Thursday, January 27, 2005

Choose Your Adventure books. Do you remember them? They were mementos from our childhood, thin novels with equally thin plots that promised, in a dozen or so chapters, countless second chances with a flick of the page. You could find yourself in a ghost town, a decrepit warehouse, or even the steamy tropics, but variety would always give way to startling truth: death, it seems, accounted for a good part of your adventure.

A damnably bad choice would sentence you to a grisly end, and your character would lie in a crumpled heap at the feet of a serial killer or, if you were embarking on the tropical adventure, raped by a crazed yeti intoxicated with rotten guavas. Make the right choices and the hero would find reward in a poorly rendered drawing of himself.

I chose the South Evanston adventure yesterday evening. I also got to the end.

Around 5:35 PM, when I was checking my mail and doing some work, a man walked into my office. He was tall and heavy, around 6′ or 6’2″, a white fellow dressed cleanly and casually, with a loud voice and a confident bearing. “Mike” something, he introduced himself, and Mike wore a large beige winter jacket filled with treachery, as I later discovered, and possibly a gun or a knife, which I fortunately didn’t discover.

“Are you the last one here?” he asked, and I pointed out my colleague in a nearby room.

Everyone in his office had gone for the evening, leaving him without a way home. His car, along with his belongings, had been towed because it obstructed a snow truck, so he needed a ride to the impound lot downtown. Otherwise, he would have to spend the night in his office and return the following evening to an angry spouse. He’d pay me tomorrow if I could help him. I told him I was busy, but perhaps my buddy could take him. My co-worker wasn’t driving anywhere near where Mike wanted, however, and thank goodness for that.

A cab, Mike proposed, lend him some money for a cab. He’d pay me back tomorrow, 8 AM sharp, plus a little extra, which I said wasn’t necessary.

“$20 should be enough,” he calculated.

I didn’t have any cash handy, so he suggested I pop by the bank across the street. Something didn’t feel quite right at this point, yet I let the holiday spirit override my suspicions. We left the office for the ATM. He rambled on about his wife and work, listing a few companies in our building. This was made convincing because his alleged workplace keeps its door shut, complete with security camera, and even after a year-and-a-half you could still bump into unfamiliar faces.

“Actually, could you spot me $50?” he asked. “$20 might not be enough.”

I knew Chicago cabs and their wily ways, having paid upwards of $80 for a single trip. Against my better judgment I hit the “$40” button. I offered to call him a cab.

“No, I’ll just get one by the Holiday Inn,” he said, pointing completely in the wrong direction. The circle by the train station, I suggested, probably had more cabs. We shook hands. Thanks. No problem. See you in the morning.

I’m a packrat for punishment, caught in a twisted reality inspired by Pokemon and baseball cards, inescapably compelled to catch them all. I’m a fool, a hypocrimeac, an ardent collector whose goal is to preserve these fuckers in mint condition. These were my choices, my dime-store adventure turned real.

After going to the police and making some calls, I met some familiar faces for dinner, the first time in a long time. I tromped through the snow, right shoelace untied, my mouth very dry, a little dazed and shaken.

“I’m alive,” snapped my synapses. And that’s not bad for a Wednesday.