As if the city of Chicago had been plagued by a dry spell for the latter half of the year – which, for the record, it hadn’t – rain began to patter down onto the asphalt, and gradually formed a thin lacquer of water that was only broken by the sporadic grease pools (a coagulation of spit, oil, excess tar, and rendered lard) that were scattered across the city.

It did so almost imperceptibly, for everyone was vaguely accustomed to the occasional slip or accidental step into a shallow puddle. This would really only cause the tail end of trousers belonging to a certain well-established gentleman to get just a tad damp, albeit enough to ironically produce an incessant torrent of curses and insults.

But at whom, you may ask? And here I must confess, with all the candour of a man who has nothing left to hide, that I myself do not know.

In any case, one figure – who we shall use as our guinea pig – traversed the slick pavement with assiduous apathy, while attempting to avoid the grime compacted in the seams between each tile. He was under the pretence that the intern who spilled an Americano on his blazer that morning was wholly in fact the author of his sneer.

And so, our rodent too inexorably fell for the trivial tax levied upon the pavement, and found the bison-skinned leather on his derbies glazed in the grotesque mixture endemic to this part of the city. The pretentious prick would almost immediately ascribe his frustration to the drudgery of his occupation; the very means of work that would mail him envelopes filled with slips of green later that evening – the very envelopes that he would most hastily tear open, and spend on a couple of bottles of Old No. 7, rather than choosing to abate the guttural growl that his children often carried home five days of the week.

In quick succession to his set, our guinea pig continued to stroll along the periphery of the slag-grey road, on the sidewalk. The pavement, it should be noted, was in considerably worse condition than the road; the people of this city walked on it anyway, as they did most things. To an outsider, the assault of neon lights (at this time of day it only came from the red ‘B’, ‘U,’ ‘T’, ‘C’  on the butcher’s sign, with the rest of the letters dead and hanging), unremitting car horns, indistinct shouting (probably a drug scuffle), the wet hiss of buses departing and heading back to the depot, and today, the occasional clang of wheels from a laundry cart – it all would have been overwhelming at the very least. To our guinea pig, and many others who called this district home, it was simply another Thursday night.

Anyhow, our gentleman, still on foot, attempted to mitigate the seemingly impossible task of holding a brine-stiffened fold of leather – its contents almost exceeding its capacity – and a steaming cup of joe. Right as he settled on an appropriate grip to hold the coffee, a quick look up confirmed his prior prediction on the location of the pauper – though an expectation that refuted his guess would have been silly – for the pauper only switched dwelling every other morning. The sordid figure had his arms outstretched as usual, knees tucked under them, and a great hunch to further accommodate this effete position. A paper bowl inscribed with a black marker lay at his feet; it was less a plea than a credential and was the sole indicator of his destitution. The tiny paper bowl was the one thing that distinguished his condition from the drug-induced comatose bodies found every three blocks or so. As he passed by, our rodent let out an unsure mumble of letters and sounds, though what escaped him was, undoubtedly, an attempt at:

“Laz” – short for ‘Lazarus’, a name endearingly assigned to the pauper – given his arrogant refusal to let the city kill him. The call was more a personal acknowledgement than a greeting. What reason would such a gentleman as himself have to interact with a lowly wretch that neither impeded nor aided his capacity to earn?

Not once did Laz look up.

One could only observe this and at most produce a great sigh of resignation and acceptance, followed by a burning desire to escape this repository of misery. The latter would only stir within certain individuals, who were wealthy enough to recognise the paradox of voluntary suffering this city brought upon those who stayed. Yet, these parasites were perpetually incapable of perceiving that this suffering had brewed something the clean air of their retreats never could: a soul.