Johnny Cash and June Carter got married in a fever, and I flew into Chicago in the middle of a blizzard. It was the mid-morning, and I’d never seen the city covered in snow before: it made it seem friendlier somehow, softer around the edges. I suppose it just felt like home.
Backpacked and bundled, I boarded the empty El to Grand, and the entire ride I remained twisted in my chair, staring out of the window like some kind of alien tourist. “What are you doing,” I would mumble to myself in disbelief as we edged ever nearer. “What are you doing,” I thought as pulled my mother’s woolen hat over my ears at the bus stop. “What are you doing, what are you doing” I’d shout to myself in gleeful terror with each step down the length of Navy Pier. It was completely deserted, hot dog stands shivering in the wind, the ferris wheel creaking, and I couldn’t feel my toes.
I finally arrived at the end of the Pier, standing in front of the building of my new employment. I took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer.