Maybe Things Will Be Better In Chicago

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• October 11, 2015

“I’m not alone
I’m not afraid
This bird has flown from his cage
There’s so much magic we have known
On this sapphire we call home
With my coat and my hat
I say goodbye to all that
Maybe things will be better in Chicago”

(Chicago by Tom Waits)

“You fuckin’ kiddin wit me now.  I’m comin’ home.  I’m atta fuckin’ train station now,” an older black man yelled into his phone, wearing a sideways ball cap and sunglasses.  “I caint hear ya.  Put the daymn phone closah to ya mouth.”  He held his luggage, which was one of those clear bins you buy from Target to store your Christmas decorations in.  “I caint fuckin’ hear ya!”

He was making a scene.  Every one was looking away, except for me.  I was looking right at him.  This was in Milwaukee.  On a Tuesday afternoon.  We were all about to board a train to Chicago, and I hoped desperately he wasn’t on our train.  But it wasn’t a big station.  I knew already there was only one train, but I tried convincing myself otherwise.  We boarded, and he was still ranting on the phone so I thought, maybe we got lucky.  This was a delusion, and I knew it.

“All aboard!”
Chicago, playing in my head.

I took a seat, and opened my book.  I was happy there were outlets at all the seats on Amtrak and plugged in my phone.  Peaceful.  Until my ol’ buddy with the sideways baseball cap stumbled in the train car. He was towards the end of the car, several rows from me.  There was a man with a hiking backpack, a beard, and a beer gut sitting across from him.
“You gottah phone chargah?”  Sideways baseball cap asked the hiker.
“Uh… yah, think so.  What kind of charger you need?”  The hiker was oh so polite.  Midwesterners.  You’re allowed to make negative judgements about an adult with a sideways ball cap.  I didn’t need to be from New York to know that.
“It don’t mattah.  Any chargah will do.”
The hiker paused, I assume, regretting his answer, “actually, it kind of does.”
“It don’t mattah!  I need a chargah!  Any chargah will do.”
“Okay, just give me a minute, I have to find it,” he said with his mannered Midwestern drawl.
I had one hand on my charger.  If he came back this way, I was going to unplug it and hide it.  No way I’m lending my charger to this nut job.  Why?  So he has more time to slur into his phone and disturb the passengers in the train car?  Fuck that.  Plus, he didn’t have an iphone, and my charger wouldn’t work for him, despite his claim that “any charger worked” for his phone.  If you’re a thief, you suck at it, sir.
The train started, and he was on his phone, yelling at someone in a slurring and surly fashion, “what the fuck I tell ya.  Yo problem is ya don’t listen.”
I was torn between seeing how this played out and putting in my headphones and tuning it out for a nap.  He hung up his phone and turned to the hiker again.
“You fine ya chargah?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry.  Afraid not.  It’s probably buried in my big bag.”
Liar.  But smart.
“Well… you’s keep lookin’!”
It’s impossible not to judge someone who says, “you’s.”  Something Italian Long Islanders are very guilty of.
About five minutes later, “You fine that chargah?”
Jesus, this guy really doesn’t get it.  He’s crazy.  Delusional.
“Sorry, sir, I can’t find it.”
The man adjusted his baseball cap to the other side, and slouched in his seat, defeated.  He seemed to drift off to a nap, so I put in my headphones in and decided to do the same, as I watched the farms outside the window pass by me.

delusional
[dih-loo-zhuh-nl]
adjective
1.
having false or unrealistic beliefs or opinions:

2.
Psychiatry. maintaining fixed false beliefs even when confronted with facts, usually as a result of mental illness:

I had been fascinated with this idea of comics and delusion for months.  It became my regular poll when working with comics.  1. Are all comics delusional?  The answer was almost universally “yes.”  2. Can they become more delusional over time, or were they always that crazy?  That answered varied.

Comedy is game of inflating and deflating your ego.  If you decided to become a comic, you’re probably already delusional.  You almost have to be.  Especially in the beginning, because it takes years to get funny.  And to keep going on stage,  believing one day you’re going to “make it” is really pretty crazy.  So, the already unstable, and somewhat (if not ridiculously) out of proportion ego is faced with this constant swing of internal self doubt versus superman like confidence, plus the outside bullshit of others egos, and the industry, it’s likely to make a mad hatter, well… madder.

This is probably not shocking to anyone, but a lot of comics are batshit crazy (author of this blog included).  Some in a good way, some in a bad way.  There are plenty of comics who are totally insane, but they’re geniuses, and I admire them.  Then, there are plenty of comics who are so totally unbalanced, it’s hard to understand why they don’t understand that this is not the business for them.

Why am I obsessed with this?  Why have I been carefully observing, and conducting psychoanalysis of my fellow comics, as I sit quietly at the bar or in the green room?  Because I know I’m certifiable, and I’m wondering if that lunacy is just going to continue to fuel my creativity or if it will grow, like syphilis, and my brain will turn me into a deranged nutcase and when I talk to inanimate objects they’ll start answering me back.

Probably a simple answer would be to get a therapist.  Close friends, and people I barely know have suggested this.  But I’m delusional, remember?  Most of the time, I think I’m doing just fine.  Because most of the time, I am doing just fine.  Is that me talking?  Or the delusional me?  Plus, I’m broke.  I’ve good reason to believe I may become homeless by the end of this very year, crashing on people’s couches, who, for some reason, are invested in me and my (probably somewhat delusional) dreams.  Sometimes, I think, it’s only a matter of time before I get that writing gig.  Or I get that next TV credit.  Again, is this delusion or possibility?  Or both?  Oh, geez, now my head hurts and I’m upset.  What I’m saying is, both me becoming homeless, and me becoming successful seem to be both real possibilities and also a delusion.  Of course I won’t become homeless!  I’m smart!  I have a job.  I can make more money.  I’ve been through tough financial times before, but I’ve also fucked up before.  Of course I could be successful!  I’m smart!  I’m hard working and young.  Both extremes are real possibilities and both are delusions and I can’t handle contradictions, and my brain broke.  It literally broke.  Mentally, I was in this weird place I couldn’t pull myself out of:  Limbo, which is like depression’s sadistic cousin.  This, though, happened weeks ago.  Weeks before Chicago…

Maybe things will be better in Chicago.

I jolted awake, for a moment, thinking I was on the good ol’ Long Island Rail Road.   I had a dream about doing stand-up.  I’d been dreaming about comedy every night since I left New York.  It had been a week since I’d been on stage.  I extended my left arm, and winced in pain.  I went rock climbing the day before in Milwaukee, and pulled the left bicep, because when 30 feet up on a rock wall, I thought I had the capability to swing all my weight on my left arm, to grab a far rock with my right hand (delusional).  I couldn’t extend my arm without it shaking in pain.  I tried massaging it (which also hurt).  It had been years since I’ve been rock climbing and I forgot how much I loved it.  Rock climbing takes both physical and mental exertion, it’s like playing chess with your body and mind.  Like surfing, you have to be in the moment.  That’s why I loved it.  Everything else in your life doesn’t matter, because if you’re not in the moment, you’re going to fall.

Milwaukee is where my cousin moved to, and why I was there in the first place.  She used to live in NYC, grew up on Long Island, around the corner from my family.  She’s older, and blazed the trail of being a single, career driven woman in our traditional Catholic family before I started goofing off with ideas of having a comedy career.  And we’re close.

My Milwaukee plans were pretty simple: drink beer, eat cheese, spend time with my cousin.  All were done, perhaps the beer and cheese a little too much so.  Milwaukee is a bit of a dull city for my taste.  The streets are empty, and it’s creepy.  Like a zombie movie.  No people walking amongst the sidewalks of the buildings.  No traffic.  The lack of anxiety gave me anxiety.  Shouldn’t people be more distressed and overwrought?  My cousin, however, was done with New York.  While New York is my first love, and even being away for less than 24 hours, I already missed it, I could easily see how someone could tire of the continual chaos of the Big Apple.  My cousin was adjusting, but happy in Milwaukee.

“I feel like we didn’t do that much,” my cousin had said, as I was about to leave.
What was there to do?   Besides drink beer and eat cheese, which, to my surprise, you can get sick of!  But truth is, if we were in New York, where there’s activities aplenty, we’d just be drinking wine at one of our homes, talking about our jobs, hopes, fears, and crazy family.  That’s all I wanted to do: Spend time with someone who understands who I am and where I come from.  There seems to be less and less of those people in my life.

I tried booking gigs in Milwaukee, but was unsuccessful.  I thought, no bother.  Usually, anytime I travel anywhere, I revolve it around gigs.  For once, couldn’t I stop being a needy stage time whore, and just spend time with someone I care for and missed?  But every night I was there, I had a dream about going on stage or being in the green room comics.  Even the days before I left for Milwaukee, my New York gigs were canceled.  I didn’t want a break from comedy.  It just sort of happened that way, but I thought, maybe, it was for the best.  I was feeling burnt out.  In limbo.  Just before I left, I bitched to one of my friends about how it was draining me.  If comedy was a normal job, I’d feel like I deserve a promotion at this point.  If comedy was a regular job, I’m storm into my bosses office and tell him/her to fuck off if they wouldn’t give me a raise.  But there was no one to tell to fuck off.  Except myself.  The delusion was eating at me from both ends.  I didn’t want a break from comedy, but maybe I needed it?  Maybe a little time off would be good for my stupid crazy brain?  Anger is the path to the dark side.  The dark side is a bitter comic.  I have a good life, I told myself.  I promised myself years ago, if I become bitter, I quit.  That’s it.  It’s over.  It can be okay to be delusional.  Delusional and bitter?  That’s not okay.  That can never be me.  Please, don’t ever let that be me.

I enjoyed Milwaukee, and seeing my cousin, but like a junky trying to quit smack, I was having user dreams, dreaming about comedy.  Dreaming about how good it felt.  Dreaming about how fucking frustrating it is.   Son of bitch.  Get me a goddamn drink.  Fight addiction with substance.  That’s healthy, right?  I had a dream I was on Conan.  Then, the next night, I had a dream I was homeless.  What are dreams but brief delusional realities while we sleep?

In Chicago, the windy city, I had gigs lined up.  Also, I would be staying with an old friend whom I also cared for and missed.  She also grew up on Long Island, and then lived in New York City.  She was also older, and someone I had looked up to and admired in my teens.  She moved to Chicago before my cousin moved to Milwaukee, and when they left NYC, I lost all (both) normal friends I had in the city (“normal” in my world does not refer to normal people.  It refers to someone who is not in comedy.  I don’t hang around normal people at all).

When the train pulled up in Chicago, I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was going, and found myself on the streets on downtown Chicago.  Ah, yes.  People!  Traffic!  This is more my speed.  Chicago is like a not as congested, less overwhelming New York.  Also, it doesn’t smell like piss!  Also a plus!  Note: both Milwaukee and Chicago (and pretty much every city I’ve ever been to) are so much cleaner than New York.  Geez, why can’t we stop littering?  It’s so simple, and it makes our city gross.  Get your shit together, New Yorkers.

My friend had work, so I had a few hours to kill.  Which is no problem.  When you’re a writer, there’s nothing you look forward to more than killing time.  I have notebooks, and an 800 page novel I was reading in my suitcase.  The only thing is I have baggage… literal baggage (I have figurative baggage too).  I didn’t want to drag my suitcase around Chicago, so I googled famous Chicago places, and the Berghoff, an old bar which served during the prohibition era, was just up the block.  Done.

I grabbed a stool at the bar, and it was quiet, and old fashioned.  It was perfect.  They checked my ID, I ordered a drink, and pulled out a notebook and started to write.  I could feel eyes on me.  One of the many great things about New York, is you can write anywhere, and no gives a shit. I’ve found, in any other place, people are a bit weary.  What is she writing down over there?  They suddenly become self conscious.  It’s funny to me.  I drank and wrote, and people watched, until my friend go off her job, then we drank some more, and filled each other in on our recent life changes.

We headed back to her apartment, and I was already properly tipsy (remember, I had a few drinks during those time killing hours).  Her apartment was quaint, and though bigger than my studio, it reminded me of home.  The walls were painted off white, the molding was white, with layers and layers of paint over the years.  The floors of the old building squeaked, the door knobs jingled, and she had a pile of books about murders, The Beatles, and reads about dealing with anxiety.  Her refrigerator was empty, save for some eggs, a couple of stale pieces of bread, and milk.   We’ve been good friends a long time, but even I didn’t realize how similar we were.  Her apartment was minimalist, like, well… a traveling comic.

We basically ditched my bag then went out to a bar for some grub and more drinks.  The bar was playing The Nightmare Before Christmas, which was enough to make me like it.  After that, we moved to another bar, which happened to be a gay bar (the last one was too, this was the Greenwich village of Chicago?  I made that up.  The fuck if I should know).

I had two gigs set up for the following night (Wednesday), which happened to coincide with the Cubs game, and the Blackhawk/Rangers opening.  Guess what?  Both gigs got canceled.  In New York, certain sports events hurts turn out, that’s for sure.  But in the Midwest, that shit just gets canceled.  I have a series of rules I live by, which I’ve developed over the course of my adult life, and following them helps me manage anxiety.  First rule: DO NOT GET UPSET OVER THINGS YOU CANNOT CONTROL.  It’s the most important, and the one I struggle with the most.  Still, I was upset.  I think the last time I went this long without being on stage was over two years ago, when I was laid up in the hospital after almost bleeding to death because of my tonsillectomy.  If I were superstitious, I’d think the comedy universe was telling me to quit.  Superstition, however, is delusion.

Well… here’s the thing.  I’m in Chicago, a city which I’ve never been, I’m with a close friend, who I almost never see, and life’s short, so fuck it.  My tour was becoming less of a comedy tour and more of a nomad’s trip, finding shelter, food, and drink, wherever I could.  But you know what?  That’s not so bad.  I could think of worse ways to spend my time.  I always kind of liked the idea of being a nomad.  I’m a writer… I fancy time alone and exploring new places.  It’s kind of my thing.

At the second bar, I’m already wasted.  We order drinks, and this handsome young man says something to us, but I’ll be damned if I remember, and that has less to do with my alcohol consumption and more to do with his thick Russian accent.  We looked over in his direction, laugh, then go back to our conversation.  So, he moves to the seat next to me and says, “can I be with you guys, I am all alone.”
“Sure,” my friend says, “what’s your name?”
“Tim,” he said, which sounded like Teem.
Tim then told us he had surrogate children.  We did not ask.  He showed us pictures.  They were twin boys.  We asked about his husband, and he said they were living together but separated, which caused problems with him and his new boyfriend.  When asked why he doesn’t go back to Russia, he said, “I am gay!”
Tim was our source for entertainment for some time.  The more we talked to him, the more he seemed to be crazy.  You know, delusional.  He asked if we were married, and we said yes.  We enjoyed referring to one another as “my wife” for the next hour or so.  I’m not sure Tim was 100% gay, since he kissed me on the side of my mouth when my wife wasn’t looking.  At some point, we decided we had to get away from this guy, and ditched him, heading to the bar across the street.  I suspect he was looking for us, and later in the night, we saw him as he was leaning on a parking sign, arms spread open like he was on front of the Titanic or something.

The following day, I was (surprisingly) not hung over.  I was on my own to explore the city.  I first went to Millennium park (which, I kept calling millennial park, which is something an entitled millennial would do).  I saw the famous bean, and as soon as I got close, I had to urge to clean it.  Jesus, Lori.  Can’t you just enjoy things?  No, no I can’t.

I wandered around, watching the people, and taking in the sites.  There was an awesome rock climbing wall there I got the itch to do, despite my still sore arm.  I did a mobster tour, because, I wanted to see all the places where people were whacked, and died horrible, bloody deaths.   I love gangsters.  Got to see the cathedral Hymie Weiss was gunned down in front of, the alley way John Dillinger was gunned down, and the site of the St. Valentines Day massacre.  I played the bloody historic moments in my mind, satisfying my sick lust for violence.

I was hungry, and went for some Chicago deep dish pizza.  Chicago’s pizza taste like a pizza I made in middle school home-EC class.  This is not a compliment.  Now, I really missed New York.

I checked out the Navy Pier, then met my friend back at her apartment where we watched the Rangers play the Blackhawks.  It was better we didn’t go out.  Not just for my wallet, but if I continued drinking, I probably would have been a dick to Blackhawk fans on their home turf.  Which is never a good call.  Still, I wish I had been performing.

Thursday was my last day in Chicago.  I went for a walk down by the water, which is teal blue, and it reminded me of Hawaii.  It was hot, as I walked along and I thought about jumping in.  I passed one man, who told me, “you don’t always see a girl as pretty as you,” which made me uncomfortable.  Then, I passed a black man who snarled at me, “get the fuck out of my way cracker.”  Honestly, I should have been scared, but I was more shocked.  I continued walking, until another guy yelled out for me, “excuse me,” he said, “you have a nice day.”

That’s it.  I headed back to my friends place, where I just did some writing.  That night, I had a show.  The audience was great, and while I felt a bit rusty, it was a blast.  Like sticking a needle in my still sore arm, I got my fix.

In the morning, I bid farewell to my friend, and I decided to save money I would train it down to Gary, Indiana, then take a cab to the hotel which was about 20 minutes south of Gary.  You may not know this, but I did, and this is why I’m an idiot (I know writing this, I’m going to get yelled at by several people, I deserve it, so feel free): In the 90’s Gary Indiana was the murder capital of the United States (I know this because I’m obsessed with violence and like to look up crime statistics on the regular).  It’s better now, but it’s still a crime ridden city (actually, two weeks ago, I flew into Saginaw, Michigan which is in the current top 5 most dangerous cities, the gig however was elsewhere).  When I got off the train, even the conductor gave me a look like, “are you sure?”  But I have a tendency to be fearless when I should have fear, and feel terrified in completely normal (usually social) situations. I guess I pictured the train station to be like every stop on the LIRR (including the sketchy ones), where there would be guys lined up, saying, “taxi, taxi.”  There were no such taxi’s.  Not one.  There were some people at the station, and even they looked at me like, “what are you doing here?”  There was on Uber 9 minutes away.  I quickly summoned it.  For the next nine minutes, I pretended I was talking to someone on the phone.  I was scared, and I hated myself.  It was so ghetto and so run down.  I’m going to die here.  This is where I die.  A delusion, probably, but I’m not easily frightened, and I had to contradict my own fears and say to myself: this is not how you die.  This is not when you die.  You die in 2026.  Another delusion, inspired by an unexplained phone call from the future.  Still, I had visions of myself getting stabbed to death.  Perfect, the violence obsessed girl dies violently. The Uber pulled up, and I was relieved, but my heart was still racing.  Gary, Indiana was worse than I thought, as we drove out of there.  Every house looked like a crack house.  I was so happy to be out of there.  It was not worth the money I saved.

(I am not exaggerating when I say every house looked like this in Gary.)

The hotel in Merrillville was nice, and Wisecrackers was a lot of fun, both nights.  I found the name kind of ironic after the man in Chicago tried to insult me by calling me a cracker.  I felt loose, and fresh on stage.  I had fun.  Maybe I did need a little break.  I was excited to go back to New York.  I managed to stay within my budget (much of this is thanks to the generosity of my cousin and my friend).  I couldn’t wait to be home, especially to my bed.  Ah, New York, where the high paced anxiety actually quelled my anxiety, and the pizza is real, I’d deal with my problems, personal and financial, face to face, real or delusional.

I had to return to Chicago, in the wee hours of Sunday morning for a 6am flight.  When the plane took off, the sun was just starting to rise.  It was stunning.  A blaze of fire across the horizon, which faded into different colors just about to turn the dark sky blue.  That’s when I remembered something.  “That sun, it’s not really there,” Neil DeGrasse Tyson had said on one of my favorite shows, The Cosmos, “It won’t actually be above the horizon for another two minutes. Sunrise is an illusion. Earth’s atmosphere bends the incoming rays, like a lens or a glass of water.”  It almost took my breath away, just how beautiful an illusion can be.