Going to Joliet, I have to say, was always a nice change of pace from the hectic office, late nights, personal dramas and endless traffic jams that were my Chicago in 2002. It was an excuse to spend a good solid twelve hours communing with the internal combustion engine, with no six-hour staff meetings or painfully formal grievance hearings or meetings with the lawyer or overdue gas bills; just the Indian desk clerk with the Irish name letting me use his fridge at the cheap motel, and the guy at El Famous Burrito saying, "Hey, what's up Chicago!" when I walked in the door.

Joliet was also a nagging suspicion that the host at the diner with the all-white-besides-me clientele was seating me in the "colored section," which was the half-lit room with no one else in it, and piles of to-be-sorted silverware on the next table. Driving from the East side to the West was almost like being back in the city, like a geological expedition through the rock-solid historical layers of almost complete and utter segregation, white to brown to black to white again. And the prison, looking like a medieval fortress through the fog in the morning, depressing enough on its own but downright terrifying when I realized that the elementary school and high school both could have passed for it. We prepare our children, I guess, for their chosen roles, discretion not the better part of valor, or anything else, here in Northern Illinois. Growing up in Wilmette? On the lake? New Trier High could just about pass for the multi-gazillion dollar Motorola complex down the highway. Growing up on the river in Joliet? Well, the elementary and high schools will get you well acclimated, thanks. Don't worry about that Caterpillar plant going anywhere, we can handle our own, jobs or no. I guess I grew up in enough of a suburban feel-good liberal atmosphere that these things still surprise me, but the shock wears off faster and faster every time.

Now at work I have my good days and my bad, to be sure, but even surer than that is that either way things go, the day is always long. I got sick of drinking alone in the Microtel, sitting in the all-white room with the TV on, sound down, newspaper spread out as if I actually read the whole damn thing, which, bored as I was, I usually had. So I got out one night, and drove, down to a bar I'd passed between worker visits twelve long hours before.

I like to think that I'm pretty adaptable to different situations, and really, I think I usually am. Rural Missouri Greyhound stations, Upper East Side martini bars, the Robert Taylor Homes, highway on-ramps, suburban strip mall dumpsters, even police stations; wherever I am I can generally hold my own, or at least know how to make a quick, fistless exit. So I walked in hurriedly, past the Fieros and pickup trucks, through the double doors, intent on a drink.

The whole place went silent.

Heads turned, slowly, not in unison but in a wave, reaching from the door to the dart board to the pool table in the back, by the big-screen TV.

And all I could think was, what the fuck?

Did they have a silent Asian alarm on the door, triggering the jukebox mute button and automatically swiveling the barstools?

For real now, it happened. Maybe not quite that dramatically, but it did happen. I verified a few days ago with old Black Panther coworker Wayne that this has indeed happened to him as well, on several occasions.

I looked around, and saw nothing but blonde hair, blue eyes, and, well, shit. Nothing to do but order a drink, and extricate myself as soon as I could with (hopefully) no harm done. So that's what I did. The bartender asked for my ID, and I pulled it out, shaking a little, I'll admit.

"OHHHH," she exclaimed, loudly, to the rest of the bar,"from Chicago, are you?"

And all I could think now was, this is what a bar sounds like right before the bottle breaks over your head. I gulped, and responded:

"Ye-es."

Low and behold, instead of a facefull of broken glass, I got a smile.

"Now what in blazes are you doing down here, being from Chicago?" Not accusatory! Friendly! Inquisitive!

"I'm - I'm here for work. You know, work." Still tentative.

"Are you down at Caterpillar? What do you do?"

"No, I'm a union organizer. Ummm, yeah."

"A union man! Well I'll be damned, I guess they got all kinds now."

"Mmmhmmm. They do. That's me. Union man."

The jukebox seemed to kick back on, and the clacking of pool balls from the back of the room told me that all was well. One whiskey and one beer later I walked out of Sue's Likely Story, back down the block to the car. White folks aren't that scary, I guess, and will even offer to buy you a drink, but shit, if it's between drinking alone in the motel or silencing an entire bar, I'll take choice A. But thanks for the beer anyway, Sue. It meant a lot.

segue