Racism and Ageism in Chicago
Short story | Memoir | 7 min read
A road trip with a friend named Ashley takes an unexpected turn when a flat tire strands them in a Chicago neighborhood neither of them knows. What follows is an encounter with an eight year old known only as Big Jim, who runs a tire shop staffed by grown men following his every order without question. The narrator's wry, self aware account of the afternoon becomes a meditation on race, authority, and the absurdity of his own assumptions. Contains racial themes and language. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, too"
My ex-girlfriend invited me to Chicago to keep her company while she auditioned for a TV show. This was the promise of a nice hotel room, ex sex, and tons of free time for me to explore restaurants on the strip.
"We're staying at the Omni," Ashley said. "That's the hotel Oprah's guests stay in when they're on the show."
Honestly I didn't give this much weight until we got there, when I discovered in person that the Omni is, in fact, a dope hotel. One of the very nicest hotels I've stayed in. Every surface was covered in real wood. The bed was made for fucking. As soon as we got to the room we pulled each other into the thick comforters, undressed each other, and fucked like only exes can. I mean by that point you know how to do each other, but there's a vast shore between you emotionally. It's really quite a nice type of sex.
Anyway we fucked.
Ashley didn't feel like going to dinner, so I went to the restaurant on the top floor and had salmon to live piano music, servers that you want to be best friends with, and wine, wine, wine. I looked out onto the strip, with its fashion stores and neon signs. Just as money as anywhere in New York or LA—the expensive neighborhoods. Oprah's guests stayed well.
The next morning I walked Ashley to her audition spot, wished her luck, and went to explore more restaurants. I must have had lunch three times. Then Ash called—it was time to go—and I met her, and we walked back to the hotel.
"I didn't get it," she said.
"You know already?"
"Yeah, they had us in groups, and they cut my group."
"Aww, I'm sorry. That sucks. Do you want me to buy you lunch?"
"I'm sorry. I know you want to go out but I just want to get back to Dayton."
"Then that's what we'll do."
So we packed up at the Omni, waited downstairs for them to load our bags in Ashley's car, and Ashley started driving us out of Chicago.
"I think I'm gonna take a shortcut to that highway we came in on..look at the traffic."
"It's your call, Ash—let me know if you want me to navigate."
"I'm good."
And she was. She had this red pseudo-sports car—I forget what it was called. But it went fast and she drove it that way. We're paralleling this highway looking for a place where the traffic clears out so we can get there. Only problem is..it never clears out.
Next problem: we hit some kind of street junk—it looked like a giant screw like would come off a train—and it destroyed the back right tire.
"Is that a flat?"
"Yes."
"Fuck."
Now you have two white people driving around Chicago looking for a place to get a tire changed on a Sunday. We're driving on the flat, judiciously choosing the shortest path possible between points. First point: gas station.
"Do you know where we can get a tire changed?"
"Not today. Your best bet would be Big Jim's."
"Ok. Where's Big Jim's?"
The guy gives us directions and luckily it's only four blocks from here.
"But—" the gas station attendant says.
"What?"
"Never mind."
And he repeats the directions.
Ashley and I look at each other like we're in some 1980s comedy/horror flick. Which we basically are.
Big Jim's is a square of chain link fence, topped with razor wire, and inside this square is a covered area with racks and racks of tires. In the open area is a basketball hoop where a bunch of black kids are playing basketball. You know, the hoop has no net—the whole nine. And the worst part is that you enter through a large gate which is half of one length of the square. The gate is closed.
Ashley and I sit there, idling, on the wrong side of the road, waiting for someone inside to pay attention to us. Everyone takes their time. Finally, one of about three older guys—in their thirties—comes and opens the gate for us. Ashley drives in. The boys have to stop playing basketball to make room for us.
Ashley says, "Will you take care of this?"
I say, "Yes."
I get out of the car. Now I've lived in bad neighborhoods, I've had my ass kicked by four black guys before, I've lived in neighborhoods worse than this one, but I'm still a little scared.
I go up to the guy who opened the gate for us. I relish for a moment how enclosed we are—how trapped we are—if these guys wanted us to be. They could just close that gate and that would be the end.
I say to the guy who opened the gate, "So, we have a flat tire."
He turns around and shakes his head.
"You need to talk to Big Jim."
"Ok, where's Big Jim?"
And this guy yells over at the kids. They're all looking at Ashley and Ashley's trying not to make eye contact with them.
The guy says, "Jimmy, got a flat!"
And this one kid—the youngest among a bunch of mostly twelve-year-olds—he's about eight, no lie—he comes over and stands in front of me.
"I'm Big Jim." He extends his arm and I find myself shaking hands with this eight-year-old. "What can I do you for?" he says.
"Well we've got a flat, this right rear—"
That's all I have to say, and Big Jim is on it.
He squats by the tire.
The three thirty-somethings stand behind him, listening to everything he says.
"Get a 40/11-1-1-Ultra Wide-7684. Quick quick quick!"
The three men run into the covered shed and get the tire. They instantly jack up the car and switch the tire. It takes two minutes.
"So how much you want for this."
"Fifty," the kid says.
"Fifty? For the tire and labor?"
"This ain't no ripoff joint," Big Jim says. "This is the finest tire shack in all of Chicago. If you ever have another flat in Chicago, which tire shack are you gonna come to?"
"Big Jim's," I said, and I handed the kid a hundred bucks.
"I'll get you change."
"No. That's for giving me the finest tire change I've ever had, anywhere."
Big Jim folded the money and put it in his back pocket.
He extended his hand again and we shook.
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you," this guy said, and I thought, it sounds like he's watched more white TV than I have.
But I said, "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, too."
And I meant it.
When I got back in the car Ashley was incredulous.
"I thought those guys were those kid's dads."
"I know, Ashley, but it's all Big Jim here."
We start cracking up.
"Now get us the hell out of here."
Yes, we had had a rare piece of positive black/white race relations in the year 2000, but you don't want to push your luck by hanging around in a chainlink cage topped with razor wire.
I leaned around in my chair and took a picture of Big Jim's to aid in future tellings of the eight-year-old who ordered adults around, of this extraordinary little man who definitely ran the place.
Ashley got straight on the highway.
We drove straight to Dayton, no stopping. Even when Ashley got tired, she wouldn't let me drive and she would't stop so we could stay in a motel. She drives tired. I hate that.