Peter Nickeas

I drove through some areas once familiar to me today, again while delivering flowers for my second job.

And I felt a bit of nostalgia. Not for the way it used to be, or whatever it is that old timers yearn for when they talk about “back in my day.”

But I felt my age, and had time to think about things that used to be.

I was in the left left (there are two left) turn lane on Lake Street turning onto Grand Avenue toward Bensenville, which I did for years in high school toward a convenient store where I learned to slice deli meat and make a proper sandwich.

My father and stepmother franchised the place. I worked for a buck above minimum wage, around $7.25 / hour if I remember right. I have a lot of memories there.

There was this grease spot on the way that’s not “Three Brothers” but a taqueria. Same menu on the inside (I saw from the street, anyway), same floor plan, etc. And it makes sense, because it reflects the market. Even back then, this spot had horchata with gyros and burgers, and I don’t see that a lot around here.

And at the corner of Grand and York Road there used to be a gas station that was recently demolished. A steel frame is being erected in its place. Don’t know for what.

The convenience store where I worked is now a floor-to-ceiling food and liquor. I felt a tiny bit of disappointment at what it turned into. The feeling was immediate but not strong, and I don’t have a good reason to feel that way.

I thought of this Atmosphere song, “Always Coming Back Home to You,” where Slug says “I’ve gotten love, I’ve gotten drunk, I’ve gotten beat up in that parking lot.”

I mean, I learned valuable life skills there. For one, that I didn’t want to work in a fucking convenient store as an adult. Working there made me realize I’d rather work outside than in, and I started a landscaping company after a customer / contractor offered me $6 / hour to use a string trimmer.

I learned how to make a sandwich so the tomato doesn’t melt the cheese, or make the bread soggy. Clean fucking sandwich, I’m telling you.

It wasn’t so much that it was a liquor store, I don’t think, (“Complain about the liquor store, but what you drinkin’ liquor for?”) but that it wasn’t what it used to be.

We did a good little deli business there. As a convenient store it was whatever but our sandwiches were on point. I took pride in my work.

The Jimenez grocer down York is gone too, demolished to make way (I assume) for expansion at the airport. Went there for groceries, and occasionally tacos on lunch while working.

And what I came to, driving around delivering flowers, was that almost everything and everyone used to be something or someone else. Nothing stays the same.

I see how people are hurt when their neighborhoods turn to shit, and in Chicago, it’s happened all over the place. And the causes, or what to do about it or whatever, that’s another discussion. I’m not ready for that. But that connection you feel with your block, or wherever it is you came up, it’s irrational but it’s real.

I’m not disappointed that where I used to work is now a liquor store, or that the grocery store is getting paved over for a runway.

But the collective experiences for me were reminders — of being young, of growing, of the finite nature of life, of market forces, of change.

Not like X-to-the-muthafuckin-Z, but restless still.

I feel creatively unfulfilled, a feeling that’s been growing for weeks but I can’t call why. I’m working a lot lately, delivering flowers during the day and doing my “normal” job overnight, three nights a week as a reporter.

I do deliveries listening to WBEZ and hear plenty that I’d like to explore in a journal, and likewise as a reporter there is a lot of “note to self” moments but not many notes to show for them. Busy, is all.

Maybe after the holidays, things will even out a bit. It’s a lot of go-go-go right now. Going through the motions I guess.

Oh, news: we’re getting a puppy in a few weeks. Erin is pleased.

And my brothers are done fighting war on behalf of an American public that has shown a consistent unwillingness to pay attention. I am pleased they are out of harm’s way.

Jack returned to the Chicago area Friday for the first time since returning to the states on Nov. 23 and we toasted him and two other Marines that accompanied him back home.

I got a second job delivering flowers. I worked there over holidays for a few years during college and loved it, and haven’t been able to for the past few years because I’ve been out of town.

But I’m only working three overnight shifts as a reporter, so I have free time now, and jumped at the opportunity to work for this company. They’re good people. My wife (fiance at the time) and I went in for flowers for the wedding and I felt nostalgic when I left because I spent the bulk of my time around Christmas from 2005 - 2007 and some of 2008 at this place. They take care of their people.

I took flowers to the south and west sides (Lawndale, Grand Crossing, Calumet Heights, Brainerd) in the morning and Wilmette in the afternoon.

In my travels today, I arrived at this question: how did the hood get that way?

It wasn’t just the vacants, potholes, Todd Stroger campaign posters, blue-light cameras, iron-grilled windows and panhandlers that made me wonder.

Bad neighborhoods don’t look like good neighborhoods — the streets aren’t as smooth, there are more liquor stores, more people walk, there are more people panhandling, etc.

I have an aunt that grew up at 58th & Sangamon, there about. She can’t go there anymore. You shouldn’t go there. The people that live there shouldn’t go there. There were 24 homicides within four blocks over the past few years, according to the Red Eye. And it wasn’t like that when she grew up.

Before my shift, I read an interview with Will Lee, who is both a cool dude and the person who trained me on overnights. And he said in this interview (he was answering, not asking) “People would be amazed to hear what actions turn citizens to killers.” The statement rings true to me. I’ve been on overnights for a little more than three months … and the bar is low for what someone can get shot for.

While driving, I heard the beginning (but not the entirety of) an NPR report about the Auburn Gresham neighborhood. (The Chicago Police Department’s 6th District encompasses Gresham.

And I saw Wilmette. My first time there was today for a delivery on the lake. About as far from the south side as you can get and still be in the Chicago metropolitan area. I almost stopped to take a picture so I could show my wife, but I didn’t want to delay the next delivery. When I retire from journalism (because journalism isn’t paying for a mansion on the lake), I’m thinking Wilmette. Not because I love the north suburbs. I far prefer the south side. But if I can have one of those castles and be left alone to watch the lake? That’s living.

But there’s nothing close to Wilmette where my Aunt grew up, and her block used to be a nice one.

What happened over the years? If you took a picture of any Englewood corner every year for the past 50, I’m sure they would tell a story, but they would lack context. And that’s what I want to know. The decay was slow but it’s obvious. What happened?

The first day of my professional career was the day Ill. Gov. Rod Blagojevich was arrested in connection with a whole gang of federal corruption charges in December of 2008.

When he was arrested, I was getting ready for work at the Illini Country Club on the grounds crew. In December, that meant running around picking up branches, staying off the fairways, washing machinery, and replacing water in the ball-wash containers with windshield-wiper fluid (which won’t freeze).

When I wasn’t working, I was a student and soon-to-be intern at a statehouse bureau since shuttered. I was not scheduled to start until sometime in early January. My assignment to the bureau came after pre-Thanksgiving interviews in all the news bureaus at the statehouse, part of a year-long masters degree program at the University of Illinois at Springfield.

But, Blagojevich got arrested. A buddy of mine, a political nerd friend from Lewis, texted me while I was watching the news. I didn’t know what to think, because though I followed the news and knew he was in some dirt, I didn’t know he  was near arrest.

I didn’t go to work that morning. So I asked if I could come in and help out in the bureau, and the bureau chief and other reporter there said yes. The other intern did the same.

I mean, we already met with the bureau chief for lunch and knew the other reporter there, so it wasn’t a total shock. Still pretty shocking though.

And I didn’t know what I’d be doing, or of what use I’d be, but I thought … why not?

The experience taught me a lot, and reinforced a lot of what I already knew. But mostly, I felt fortunate for being presented with a sink-or-swim scenario and for being given the opportunity to succeed. I have the graduate program to thank for that, and I owe my first job (and maybe second?) to that experience.

We ended up throwing calls seeking reaction that day, basically pitching in and getting the “outraged lawmaker” quotes from the local lawmakers we followed. I called some psychology folks to see if Blagojevich was crazy (nobody would say he was).

The next few days, a lot of the same. Get local reaction to the day’s events. It’s how I met our local lawmakers, learned their phone numbers, learned how to make a contact sheet, and how to navigate the basement of the statehouse.

And before I knew it my first day was over. No time to really be nervous about it, or time to ease into the work. Just … go. And that’s how life has been since.

I was walking on Wacker Drive toward Michigan Avenue (toward work) Saturday night during a downpour.

Trees held white Christmas lights. On the south side of the river, families posed for pictures with the Wrigley building in the background, sheltered their faces from the wind, and ducked into the restaurants and hotels lining Michigan and Wacker. People smiled.

The wind is usually strong enough off the lake to give the river some sway, but not Saturday. This was when fall ended.

The bouncing rain drops dulled the surface, like someone smudged sandpaper over what is usually a crisp veneer. The river appeared wet charcoal gray, except under the bridges.

It was mild for late November. That night I visited two crime scenes — 63rd & Damen (one dead, one wounded) and Erie & Franklin downtown (off-duty PO shot a guy), and the temperature dropped and didn’t bounce back in the morning.

(Aside from the changing season, the night also disproved the theory that  precipitation in Chicago stops people from shooting at each other. There was another shooting at 5:30 a.m. at Lake & Keeler on the west side).

The rain became lighter as the evening wore on — not heavy rain, but the kind easily mistaken for snow when it’s falling in front of street lamps. It diffused the blinking blue lights from the squad cars posted at crime scenes, light which wasn’t as as intrusive because everything already appeared under an ashen tint.

The sunrise over the second crime scene wasn’t much of a sunrise. Just a gradual increase in the amount of light. A monotone steely blue sky about 6:30 a.m., dark enough for the street lights to be on but light enough to know that day was approaching.

I half-slept on the train ride home, between hearing and “Doors open on the right at Damen” and “Doors open on the left at Montrose.”

When I got off the L and walked up the pissy stairwell (hold your breath) in the Jefferson Park Transit Center, across the Metra platform and out to the Argyle Street exit, it had stopped raining.

Gray clouds on the horizon, to the west. No blue sky, just shades of gray. The air was crisp, the sight invigorating.

“Why do you work out?”

I gave a token answer: general fitness. Strong, lean, in shape, etc. It’s true, but not nuanced. I’ve been thinking about it since then, though.

I don’t use a personal trainer. One session of personal training was this month’s bonus for signing up at a local gym. I   I signed up yesterday — switching memberships basically. I need a place to lift weights and run hills, because we don’t have room for weights and there aren’t hills nearby.

I didn’t relate to him all that follows, but these are ideas I’ve developed over about two years of trying to change my lifestyle.

I enjoy the solitude. I like being alone. I like pushing myself. I like feeling clean and cleansed after a long run. I like the way the sun feels. I like how weather feels. I like trails and nature. I enjoy the challenge.

I don’t want to take pills to be healthy, or require frequent doctor visits to deal with bad knees, heart problems, etc. That’s fiscally unsustainable. It pains me to spend money on doctors and insurance so to the end that I can prevent that, I will. Self-induced injuries and illnesses could force me to rely on an employer for health insurance, and I don’t want to pass on opportunities because I need a certain type of specialist or need to be near a certain doctor.

I want to be healthy so if I have kids, I can play games, hike, camp, wrestle, etc. I want to be physically capable of working on my own house and yard, growing (some) of my own food, and participating in outdoor activities.

I don’t want my kids having to take care of me because of dumb decisions I’ve made. I understand that I may one day require assistance but it absolutely will not be because I ate everything that was in front of me. It’s the selfish to not give any thought to the end of life, and what you’re going to ask of those around you as you approach death. Nursing homes, along that line, are also poor uses of money — whether it’s the kids’ money or my money.

If my kids have kids, I don’t want to be a bedridden old man whose interaction is limited to stories of “back in my day” and asking them to get my slippers. Example: my grandfather surprised my brothers and me one day and stopped by our house when I was in eighth grade. We were playing baseball in a field behind our house. He was about 70 years old. He picked up the bat, tossed a ball in the air, and rocked it 400 feet without blinking. And he did it again. And he laughed at us when our jaws dropped.

I want to be capable of running for my life if I need to. I want to be capable of fighting and inflicting debilitating bodily harm if I need to. I want to outrun someone chasing me and catch someone I’m chasing. If I throw a punch, I want to have weight and power behind it. I don’t ever want something to happen to me or anyone I love because I was physically incapable of preventing it.

We moved here because Erin takes the outbound Metra to work every morning, and I take the blue line into work at night.

I wouldn’t mind living closer to the city — Logan Square, Irving Park, etc — but this place is the perfect halfway point for our jobs. After the Jefferson Park stop, there aren’t any joint Metra / L stops so if Erin is going to take public transportation to work, this is a good spot.

The neighborhood is great. I would buy a house here in a minute, if the money situation was right. I like that I haven’t had to use my truck in three weeks, at least. In fact, I’m trying to sell it. Erin’s car is enough.

I like taking the train to work and walking to and from the station. It’s not a long walk either — a half mile to the train station, a half mile from Clark / Lake to work, repeat in the morning when I get home. A 7-10 minute walk.

We live behind the 16th District police station and the Jefferson Park Transit Center, so there’s tons of traffic. Doesn’t matter if you use the train / bus to get around though.

The view of the city in the morning is nice. It’s fresh, and usually crisp. The view of the city from the Jefferson Park Metra platform — which I briefly traverse on my way down to the blue line at night — is beautiful.

The city has its issues (corruption, violence, etc) no doubt. But I can appreciate some things, like this neighborhood and the skyline, without everything else ruining it for me.

More on this later. With neighborhood pictures.

The dream
I got a phone call that said my little brother rushed home from Afghanistan because someone in our family died. They were “found unresponsive” in their bed, so the assumption was that they fell out in their sleep.

But I remember thinking, that’s not what happened. I had this feeling that the person saw death in their sleep, just got a taste of what it would feel like, and decided to go with it rather than wake up.

I mean, nobody had to tell me it was suicide but I had this vivid feeling during the dream that the person for whatever reason was “approached” by death, or the grim reaper or whatever, and willingly went with it. It wasn’t an act of taking life, but of accepting death.

And I remember being sad at the prospect of living the rest of my long (hopefully) life without the person but thinking that … the person made a decision, one that I’m in no position to judge. The decision was that having felt death, and having felt life, death was better.

It was an informed decision and it meant the person would be happier. And I felt at peace with it.

I don’t know what prompted the dream, though I hear the phrase “found unresponsive” at least a dozen times each shift at work, it feels like.

And I don’t know why the dream played out like it did, but the moment of clarity that followed was something I haven’t felt in a long time.

I don’t get the housing industry. Or the real estate market.

Erin and I found a house. Made an offer on the house. The sellers both accepted but the bank had to approve, since the bank was taking a loss. Short sale.

The owners of the home are, for one reason or another, giving up. The house will go into foreclosure if it doesn’t sell.

We said to their bank, “here, take a hefty chunk of our income for 30 years” and we couldn’t get a response in … 68 days. Not a peep.

Maybe banks have so many people trying to buy houses right now that they have to sift through a backlog of awesome offers, or maybe it’s in their financial interest to keep the house. I don’t get it.

So we got an apartment a few blocks away. Nice little spot. One bedroom ish place a couple blocks off the Jefferson Park blue line station. It will work, for now. We’re almost all moved in. Took the better part of three weeks.

More later, when time permits. Still some mess around here to clean up.

The upshot here is, we aren’t tied to the area with a 30-year-mortgage. The possibilities are endless

Books
IRE has a handy list of 2010 investigative books that has a few intriguing items but … there is never enough time to read that much.

I’ve been reading pretty consistently about Iraq, Afghanistan and general ideas about war for a little bit now. I don’t think I’m near the end.

That being said, when I run out of books about current conflict, I want to study economics. I don’t know where to start. Like, if I go out and pick up whatever random ass books look solid, who knows what I’ll end up with. I’m hoping to get some recommendations.

I’m going to read All the Devils are Here - by Bethany McLean and Joe Nocera off the strength of an IRE recommendation in an old IRE journal.

Beyond that, I have nothing.

So … anyone? Anything?

Weddings
We have been to many weddings this year. All of them fun. We have one left - Drew & Jamey this weekend. I’m excited.

I’m also glad they happened this year because we can still absorb the costs of gifts, booze, dry cleaning, travel, etc.

Next year, we hope to be in …

A house!
But not very likely, the way things are going. We put an offer on a house August 1. It’s a short sale. Seller approved. Awaiting their bank’s approval. Gave them 60 days, and we’re at like, 51 or something. So, if it happens, cool.

But at this point, the awesome (but kind of scummy) house 2 blocks from the Jefferson Park transit center, across from the park, walking distance from the grocery store … may not happen. Such is life.

In that spirit, parting words from Jay Z and Swizz Beats (need to hear more of this at weddings, BTW).