Chicago chicanery: my turn to be mugged by reality in the city of al capone | thearticle

It was mid-winter in the early 1980s. David, a research student, and I attended a conference in Chicago at a hotel/conference centre on the shore of Lake Michigan, one of the Great Lakes.

When it came to the Great Lakes, I knew a lot. By the age of ten, still in my native Hungary, I had read and re-read Fenimore Cooper’s pentalogy about Hawkeye, Chingachgook and the rest of

the Leather-Stockings. When it came to Chicago, I knew very little. Well, I knew about Al Capone and the Prohibition and in more recent times about the University of Chicago where a lot of

work had been going on in my field.  We gave our talks on the morning of the third day of the Conference. Our presentation was well received. In the afternoon we decided to play truant and

explore the city instead. David wanted to see the houses designed by Frank Lloyd Wright around 1900. I was less keen. I must confess, I have only a moderate interest in architecture. I like

to see how people live. So, we went our separate ways.  I had already had a well-tried strategy to explore major cities. I had used it in Moscow, in Paris, in Madrid, in Bonn and Hamburg and

in a number of other European cities. It was a simple strategy: why pay for organised trips when you can do the same thing by bus. I don’t mean the tourist bus, but the ordinary bus. It is

cheaper and you are always in control. That’s the way to see life — to travel with the man on the Clapham omnibus. You take a bus at one terminus, look at the city, reach the other terminus,

stay on the bus, and come back. This second journey is not a waste. It serves to reinforce your memories. You need to choose the right bus, of course. How to choose? I usually preferred to

look at the less affluent parts of the city.  As it happened, a few blocks away from our Lakeside Conference Centre the landscape suddenly changed, the houses became less prosperous. A bus

terminus was just there. I boarded a bus, took a window seat and just wanted to see this part of  the world go by. The next few minutes on the bus showed that this was indeed a less affluent

part of the city. Alas, it was difficult to keep up my interest because the landscape did not change at all: big grey blocks of flats with a few lacklustre shops here and there. After half

an hour I should have got off but I did not. I thought that this bleak landscape was bound to fade away: just another few minutes and a more interesting suburb will emerge. And please let it

be less drab. This was in contrast to my original aim, but by that stage I really wanted to see prosperity. It did not come. After a further hour I had enough. I got off the bus, crossed

the road and took the bus back to the lake. There was only one window seat unoccupied. I took it quickly. As the day went by the bus filled up and darkness slowly fell. Since the street was

badly lit my plan to reinforce the impressions of the first leg of the trip did not work. In any case there was very little that could be reinforced. I took out a thin paperback from my

pocket and started to read. A few moments later I suddenly felt a shower of small change descending on me and continuing their downward journey to the floor. Next a skinny young boy of

thirteen, maybe fourteen, approached me very politely and asked me to get up from my seat so that he can pick up his lost money. I stood up. As soon as I straightened out, I was surrounded

by four boys, my polite money-scatterer being one of them. His next move must have been well practised. He quickly grabbed my right leg around the ankle, lifted it up and tried to take off

my shoe. I managed to keep my balance by standing on one foot and holding on to one of the vertical metal rods which attach to the seats. Another boy of about the same age but much better

built, apparently their leader, was more ambitious. He got his hand inside my overcoat and tried to get inside my jacket. He had difficulties. The jacket was all buttoned up at the beginning

of my journey as extra protection against the cold. He made little headway. The other two boys stood there idly. They were probably there just as apprentices to learn the art. The rest of

the passengers on the bus were definitely in the non-interventionist camp. Those nearby followed the action with some interest. Those further away were uninterested.  The tussle between the

two boys and myself came to a stalemate. The skinny boy failed to realise that he needed to unlace the shoe before he could take it off. His grip on the shoe weakened. The well-built boy

tried to unbutton my jacket. He failed too.  My explanation is that the boys must have been novices. Maybe they attended the first year of the Assault School, mugged up the syllabus but

failed to understand the deeper relations. They were fine at the start of the process but when something unexpected happened, they were lost. No doubt all four of them had failed the first

year exams and had been told to seek  more relevant on-job experience. They needed private lessons from an expert mugger on how to react when there is a hitch. Murder might be one of the

options. I have no statistics about the Chicago murder rate in the 1980s. The present one is 15.6 per 100,000 population. This is in contrast to 1.6 in London. To finish the story: the two

boys were frustrated, maybe ashamed that they had publicly displayed so many signs of incompetence. They lost their initial enthusiasm. The well-built boy withdrew his hand. I despatched the

mangy one by a one-leg version of the breast-stroke kick. At the next stop I managed to get off the bus. I was not sure what to do next. Risk another bus or risk a long walk. I chose the

latter. There was a minor incident. A big burly man apparently mistook me for one of his male siblings and asked me to spare him a dime. I gave him a dollar. He received it with thanks. I

managed to reach Lake Michigan unhurt. I spent the next two days in the safety of the hotel, arguing moot points in the theory of volume holograms. My curiosity to explore the city had

plummeted. I wasn’t hurt, merely shaken. On Friday night I was not too sorry to leave the city. I have not been back since. A MESSAGE FROM THEARTICLE _We are the only publication that’s

committed to covering every angle. We have an important contribution to make, one that’s needed now more than ever, and we need your help to continue publishing throughout the pandemic. So

please, make a donation._