Chiberia

Greetings from Chiberia! This is the new name/hashtag for the weather that has currently consumed Chicago. There's a lot of snow, but not quite enough to officially earn the "Snowpocalypse 2.0" title (which, if you could see how much snow is out there right now, then that is really saying something about Snowpocalypse 1.0!). Chiberia is a pretty apt description, however.

It is cold. Excuse my language, but it is really fucking cold out there. I have been checking my weather app nearly every hour for the past two days and it hasn't displayed a double-digit positive number since Sunday around 1:00 p.m. Currently it is one degrees Fahrenheit (it was zero degrees an hour ago so we're getting warmer - yay!) and "feels like" -15. Yesterday, my roommate and I joined all the other Chicagoans in performing the Boiling Water Experiment. I filled up a teakettle with water, waited until it started to boil, and then Molly and I went outside and poured the boiling water into the snow. You can really pour the water anywhere because the purpose of the experiment is watching the water immediately turn to snow/steam. It's pretty cool! A lot of people are burning themselves because they are taking pots of boiling water and tossing it in the air, which inevitably kicks some of the water back onto your skin. Molly and I were much smarter than that (although I did accidentally sink my foot ankle-deep in snow so that wasn't too fun).

Besides that, there is really not too much to say about Chiberia. The heat is my apartment is practically non-existent so as I type this post my windows are covered with towels to stop the cold air from seeping through (there's also frost on the inside of the windows...thank you to my landlord, Steve Bojic -- that's his real name!). I am wearing two hoodies and am snuggled under three blankets. It's also a Tuesday and it is the second day my office has been closed due to the weather. This was a wise decision because many of my coworkers live in the suburbs and last night the Metra trains suddenly cancelled all of their departures during the evening commuting hours. The school district has also been closed for a second day in a row and there are stories all over the news and Facebook of people being stranded in the airports and train depots because nothing is coming in or out of Chicago.

On Sunday I worked at Heartbeat Theatre. We are in the middle of a 3-week long story festival that we host every year and it is safe to say that this is a crazy time. From 3:00-10:00 p.m. Thursday - Sunday we have a different Chicago storytelling group/solo artist performing at either our theatre or at the Kentwood (from my Are You Kidnapping My Husband story). Snow had been pouring down on Chicago since Saturday afternoon. I was manning the box office and most of the calls I was receiving were, "Are you still having shows today?" The roads were awful and the Front of House (FOH) Manager later told me that we should have cancelled, but, as usual, we did not and the shows went on!

Around 1:30 p.m. the girl who was the shuttle driver for the day came to the theatre and reported that the parking lot had not been plowed. She had also gotten stuck numerous times on her journey to and from the theatre. "I'm sorry," she said to the FOH, " I can't drive in this. I just can't. I don't feel safe." I had just caused a tremendous paper jam in the ticket-printer so I immediately raised my hand, "I'll do it! You do box office and I'll shuttle!"

Luckily and sadly, I do not have any fun stories from driving the shuttle around in nearly two feet of snow. The lot was eventually plowed, but the snow never stopped falling. The plows could hardly keep up with the rate at which the snow was piling up. The van spun out and got stuck numerous times, but each time we persevered. I have since named the van Shackleton because of his impressive barreling-through-snow capabilities. I sat in the van for four hours and only shuttled two people. The last person and I bonded for about 15 minutes after I picked her up from the last show of the night and we sat behind two cars that were stuck: one was trapped in a parking space they were trying to pullout of and the other was stuck waiting for that parking place. Finally, the car directly in front of Shackleton moved up enough so that I could pull into an unplowed alley. Shackleton and I stopped and started numerous times as we created a path for the three other cars that decided to follow our lead down the alley and eventually we did make it to the next road. Shockingly, the middle seat of the van did not flip up once!

So that's all from Chiberia folks. Nothing too exciting, but that's mostly because none of us want to venture outside. My neighbours are trying to venture out, however. I keep hearing their cars squealing against the snow and ice in our alleyway. Last night, a car did this for forty minutes before they were finally able to make it out of the alleyway. Did I mention that not a single snowplow has graced our alleyway all winter? My landlord says, "The city will do it," but I don't see why they would when the alleyway is private property and Mayor Emmanuel has already cut the budget for snowplows this year. I made the mistake of asking my landlord if a plow would ever come through our alley or if we would just have to wait until the snow melts naturally (currently, I cannot get my car out of my parking space and Molly cannot get hers in). My landlord responded by calling me in hysterics about how I could possibly expect him to put a plow on the front of his car. Needless to say, that was not at all what I meant and clearly Chiberia is getting the best of everyone's sanity.

Stay warm!

I Plead the Fifth

My position as an Artistic Administration Intern at Heartbeat Theatre requires me to float between all of the administration departments. Since starting in January it has been apparent that my primary interests are in Development and I now basically go between Front of House duties and helping the Director of Development, Tad*, plan for our annual benefit. Thus far, the majority of this planning involves researching and soliciting possible donors for live auction prizes and raffle items. Most of the time I look up a place in Chicago, fill-out a letter of appeal, give it to Tad to sign, and then I post it. Other times, however, Tad and I go door to door with our letters, hoping an in-person interaction will prove more fruitful.

Yesterday, Tad and I drove to my neck of the woods to visit some of the popular shops and spas in downtown Evanston. Whenever we drive somewhere we take the Heartbeat shuttle and Tad drives. I have to admit that Tad is one of a handful of people who makes me slightly nervous when they drive. He doesn't pay much attention to other drivers and every now and then I so doubt his ability to brake that I find myself doing the parental "invisible brake" move.

Our drive started out as it always does: Tad backed out of the Heartbeat driveway and I braced myself for the inevitable impact with the cement wall across the narrow cobble-stoned road. Thankfully I was proven wrong once again and we headed into the city to pick up a candle-filled gift bag. We got the gift and then made our way to Lake Shore Drive. On the way we encountered an intersection with downed lights. The woman in front of us was not a terribly assertive driver and let about five cars go before she finally took her turn. When she did, Tad plowed on behind her much to the surprise of two other cars: one which was attempting to turn in front of us and another which got about a foot away from my passenger side door.

"Why are they honking?" Tad asked. "That lady went and no one seemed to mind."

I should mention that, like me, Tad is a fellow military brat. However, unlike my military brat life, Tad's overseas experience was spent in the Middle East as the son of a diplomat. Tad's family had their own driver and Tad only came to the States to attend a college in Chicago. Basically, Tad has had little experience driving his own car. I explained to Tad how powerless intersections became four-way stops. I am not quite confident that the next time he'll actually follow that rule, but maybe he'll at least not question the dirty looks from the other drivers.

We arrived in Evanston and Tad pulled up in front of the first business we were to solicit. Neither of us had enough change for more than thirty minutes at a meter and we wanted to save that for the row of businesses on the main drag. I hopped out of the car and found that the place was closed. I got back into the car and we headed a few blocks west. I pointed to the awning of the next store that was on our list. There were two cars parallel parked out front with enough space between them for the Heartbeat shuttle. "I'll wait in here," Tad said as he started to pull between the two cars. I watched anxiously as the side of the shuttle seemed to near the front of the parked white Lexus. We can make it, we can make it, I thought.

SCRAAAAPPPPPP - BOOM!

We didn't make it. Tad turned to me suddenly. "Did we just hit that car?!" I thought the sound and vibration through the shuttle had made the answer very obvious, but I craned my neck anyways to inspect the damage. All I saw was the curb and Tad turned the shuttle back towards the road. "I'm not sure," I said, "but it sounds like we did."

"Oh my god. Did we -- oh my god." Tad's eyes were wide and he looked from the wheel to the rear-view mirror.

"Maybe it was just the headlight," I offered. "Cars can make a lot of noise even when there's no real damage."

"Oh my god." Tad was looking over his left shoulder.

"I had a car fly past me once and they were so close that the sound sounded like he had just scraped all the paint off my car."

Tad pulled back into traffic. "We just hit that car...can you see a dent?" I wasn't sure if he meant the shuttle or the Lexus. We were now a block and a half away from the Lexus so I tried to look at the side of the shuttle.

"I can't tell," I said, watching the Lexus disappear completely from view. "Are we...we're not going to stop?"

"I can't believe I just hit that car. It's probably not that bad, right?"

"Probably not. Are we really not stopping?"

"Oh god. I think I saw a silver streak left on the car." We paused at a red light. "Are the rest of the shops north?" Tad asked.

"...Yes...we're really not stopping?" I felt dumbfounded. The side of the shuttle read "Heartbeat Theatre Shuttle" from wheel to wheel. The owner of the Lexus wouldn't have even needed to run out and read our license plate. The shuttle literally spelled out the name of the streak-leaving culprit.

I couldn't tell if Tad had stopped answering me because he wanted to ignore the situation or because he was that petrified. A typically self-assured man, I had never seen him so at a loss for words and indecisive.

He turned north on a street a few blocks away from my apartment. "Do you think we damaged that car?" he asked.

"Pull over here and I'll check the shuttle," I said. "If we left paint on their car then it has to be missing from ours."

Tad pulled over. I checked the rear-view mirror, only slightly paranoid that the owner of the Lexus might have seen the incident and followed us on a warpath. I mean, that's what I would have done if I had seen someone hit my car. Luckily, there was no paint missing from the side of the shuttle. Not even a scratch! There was, however, a small dent in the side door. A ten year old shuttle, Tad and I were not completely certain as to whether that dent had already been there or not.

We spent the next hour handing out appeal letters and walking from shop to shop in downtown Evanston. By 4pm we had only four letters, one of which was addresses to the business where the white Lexus had been parked. Tad and I stared at the letter for a moment. "Do you think we should go back?" Tad asked. I knew he meant only to deliver the letter, not to apologize to the Lexus owner. I fully believed that he would have dropped me off around the corner from the business and waited for me, safe from view. "Let's just post it," I said.

I realize that this story makes Tad sound like a horrible person who does not take responsibility for his actions. This is not true. As I said earlier, Tad's reaction to the hit-and-run took me completely by surprised. In the past three months I have known him as a thoughtful, upstanding, and confident person, who is not afraid to admit when he is wrong. It was not until after Tad had dropped me off at my apartment that the true cause of Tad's panic hit me: there is a very high probability that he does not possess a U.S. drivers license. Having spent his entire high school career in the Middle East being driven around by an armed guard, I am unsure as to whether he has any type of drivers license at all. Like me, Tad is in his early twenties and needs an ID to order a drink, but age can be demonstrated by a passport, too. I had ordered drinks with Tad once while hosting a Bingo benefit for Heartbeat. I could not recollect what he had shown as his ID. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think either of us were even carded that night.

As the Heartbeat shuttle drove down my street I thought about how often I needed to show my drivers license for one reason or another, but how each of those instances could have been satisfied with a passport. Maybe Tad had a military ID. That would show his age and have the hologram to prove it wasn't a fake. The shuttle yielded briefly at a stop sign before speeding through the intersection. I watched until it was more than a block away. I wanted to make sure he didn't hit my car.