Cold temperatures rock Chicago’s homeless population, as O’Hare International Airport clocked in at minus 3 degrees early Thursday morning. I headed down to Lower Wacker loaded with some awesome baked goods and sandwiches that were donated for me to pass out. I also wanted to check on Phil to see how he was holding up in this round of bitter cold.
Taking my usual route through the downtown alleyways, I noticed that few people were sleeping in their usual quarters. In this stretch of alley which is often sprinkled with bedrolls, only BB remained, hunkered down in his deluxe brown-box shelter. This is BB’s third winter living on the streets.
Only those most dedicated to their addictions were out-and-about down on Lower Wacker. John was by himself, as Ciera apparently had gone into a treatment center the night before. This was good news, as I know she’s been wanting off junk in a serious way.
John said he’d rather be on Lower Wacker in the sub-zero rather than in a warm treatment center. He loves junk that much. One grows oddly accustomed to the madness while living on the streets. At first, panhandling is an embarrassing experience; and then, in not so long a time, any lingering sense of pride slowly gives way to the nagging impulse of addiction. It’s that China White that calls these suburban Crackers into angry Afro villages…
Phil, was nowhere to be found…
