//My Salinger Morning//

It began when I realized how I must have slept with my mouth open, because I had chapped lips. Nothing painful, just sort of a rough, crackly feeling, like those pictures you see in National Geographic of dried up desert ground, all cracked and sober. 

I was lying on my back on the mattress crammed under my roommates bed. I must have already hit the snooze a half dozen times. I didn't know what time it was, nor did I care much. Its was Saturday, and there was nothing I really needed to care about. 

Like any other Saturday morning when I lie awake on my mattress crammed under my roommates bed, I began my day scheming what I would do with the few hours left in the day, because I probably slept half of them away already. This morning I schemed about where to get a decent cup of coffee. Should I make the twenty minute hike to one of those gourmet cafes that I enjoy so much, or should I just go to a Starbucks, and use the card my Pops gave me with money on it. I don't know. I love scheming in the morning. It gives me some kind of feeling of control of my life. That's probably because I can live my entire day in my mind, with my eyes closed, lying on my mattress crammed under my roommates bed. And, at the end of my day in my minds eye, if I feel like living it out for real, I'll roll off my mattress, onto the rough industrial carpet of my rooms floor, give myself a good grunt to ensure I'm still a man, and rise up off my hands a knees and lumber off to the bathroom to brush my teeth. That's what I did this morning.

After the bathroom, I started thinking of what to wear. Chicago is a damn bitter place in the winter, and if you don't layer appropriately, you can bet yourself that you'll hardly make it a block walking before you start regretting sacrificing being warm for looking nice. Ah, what do I care. 

I imagine, with my slightly narcissistic whims, that I looked like something of a disheveled, pissed off Old World sailor walking down the street, wearing my leather boots, brick red cords, grey sweater over a plaid flannel, black peacoat, and tweed Kangol flatcap that I found in the street a coupla weeks ago. My silver hoop earring probably gave a nice flourish too, like I'd taken up with some gypsies some time ago, and some remnant of that carefree lifestyle still clings to me. It sure as hell does.

Anyways, I walked over to what I call the Royal Rush Starbucks, with a battered copy of "Catcher in the Rye" stuffed in my left pocket. Royal Rush is a nice little spot. It's two stories tall, with the more corporate feeling cafe on the first floor, and a more cozy, lounge style cafe on the second. I climbed the concrete stairs, much like my Pops would, two or three stairs at a time. It took a little while to adjust to the crazy haphazard array of chairs (mostly full of people) and ottomans and coffee tables, but I found a spot. I ordered a Clover made cup of Indonesian Isla Flores, and sank into my chair and pulled out my book. I'd ordered a tall, but the barista brought over a grande. I don't know if I got charged for a tall or for a grande, and I don't care. Why take the time to care? Just wasted seconds, thats what that is.

Five chapters and a cup of coffee later, I realize that I like the book, I can relate to the main character on several levels, and that while Salinger's writing is unique and quite personable, it is a little too unabashedly vulgar for my more particular taste. Guys like Steinbeck can portray the common man well, with all their little unrefinements, but Salinger can't hide the fact that he is one of those common men. Ah, whatever. Its a good book, I like it so far, and I can deal with the crude bluntness of his style. 

Gosh I like being alone. I feel like I can't think when everyone around me is saying hi and giving me those half nods that guys give and constantly asking me how I'm doing. Five chapters and a cup of coffee later really worked a magic on me, and I feel good. I packed up my things, took my empty cup back to the bar, and left. I took the long way back to school, working the stiffness out of my long legs that accrued from sitting perfectly still for the two hours I was reading. Theres a good sign for ya. If you have to stretch and loosen yourself up after reading, you must like the book. Gosh I like being alone. 

I walked down Rush to Chicago, my bare hands out of my pockets. The rest of me was thankful to be so bundled, but my hands were hot and thirsted after the cold. Anyways, as I walked I saw a homeless man standing in the middle of the sidewalk, a cup in his hand, asking for money from the passer-byers. This neighborhood is full of the wealthy elite, shopping at Prada or Barnes New York. The rich elite who don't give a rat's ass about the needy. Hell, I'm a needy. So, you Prada snobs, get your noses outta the sky and give a needy man a buck for lunch. That's how I feel anyways. I think that the needy are helped out most by other needy's. I don't usually have cash in my wallet, cause the whole world is going plastic, but when I do, its usually in dollar bills. I was a rich man today, and had a lonesome George in my fold. As I approached him, he kept saying over and over, even as I slowed, stopped, and pulled out my leather, "Spare some change, sir, for some lunch, sir, spare some change for some food, sir, spare some change..." Over and over, as if he expected me to not stop and share with him my fortune as a fellow needy. Damn it, I wish I had more. I wish I could have thrown my arm around him, said, "Grandpa, you'll never be a needy again. Come with me. Lets go get some lunch." But all I had was a dollar, and a huge school bill to handle. Here's a dollar, grandpa, good luck. 

I strode back to campus with the feeling of complete serenity hanging low over my lanky, Old Sailor body. Ah, its good to be alive. And to not care what time it is. And to be alone for a time with my thoughts. Gosh, I hope that old homeless man does alright in this bitter cold. 

"How long should a man's legs be? Long enough to touch the ground." - J.D. Salinger

Here's to keeping my legs on the ground. Here's to my fellow needy's, my brothers on the street, my grandfathers bumming for change.

Chicago. It's my kind of town.

Good morning.