At Edmund F Brigham House

Edmund F Brigham House at 790 Sheridan Road, Glencoe, IL.
Frank Lloyd Wright architect, completed 1915.
Ride of 31km (same ride as Ravine Bluffs below)

Before I rode, Leonard the baker gave me pastries and told me how to beat a DUI case. It is a marvelous routine told to him by a Chicago judge and it made me wish to get back to the drinking if only to test it out. On the roads there were cyclists dressed like heroes from comic books riding lightweight machines used in racing competitions. While shooting pictures on Sheridan Road one of these brightly dressed men stopped and was worried I had flatted. No sir, I haven't. I appreciated his concern for my welfare. My bicycle seemed to confuse him and he rode along. At Glencoe Beach a man called Ivan approached me and had many questions about folding bikes. He talked to me of carbon fiber. I admitted I knew nothing of the substance. How much did my bike weigh? I did not think that was an appropriate question. It was like meeting a girl and within a few minutes asking her how much her breasts cost. Could he pick the bike up? Would you ask her if you could touch them? Ivan left.

Mathias and his wife and little children next introduced themselves. Knowing less about bicycles they were very pleasant to speak with. Mathias was from Pennsylvania and they were soon moving back to Philadelphia. I had lived there once and done good work there and I told them and we were happy to talk of things we both understood. Then we spoke knowingly of cheesesteaks and we became even a little happier. We wished each other luck and feeling hungry for something I could not ever find anywhere in Chicago I rode away. There are more pictures from this ride at http://www.flickr.com/photos/moralinefree/

At Ravine Bluffs Housing Development

J M Compton House

Sherman Booth House

S J Gilfillan House

Ride to Ravine Bluffs Housing Development at Glencoe, IL.

Compton, Booth, and Gilfillan Houses by Frank Lloyd Wright, completed 1915.

Ride of 31km (same ride as Bigham House).

More pictures from this ride at http://www.flickr.com/photos/moralinefree/

Head Injured 3

On the fourth floor the patients were in wheel chairs or with walkers. They were encouraged to move about as part of their rehabilitation. Henry had been moved from the third floor to begin a rehabilitation which we were told would last three weeks and after he would be sent home. He was awake and watching television when we arrived.
"Hi, Henry."
"Hi, mum."
He did not look at us.
"How do you like your new room, Henry?"
"If I like it, I like it. If I don’t like it, I don’t like it," he said.
He continued watching the television.
"I’m the type of person someone gives me the shits I take it and turn it to bullshit."
"You know you’ll be leaving here soon enough," I said. "They’re going to get you to walk again on this floor."
"Yeah."
Henry was switching through the stations.
He stopped at a Latin girl in a bright dress dancing.
"Where’s my wife?"
His mother looked at me.
"Do you know her name, Henry?"
"Lauren."
"She’s not your wife."
"Who is she then?"
"She’s your girlfriend."
Henry grinned. He watched the Latin girl dancing.
"I’ll make her my wife then."
"Do you remember how you met her?"
"Vaguely."
"How did you meet her?"
"Dunno."
"How long have you known her?"
"Dunno."
Henry watched the Latin girl dance and spin.
"When I get out of here I’ll be wearing a different outfit too. Different smile, different grin, different everything."

Head Injured 2

"Henry," the father called to him. "Henry."
He opened his eyes and seemed to look beyond us.
"Henry, it’s Dad."
He did not look at the father.
"Henry, do you hear me, son?"
"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled.
"Who am I?"
Henry studied him.
"Dunno," he said. "Dunno. Who are you?"
"C’mon, son, think. You know who I am. What’s my name?"
"You’re Dad."
"But what’s my name, Henry?"
"Dunno--Know your own name. Know your own name."
"C’mon, Henry. What’s my name?"
He looked closely at the old man, focusing. "Bobby-Boom-Boom-Braxton. Boom-Boom-Braxton," he said slowly.
The father laughed. "What is this ‘Bobby Boom Boom’?"
Henry smiled strangely. "Boom Boom. Boom Boom."
"Do you know my name?" I asked him.
Henry stared at me.
"What’s my name?"
"John."
"No. What’s my name?"
"Paul."
"My name is Jesse."
"Jesse."
"What’s your name?"
Henry looked puzzled.
"You should know your own name."
"I know, I know. I know my own name."
"Then what’s your name?"
"0H5," he said finally.
"What?" said the father.
"0H5."
"Your name is ‘0H5’?"
"Yes," he said, "Yes, c’mon, fuck, what’s the big deal. Fuck. Fuck."
"How do you spell your name," the father asked.
Henry looked as if he did not believe the question.
"0-H-5. Hey Dad, can you get me something?"
"What do you want, son?"
"Gimme shots. Shots."
"What kind of shots?"
"Fuck. Fucking, c’mon, c’mon. Get me shots." He moved his legs under the covers. "Do it, do it. Gimme shots--Hey, let’s go somewhere."
"Where do you want to go?"
"C’mon, get us a drink."
"Do you know what your sister’s name is?"
"Jennifer."
"Good. Do you know how to spell your name?"
"Aghh," Henry turned away.
"How do you spell your name?"
"Alcoholic ‘M’, alcoholic ‘S’, fucking alcoholic ‘C’—c’mon, fucking c’mon. Hey, you," he said to me. "Can you get me outta here? Just this once?"
"You need to stay here, Hank. You’ll be out soon enough."
"Let’s go upstairs."
"What’s upstairs?"
"Let’s go look. We’ll just look for a little. No. Hey. No, no," he mumbled, and then brightening, "I’ll meet you guys downstairs in 5 minutes. Lemme get my shoes, okay?"
"Sure," I said. "Do you remember what your car looked like?"
"Yeah. It’s white."
"What kind?"
"Chevy."
"What kind of Chevy?"
"Piece of shit."
The conversation was annoying him.
"What’s my name?" I asked again.
Henry looked at me seriously. He did not remember.
"Take a guess."
"Paul."
"It’s Jesse."
"Jesse. Jesse," he repeated.
"Hey, Jesse," he said. "Can you get me outta here?"
"I can’t do that."
"But how much room do you have in your car?"
"Not enough for your bed and all these machines."
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Almost 9 pm," said the father. "Do you know where you are?"
"Vancouver," he said. "B.C."
"You’re in hospital in Miami, Henry."
Henry looked confused. "Fuck," he said. "Fucking fuck."
"Do you know what your girlfriend’s name is?"
"Divorced."
"That’s your wife. I’m talking about your girlfriend."
"What’s her name then?"
"Lauren. Do you know what she looks like?"
He thought about it. "Blond, brunette…"
"She’s got black hair."
"Fuck."
"What year is it?" asked the father.
"1920," he said without hesitation.
"No."
"1934."
"No."
"’84. No, fuck, 1976. C’mon. Let’s just go get a bite to eat."

Head Injured

Later that day the doctor managing his treatment visited. He was a young Indian doctor with a pleasant face and dressed in a long white lab coat. He asked Henry questions which he marked down on a clipboard.
"Where were you before Miami, Henry?" said the doctor.
"In the arms of a beautiful woman."
The doctor smiled. "And how did you hurt yourself?"
"I was in a motor car accident and broke my neck bones and broke them again and again."
"You injured your head too, I see."
"Did I? Shit. Shit." He seemed worried.
"Yes you did, Henry," said the mother. "It was a motorcycle accident. He hit his head on the pavement causing a compressed fracture on the right side. A piece of bone was removed here," pointing to the pink scar-marked depression on the right side of his forehead. "A burr hole was done on the left side to relieve pressure from a small left-side bleed on the brain."
"Good, good," said the doctor, examining the burr hole.
"He also has a broken right humorous that was plated and pinned, broken vertebrae in the neck, broken ribs, and a collapsed lung which has healed. The lung was being drained in ICU but he pulled out the tube and they did not replace it."
"What have you been doing on the third floor before you came to us, Henry?"
"Just talks and thoughts. Talks and thoughts. That’s all."
"You know, you are very lucky?"
"Yeah, the feedback is telling me that."
"You could have been dead, or a vegetable."
"Yeah, it would suck being a vegetable. In the truck like a vegetable, out the truck like a vegetable."
The doctor smiled.
Outside in the hallway a patient began screaming.
"That was like me," Henry said.
"What was?"
"The ahhh, ahhhh, help me, help."
"You weren’t like that," I said.
"Yes, I was. Help me, help me, I was yelling it all the time."
"What did you do before your injury, Henry?"
"Importing. Importing pub stuff. Pubs, clothes and stuff. Importing cocaine."
"What?"
"No," I said, "he’s a clothing importer exporter."
"Okay," the doctor said. "You will import and export again, Henry."
"What sports did you play before this injury?"
"Cricket, golf."
"You know cricket?" The doctor was impressed.
"You didn’t play cricket, Henry," said the mother. "He only played some cricket as a boy."
"I know mom, I know. I’ve got to tell the doctor."
"You like to surf, Henry."
"I like to surf," he said.
"I would like to learn to surf," said the doctor. "If I help you here will you teach me to surf?"
"I’ll teach you to surf, yeah."
"This treatment is expensive," said the doctor. "Can I trade the cost of this treatment for surfing lessons when you are able?"
"I’ll teach you. I don’t want to take your money."
The doctor smiled.
"I don’t want your money," Henry said again.
"He’s getting tired," said the mother.
"Are you tired, Henry?" the doctor asked.
"A little."
"Do you want to sleep, Henry?" the mother asked.
"A little."
"I’ll let him rest and come back later," the doctor said.
As we prepared to leave, the patient in the hallway began screaming again.
"Sounds like my neighbor," said Henry. "The yelling. Ahhh, ahhhh, ahh. I was like, Fucking hell, deal with it you cunt. You’re fucked like me."