I remember coming here with him on a Saturday once. We took the Green Line downtown—itself an adventure, especially on weekends—and rode the elevator up to the seventeenth floor. He had a suite in the middle of that floor. I remember the frosted glass door and how cool it seemed withlaw offices of theodore dobiasstenciled in a fancy font.
That was back when Dad was “scrapping,” as he’d call it. Personal injury and workers comp, mostly. Car crashes and slip-and-falls and stuff like that. He even did some criminal, mostly DUIs and possession cases. He had to bone up on the Fourth Amendment, but fortunately he had my mother for that. Mostly he was an ambulance chaser.
Were you injured at work? Then you need someone on your side!
Luckily, he never ran any schlocky commercials. I never saw his face on the side of a bus.
Then he hit the motherlode, a massive electrical-injury case that made him millions. He changed office space. He changed a lot of things.
Inside the Chicago Title & Trust Building, I grab a Starbucks in the lobby and plop down on one of their leather couches.
I pull out the green phone I just bought in Indiana and slide in the SIM card. For the first time ever, I turn on the green phone, waiting for it to pop to life, the first few seconds of my thousand minutes. I take a deep breath and type:
Testing... Testing... 1, 2, 3. Testing... testing... 1, 2, 3. Is this thing on?
I hit “send” and let out my breath.
She’s expecting my text—our first text—at ten this morning. At least I hope she is. I hope she’s sitting there with that hot-pink phone just waiting to hear from me.
My green phone vibrates with her reply. I almost spill my coffee.
Well, hello, stranger
Her replies are in a different font than my texts. Mine are boxy and plain, hers have curves, daintier and more sensual. That seems appropriate. I respond:
Reception ok?
Not the sexiest of responses. Not at all. But Lauren has an old house with thick walls, like a lot of houses in Grace Village. Some people I’ve known in the Village have trouble with cell reception.
She texts back:
On the balcony
Right, the balcony off the master bedroom.
I text:
We have to be careful.
But I don’t send it. My first texts were lame. This whole new exciting way to communicate secretly with your mistress, and I start by asking about her cellular reception? And now I say we have to be careful? Talk about unsexy.
I should have thought this out more. But I didn’t. I erase and type this instead:
We have to be careful. I don’t want to screw anything up for you.
Better, because it shows caring. But still comfortably occupying wet-blanket territory. Up your game, Simon.
I’ve never done anything like this before.
No. It’s true, I haven’t done anything like this before, but no.
Pop quiz: What would someonenotfeeling insecure say to her right now?
Do you really like me? Are you sure? Cuz I like you tons!