Four things

1. I am addicted to catching up with old friends. For several years now, Google was my cohort, and what a thrill to finally pinpoint someone and fire off that "Hey, how the hell are ya?" email. Now that I have dunked myself into the world of Facebook, it's easier than ever. So easy, in fact, that I am finding people I didn't even remember that I knew. So easy that they are beating me to it and finding me first. So easy that I have to wonder: maybe were we just supposed to let those people go after all.

2. That woman who I spoke to in Accounts Payable at [name of company] yesterday was totally odd. Her accent was modest at best, and I therefore find it hard to believe that there was a language barrier. But, as I politely asked where my company can send a reimbursement check to her company, for a minor overpayment on invoice 85850, she refused to finish a single sentence, forcing me to do so for her.

HER: Please include a.... (long pause)
ME: A... letter?
HER: Yes, a letter. A letter with the... (endless pause)
ME: Oh, maybe with the invoice number?
HER: Sure, the invoice number would be great. As well as the original... (killer pause)
ME: Original? Original invoice?
HER: No, that won't be necessary. But the original... (is she still on the line?)
ME: Ahhh.....a....a-mount?
HER: The amount would be great, yes.

You get the idea.

3. My children are sleeping right now in these sort of sideways-running positions. Heads plastered to pillows, one leg up, bent at the knee, hands in little fists. They are technically facing each other, though the shared wall of their bedrooms divides them. Are they dreaming about running? Are they running toward each other to embrace the other with all their love, or perhaps just to steal the other one's highly-prized hat? Regardless, I want to squeeze them both really, really hard. I resist, for if they wake I will be completely pissed off.

4. It has been almost two weeks since David Foster Wallace took his own life. As many others much more eloquent than me have already said, he was an absolutely amazing writer. His fiction and non-fiction alike have incredible depth and intelligence. Through his complex narratives and twisted sentences, he made the world - his world - clearer. Perhaps his best known work, and the first of his that I read, was the mammoth Infinite Jest. Among other things, this immense novel was about addiction, and I believe that the book's girth was intended in part to create a nearly endless supply of text for the entranced reader. I enjoyed the book very much, though it took me nearly half a year to complete. But I did not, like so many others, like my DFW-fan brother, become addicted to it.

Since DFW killed himself, I have not been able to stop reading about him. Not about his actual death per se, but about the man. The writer. The teacher that so many former students have been remembering online these last two weeks. I cannot stop reading about his ridiculous generosity, fierce sense of privacy, and general awkwardness with his own situation. Just watch his Charlie Rose interview from 1997 and you will see a brilliant author tormented by the predicament of his own success and fame.

I am reading one of his essay collections now, and will read some of his short stories next. My brother may reread Infinite Jest, though I think I will not likely take that on. But I will continue to read his work, read the writings of those who miss him the most, and read about his life. And, as much as I hate to admit that the posthumous man is the more captivating man, I am addicted. Finally, over a decade later, I am addicted.

A tale of two taxis

As the cab pulls up, I am feeling harried and rushed. My arms are filled with supplies and notes and equipment, and it's looking like rain. My destination is about a dozen blocks away, so this'll be quick. I sort of fling myself into the backseat with a grunt.

You ever have those times where you say something, but for some reason your voice has found its way into a new octave? You know those times. I have them more frequently than I'd like. "LaSalle and Madison, please," I squeak like a seven-year-old girl.

I don't have too much time to worry about my voice issues, because I suddenly realize that I am in the single nicest cab of all time. It has slightly tinted windows, tricked out black leather trim, wooden paneling, a DVD player/flat screen embedded in the seat back, and the air conditioning is, well, fucking stellar. I immediately wish my destination were much further away, like Calgary.

I ease back into my plush seat and off we go. And as we pull into the main stream of Superior Street traffic, I realize that there is music in this cab. Loud, loud music. And it is ABBA. It is the end of "I Have A Dream."

I believe in angels,
Something good in everything I see...

Last chorus already - pity. But, whatever radio station this is, I bet something good is coming right up! We turn south on Wells as ABBA fades out. Then, I hear the distinctive, unmistakable muffled click on the speakers that says one thing and one thing only: MIXTAPE. Mixtape probably made on a BOOM BOX, circa 1984.

I lean forward and, sure enough, there is a cassette deck in the dash, and a little cassette ass in there. The cab of the 21st century is playing a cassette mixtape! Before I can ponder this any further, the next tune kicks in, and I am afraid it is the "I Have A Love/One Hand, One Heart" medley, as performed by Barbara Streisand and Johnny Mathis. Did I mention it's loud?

And thank GOD it is loud, because as Babs starts singing, my cab driver, a middle-aged giant, starts to groan. No, he starts to moan, and at a truly impressive volume. "Unnnnnnnggggggh."

I'm not sure what's going on. "Unnnnnnnnghhhhhhh. Unnnnghhhhhhhhh." I start to panic a little. Is he sick? Is he hurt? Or is he just... moany?

"Unnnnnnnnnghhhhhh..... needs me tooooooooo-unnnnghhhh." Oh... OH! He's, um... you know, singing. Sort of. He quiets up for the Mathis sections, but as soon as that Streisand voice hits, he is on fire. "Unnnnnnnnghhhhhhhhh! Mmmmmmmmmmuuunnnnnnnnngh, I loooooove hiimmmmmmmmmnghhhhhhhh."

We pull up to the corner of Madison and LaSalle as I hand over my cash money and hop out of the taxi. He pulls off and I think aloud how that must be the weirdest cab ride of all time.

Bit of advice: never utter something like that out loud. The Fates don't like it.

I leave the building on LaSalle about an hour later and hail a cab to take me back to my office just north of the Loop. A taxi sees me from afar and swings across three crowded lanes to get to me. Always a great sign. I climb in and throw out the address. Off we go.

As the cab pulls away, the young, lanky driver takes off his sunglasses and reaches down to grab his rather large case for them. Only, no. It's not a case. Nope. What is that? He takes the bulky object and puts it over his head, at which point I realize that he is putting on goggles.

He's traded his sunglasses for goggles. Not lab goggles. Not swimming goggles. No, these are more like old-fashioned aviator goggles. You know, the Red Barron, that sort of thing - maybe mixed with a little Greedo from Star Wars. The are really long, and this guy has to turn his head way to the side to have any peripheral vision. Spectacular. I want to say something, but I don't know what to say. I want to ask something... but what? Perhaps I should just throw myself from the moving vehicle.

Up LaSalle Street we zoom. We stop at the red light at Lake Street, and I slink down in my seat as neighboring drivers glance our way and do ridiculous double-takes. My driver looks left and right with huge sweeping motions, smiling at everyone around us. And it's from my slouched position that I am able to really get a sense of my surroundings. The glass partition in this cab is uncharacteristically closed, as are both back windows. It's feeling stuffy so I lower mine most of the way.

Then, just before the light changes, the driver does something else. He takes hold of what looks to be a fabric headband that has been around his neck and pulls the front up, over his chin and past his mouth. He places it squarely on his nose, covering both nostrils, so that his face looks like it's in some kind of traction.

The light changes, and he floors it.

Now, if you think this is a little weird... perhaps even borderline scary... then you are absolutely correct. I check the door. Unlocked. I recheck my window. All the way down. And right then and there I promise myself that if that window starts to close, or if any colored gas (a la Batman) starts to seep in through the A/C vent, I am out of this car no matter how fast we're going.

And yet, I'm not really that scared. For some reason, I'm more certain that this guy is just a freak wearing crazy bomber goggles and a headband around his face. I just wish he wasn't driving me around the city, that's all.

The rest of the trip is uneventful. As we pull up, I'm forced to use that little lucite money tray we all wonder about but never actually use. The driver takes my money, and I scramble out the door. He removes his goggles and homemade air filter as he speeds away. I decide that trying to figure out what that was all about is not worth it. I will leave that to you.

I turn and go inside, unable to get "Take a Chance on Me" out of my head.