I was standing on the ledge of a loading dock next to a fifty five gallon drum. The dock was long, it was dark and it was damp. Dripping sounds were all that came from the eerie silence. The screeching sound of tires on the wet cement suddenly echoed across the docks.
A girl in a plum colored dress was on the other end of the empty row of truck bays. The frightened girl started running towards me. I crouched down behind the oil drum. I didn’t want to get involved in whatever trouble she was in.
Crying as she passed, holding a white kerchief over her mouth she screamed to me…. “Stop them!”
My cover was busted and now I was involved. I thought to myself, “Is that Maria from the Westside?”
The screeching tires began to tear through the abandoned loading zone. The car appeared from the shadows. It looked to be a red Pontiac Fiero with two males in the front seats. Looking at the tone of the skin color and since they were in a hurry after Maria, I figured they were Sharks.
They stopped under the spot I was standing. I stood up from behind my hideaway and fired three shots into the hood of the Pontiac. Three shots made it legal because it meant I was representing good. Three bullets for the Holy Trinity. At least that’s what I thought when I ran inside the nearest truck bay.
What I figured to be a warehouse was actually the deserted side of O’Hare airport. I just remembered I was out getting fresh air before my flight took off.
I walked briskly to my gate. It was getting close to departure and I didn’t want to get caught by the guys who have three bullets in their engine block.
Waiting there for me was an older couple that stayed with me the last week and my mom. My mom asked me if everything was alright. I told her I was finishing up some business for God.
That’s all I had to say to appease her nerves. If it was for God it was okay.
We walked onto the plane and mom and I were directed to the front seats right behind the co pilot. These new jets don’t have a cockpit. I couldn’t understand why this was the case with the threat of a hijacking.
The plane started down the runway sputtering like Betty the Green Blazer on a cold January morning. I turned to my mom and told her that this doesn’t feel right. She assured me that everything was fine, especially since I just finished doing something good for God.
Now I’m more nervous because I wasn’t sure if the encounter back on the loading dock was a good thing or a bad thing. I hope I wasn’t bullshiting my mom.
The plane chipped along the runway and hesitated with takeoff. This wasn’t good…..
We took off and banked to the left. We were now only a few hundred feet above Roosevelt Road. The plane jerked along as I spotted the U-Haul near 17th. It began to stammer as we barely flew over Loyola hospital. It gained some altitude over the Jewish cemetery in Forest Park, but suddenly crashed into a row of buildings somewhere before Harlem Avenue. That whole time my mom was assuring me that everything was fine.
I instantly woke up to the safety of my bed, the overnight blues program on WDCB still playing in the background.
Wait a minute…. I just survived a plane crash with my mom and two mysterious house guests?
Time to get the dream book out for this one. Maybe it was the chicken and sweet potato I had for dinner. I didn’t have a cocktail. I’m off the hooch until May 6th.
….and no, I didn’t watch “Westside Story” last night.
What the hell was that all about?
Anyway…. It’s going to be a lovely Sunday. Scotland plays France in Paris this morning. Should be a clear sunrise over Chicagoland as we end the shortest month of the year.
Stay clear of Roosevelt Road just west of Harlem. Just incase there was a plane crash….
