored. I was able to forgive the newly installed, unremarkable fireplace since it was offering me comfort on a sad gray day. From there I hatched my plan to drop into a CVS to buy myself some cushioned insoles hoping to soothe my feet to keep me going a bit longer. Divine intervention that CVS was next door to the Palmer House. I ducked in remembering that old Potter Palmer constructed this gorgeous haven 100+ years ago in tribute to his beloved Bertha. I found the plush "ladies lounge" and deftly slipped the insoles into my boots. Then I figured I had earned the right to sit a spell in the lobby bar in a comfy high backed sofa. It was close enough to happy hour I reasoned and ordered myself a perfectly luscious bloody mary. It was filled to overflowing with lime wedges, gigantic olives, and flowery celery, practically a meal! Either the charming east Indian waiter saw my distress and took pity on me or they figure that if you lay down $12 for a drink, it better be worth the cash. He also brought me a generous dish of snack mix and I tried to refrain from devouring it all at once. There I sat taking it all in, the opulent surroundings, the historical significance, the events of the day. Sitting there as the tasty cocktail began to take affect, I decided that I was no longer so in love with my favorite city. I know daughter will enjoy her life here but it will come at a cost. Her heart is as soft as my own. She delights in all of the wonders the city has to offer but sacrifices a piece of her soul each time she encounters one of these sad sights. And she encounters them daily.
The poor will always be with us, whether by their own failings, bad luck, bad health, misfortune. No need to empty your pockets at each encounter but harden not your heart, look them in the eye, smile, say a prayer for them, and take the occasion to express in the silence of your own heart, gratitude for your life, your blessings, and the strength you have been given to bear your own crosses.