Frank Mort Jr.
 
 

Simon City,
Chicago

 
 

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(Page 1 of 6)          It was an extremely hot and humid night on August 11th, 1965. I was at Whipple St. and Cortland Av., on Chicago’s near Northwest side. I was afoot transporting an ice cold, frosty 6 pack of beer in a brown paper bag that was too bantam for the severely saturated stout sum inside. The paper bag containing the beer was tight around the edges and corners, with slight tears. The beer was sweating with moisture more than I was.  There was a mayor’s complaint against our neighborhood. What we called turf, chiefly our corner. This provided the uniformed Gestapo (Chicago Police) and the KGB, the not in uniform (Chicago Police Detectives), the authorization to totally circumvent all of our civil rights in the appellation of justice. They did not observe laws against search and seizure or unlawful detention for that matter. The pigs were continuously around harassing us for no reason at all. Sometimes they had a reason. We would drop a dime in the phone to inform the police that a fight between rival gang members was in progress on the corner of Whipple St. and Cortland Av. This is where we were hanging out. We hoped they would surface and chase us. We did this at that exact moment, because we were ennuyé with nothing to do and zero money for booze. This particular night we held money for aqua vitae. I was carrying the beer. Wouldn’t you know it, a squad roll (paddy wagon) was driving by and they seen me. They initiated to flash their lights, beep the horn robustly and vigorously, and sound the siren. I screamed to myself louder than the siren "big fucking deal, I will just swing this paper bag with the cold 6 pack inside, onto a nearby garage roof and bring into being the reality that they were tremendous dolts and corpulent overblown fat ass pigs." I gave it a couple of exemplary skillful swings. As you surmised on the 3rd and ultimate final swing, by virtue of the bag being so wet from the moisture of the beer within, the bag lacerated and each can jetted in different directions throughout the entire Epicurean expansive alley. This was extremely embarrassing for me and caused egg do-do all over my ego for many years.  They caused me to gather and harvest every can. Each and every time I hunched from higher to lower, to collect a beer can, they kicked me in my ass. Six separate and painful times this took place. They laughed so severely that they started to cry, tears rolled down their fat cheeks. The most titanic of the hogs pissed his pants. Officer Wetpant’s compatriot aggrandized his own chortle instantaneously when his comrade "Officer Drenched Drawers" conferred him with the enhanced evil eye stare.             These pigs said that they would allow me to slide on this and grant me the freedom to vacate the location for other premises on the premise of no real evidence. But they needed to confiscate the evidence (our beer) and dispose of it in the proper manner. My opinion was that this was more than fair, as there would be no contact with my folks. At no time have I seen these guys that amiable!  Later, we procured more libations and went up on the railroad tracks on Bloomingdale Av., a beloved hang out of ours. Low and behold, who was up there celebrating with our grog and firing at the empty cans? The same pigs who kicked my ass. What bullshit! This was not Primer or Blatz beer; this was Michelob, the champagne of bottled beer. It was over $1.65 for a 6 pack. At least they sanctioned us the possession of our smokes. If they had swiped my Marlboros, another 35 cents would have been added to the tab and brought the total to two bucks.  Soon beer was not a powerful enough high for a majority of us. Beer did not get us stoned fast enough. We graduated to the same beverages the Madison Street Winos consumed; Muscatel wine, Dark Port wine, or Light Port wine with Kool-Aid grape powder inside. I cannot forget Richard’s Wild Irish Rose. A concoction that I want to forget is Clan-Dew. It is whiskey and wine mixed together. When we wanted a buzz at a breakneck pace, Clan-Dew was the brew for the Simon City crew.      end of page 1

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  (c)Frank Mort Jr. 2003