6-5-00 M 12:32 PM

I didn’t write at all in Chicago. I wish I would have. We landed in a thunderstorm. It was like a fireworks show on the el from O’Hare to Irving Park. I waited under and overpass for a taxi to take me through the rain to Bernie’s flat at 3630 Racine.

A key under a flowerpot on the stoop allowed me to let myself inside:  wood floors, nice furniture, and a big bay window facing Wrigley Field. A note on the table said they were at Sheffield’s. I remembered Sheffield is one of the streets along the stadium, so I walked that way to ask around.

The rain had stopped. The stadium is surrounded by bars and restaurants. I found Sheffield’s, a big place with different rooms. I ordered a beer and maneuvered through the crowd, but I didn’t see my sister. I had another beer and waited, but she still hadn’t appeared by the time I’d finished it. I thought I’d look into some other bars. I rolled a smoke while I walked. They weren’t in any of the other bars, so I walked back to her place, and there they were.

Mac and Mitchum were there, and a girl named Biffany, and another named Erica who were stewardess friends of Bernie’s. We sat around drinking and joking, and then we got into a cab and rode to another bar at about two or three in the morning. The place was packed. I talked some baseball with some guys. Rolled a smoke that aroused some suspicion. “This place is full of cops,” the doorman scolded me. After several beers, we hailed another cab and passed out at Bernie’s.

The next morning was sunny. I took a shower and got dressed. Bernie recommended a place called Salt and Pepper, but the service was terrible, so we went to a bar next door. I got a steak sandwich and buffalo calamari to go with a couple Kahlua and coffees and a bloody Mary. We went to a bar called Sluggers and drank Old Style. We picked up our tickets at will call. Our seats were right behind home plate.