edge of the continent

A few weeks ago, the fog began drifting in from the coast just as the sun dipped behind the horizon. For several evenings, it would settle into parking lots and linger in the roads, where neon lights took on a pleasant softness and the geometry of the city was erased. Ghosts emerged in the milky air, their outstretched hands reaching for mine. I was breathless and confused: why were they here? How could I be sure of what I was seeing?

As I summoned the courage to reach back, a Santa Ana was sweeping across the mountains and pushing the clouds out to sea. The skies, now unbearably clear and hot, revealed what I had feared: my hands were empty. There was nothing there.

A coworker’s phone rang, and after glancing at it she handed it over to me. In large, clear letters, the caller ID read ‘Joy’. I knew a Joy through a program at the office, so I expected to hear her voice at the other end of the line. Instead, the connection was crackly, then silent: the call had been dropped. After fumbling around with the phone for a few minutes in search of a “call back” function, I scrolled through its contacts and found entries for three different Joys.

The easy thing to do would have been to dial each number and ask if she had called. Instead, I froze: anxious and afraid of making the wrong choice, I rang none of them.

As I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, I mused over how I missed connecting with Joy even when she came calling for me.

Sunday evening, I settled in to watch the latest episode of Mad Men before turning in for the night. The main protagonist ran away from his clients (and problems back home) with a young woman and her traveling entourage of rich and aimless friends and family. Whose car to Palm Springs does he get into without looking back?

Joy’s, of course.

Monday morning’s doctor appointment ended later than I had planned, so I sought out the nearest freeway entrance for the quickest route to work. The red light before the on-ramp left me just enough time to take in an embankment dotted with campaign signs. My eyes flicked over the large type, blues and greens, stars and stripes without truly seeing any of them. But I sat up and took notice when they settled in and focused on a simple red on white sign. Its message?

‘Vote for Joy’.

I joked with a friend recently that I went to Idaho for a week and promptly forgot how to use the internet. I came back, however, with fun pictures of my nieces in puppy costumes and of the Walla Walla onions in their family’s garden:

Hello, internets. It’s so nice to see you again.

Too sleep-deprived to commit to any particular activity on my last night in the city, I opted for fresh air and a walk.

The Chicago River, at Wabash and Wacker Drive.