The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1997. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

I am down with the pigeons today.

I mean... I am DOWN with the pigeons, like "You down with O.P.P?"

Yeah... you know me. I'm down with the pigeons today.

It is a beautiful August day, the token one beautiful August day that comes to Chicago each year, and I happen to not be working today so I decide to just head down to the loop and... hang out.

I feel a little weird, going all the way down to the loop and spending the whole day down there with no purpose in mind. Usually I'm down in the loop because I've got something to do, ya know, heading to a job or picking up a paycheck, seeing the occasional play at Goodman or the occasional movie at Fine Arts or checking out the action at Marshall Field's where my friend Steve works. Usually I'm down in the loop because I've got something to do, ya know, but today I don't and I feel a little weird about it.

So I get off at Washington. I've got a pen in my front left pocket, my wallet and about 54 bucks in my front right pocket, a notebook in my back left pocket, and a paperback book in my back right pocket. I've got a brand new pack of Marlboro Reds in my left shirt pocket, a couple of cassettes in my right shirt pocket, my pager clipped to my belt, my Walkman clipped to my belt, currently blasting the Pixies, "Bossanova," at ear-bleeding level into my ears. I am UrbanMan, ready for another day of fighting evil. I am Hotshot Big City Boy, bumping and grinding with the rest of the millions downtown today, no backpack today, no encumbrances today, no hindrances today, just me, my bulging pockets, and the world at my feet.

And I head out.

Teeming masses on State street right as I get off the el, the teeming masses who have forgiven the city for the horrible State Street Experiment of 1977 and now finally have come back to the street now that the city tore the fuckin' thing down and rebuilt it the way it was supposed to be. A State street come to life, a Great street come to life, a stately street for a stately town, new construction bulging from every corner, pushing out to the sidewalk and forcing themselves to build giant scaffolded barriers to protect us little citizens.

And the pigeons come. They hang with me, walk down the street with me, the State street, the Great street. I am down with the pigeons. They show me what I am doing, which is beating the pavement, not exactly looking for something to do, just... waiting for it to happen.

And I stop in Marshall Fields, ponder with awe for exactly the one millionth time in my life that I actually have a friend who works in Marshall Field's, the harbinger of commerce, the stanchion of retail, the Store of Departments, not only still alive but still so important to this city that people will bypass their malls and come all the way downtown on Saturdays just to buy something there.

I wander around, pretend that I'm from Cleveland, Christmas time, 1948, and we have come to have our annual dinner in the Walnut Room, the old women in the pressed whites bringing the cornucopia of flavor to the table. I find Steve, we decide to make an early lunch out of it, head out onto Wabash, pick up some grubby grub and hang with Picasso for an hour.

And I watch. I watch the kids that slide down the sculpture, wonder out loud to Steve if Picasso had any idea that children would get so much playtime fun from his creation, if he built it that way just for that purpose. And I watch the hurried, harried boys and girls in the thousand dollar suits and the tennis shoes, the boys and girls with the furrowed brows and the manila envelopes they pour through as they stuff a Big Mac down their throats. I watch them obsessively glance at clocks, suck down nicotine, and I wonder again, this time inside myself, how glad I am that I got nowhere to go today, how magical it is to just sit in a plaza and have nowhere to be.

And I am hanging with the pigeons. I am hanging with them as they all take their little huddled naps around me, the pigeons just enjoying the weather, enjoying the scene, scurrying around every time a six year old decides he's just got to have one o' them.

And Steve has to go work again, so he does, and I'm like, "hmm," read a bit, decide what to do, when it occurs to me... oh shit! It's Tuesday!

Bumbling down Boul Mich, watching the slicksters con the tourists out of not-too-hard-earned money, money the tourists are better off without, "Look, we went to Chicago this weekend and we bought this newspaper from a homeless person!" "Oh Roger, don't gloat!" Watch the lost faces, watch the shuffling feet, and then I am there, Michigan and Adams, rub the lions' noses for good luck, in the door, plunk down my quarter, flash my expired student ID, and I am in. Spend two hours watching Jackson Pollack dance in front of my eyes, watching Edward Hopper whisper sweet nothings into my ear, watching Jeff Koons light up around me like pomo neon. I am dancing the jig, flirting with beautiful, untouchable 20 year old Parisian art history majors, telling them where to get the best pizza, telling them how to get to Wicker Park, telling them about all the wonderful, magical things they'll be able to find that night if they can just ditch their chaperone and get on the goddamn el.

And I hang outside on the steps for awhile, and I am down with the pigeons. The pigeons who know they're natives but choose to hang with the tourists for a bit anyway, just to remember what it was exactly that made them go "Fuck man" the first time they hit the big-shouldered city too. The pigeons and me, we hang, we just hang and listen to the thousand tiny excited voices exploding all around us.

And then I get... brave. Crane my neck upwards, look at the skybound landscape, pick out one building I've always wanted to be in but have never been in. Amoco... Donnally... no, wait, Prudential, yeah... oh no, shit, no, shit man, wait... Coal and Carbide!"

Oh fuck yeah. I am down with the Coal and Carbide.

Stroll in the front door, saunter to the front desk like they should be kissing MY ass, sign a fake name, sign a fake destination, easy as pie, I'm in the elevator, hit the top button, the top top button... tick... tick... tick... tick... tick... ding. Wander around, try to find some trouble when suddenly it comes finding me, an unmarked, unlocked door that I try and I move and suddenly...

I am on the roof. My own personal Sears Tower, looming at all the ants WAAY down below. Holy shit, man. And here, even here, I am down with the pigeons, man, down with them as they welcome me to their sanctuary, their sacred secret place where they can hang when the city gets just a little too much, when just exactly one too many scary guys asks them for change, when just exactly one too many cabs scream their angry horn even though they are crossing with the light, just when... they need a little break. They need a little rest.

But soon enough, it's time for a little action again, and I'm up, pocket a shard of black brick as a souvenir, brush myself off, and I'm on the streets again, part of the huddling multitudes, a little window shopping,

I check my watch, realize that I have just missed the magic window, now it's too late to get on the el without getting on the el with the four million other people who are in the loop, so I pop in a coffeehouse at the corner of State and Wabash, sit at an outside table, let the sun tan me, let the sun coax beats of sweat from my skin, let the sun slowly melt my iced coffee. And I am down with the pigeons, the pigeons who coo and scoot around me, hoping I have something to give them.

And eventually it becomes 6:30 and it's safe to get on the train... so I do. And I go home. And I get off the el, and there's a pigeon there. And I swear, I swear to GOD to you... that pigeon winked at me.