Jim Talbert Whistling in Chicago: "The Birth"

SKETCH 1: APARTMENT

SKETCH 2: SWITCHYARD

CHAPTER 1

THE BEGINNING

T he difference of social status can be subtle, or as abrupt as night and day. Furthermore, it is the basis for the existence and activities of our everyday lives, with experiences being the real variable.

The candles burn, they cast a glow on the wall behind them. The wax has melted down the shaft. It seems like the candles don’t burn like they used to, often burning for less than four hours. They are functional rather than ornamental for some.

Wealthy people are seeking old Victorian Bed and Breakfasts, haunted motels, ghost towns; the good ones are commercialized by businessmen. They own fashionable expensive ships, rebuilt with state of the art toys and gadgets, a sign of wealth and heightened social status. These are the realities that are often overlooked, or taken for granted, depending on which side of this social divide you fall under.

My name is Jim Talbert, and I go to work every day at Wallace Butcher Shop. It’s located on the corner of South Wabash Avenue and East Thirteenth Street in Chicago, just a few blocks from Millennium Park. It’s a large, quiet park on the nowadays seldom used waterfront. In the old days, it was a place for frequent social gatherings of all types. Now it’s a place where few people visit and even less people use. I go there sometimes after work and watch the sunset.

I put in my forty plus hours a week, but not really for the money. You see, I get financial compensation from both the Army for my military service and social security. I am driven to keep my mind busy, to keep my sanity from sheer boredom. They tell me it’s very common for those suffering from Acute PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, with which I have been diagnosed. I’ll explain in more detail as I go on. Let’s just say… . being a combat veteran is hard on the mental and physical levels of everyday living.

My apartment is like many others in the city; small, broken old furniture, and light bulbs without shades. The building is nearly a hundred years old, made of red brick, and with the usual fire escapes in the rear. The only relief from the heat is the small window you are forced to keep open. You now have an insight of where I where I live and where I work.

Here’s a little about me… . I am in my forties. My body shows obvious signs of wear and tear from military time served. The skin on my face is wrinkled, along with elsewhere. I tire easily, and sometimes, anger quicker. My physical condition, and my mental, will become more and more evident as the story unfolds. However, my hair is grey, but still on my head. I am 6 ft, 215 lbs, and some might even say I look pretty good for my age.

Unfortunately, looks aren’t everything because I think God had my number from the start. In 1997, I was diagnosed with Degenerative Spine Disease. It’s a condition where your spine basically erodes faster than the years you’re aging. To simplify the explanation, I am forty two years old with a sixty two year old spine. My PTSD is a parting gift from old Uncle Sam, except you can’t return it… . not even with a receipt. As for working, it’s not that I really need the money, but it does help. It keeps my mind busy and makes me feel I have a purpose, as minor as it may seem. In addition, Mr. Wallace pays me under the table, so I can still collect my disability pay from the Army.

Psychologically, to make matters worse, the Army has me on a gag order. Basically, it means that I can’t talk about what I did for the military to anyone, at least I’m not supposed to. Regardless, my nightmares still haunt me. Why can’t they put them on a damn gag order? It sickens me that I invested twenty years of killing and I can’t talk to anyone about it. Some subjects are so secret that I can’t even tell my shrink in a one on one session. I mean, how can I get help if I can’t talk about what’s bothering me? How can I step around something like that? I wonder if the President even thought or cared about us when he signed the gag order. He probably didn’t even consider how our minds go on reliving the nightmares in our heads. He doesn’t give a shit if we sleep at night.

I mean, he didn’t pull the fucking trigger, I did. Hell, I can go to jail if I said anything else. But to be totally honest, I really don’t give a shit anymore. Besides, it’s totally irrelevant because my story starts after the wars, the physical wars, anyway. Then again, the mind never lets you really leave the battle field; and I must apologize for my momentary ranting. It may happen from time to time… .

It’s late and, once again, I cannot sleep. I hear sirens, screams, and the occasional gun fire. I look out my third story window at the multimillion dollar mansions on the mountainside far away, just over the Chicago River. As for me, I live at 1302 South Clark Street, one building before West Eighteenth Street. I trust you remember the description from earlier to demonstrate the size of my small apartment. All I have to do is raise my head a foot or two to view the mansions from my bed. I reach over and can almost reach the door knob from the same bed. Like I said earlier, it’s a small apartment.

Even though I’ve lived here for more than a few years, the commonality still blows my mind. The Chicago upper class and the so-called psychopathic lower class separation settings are like many I’ve seen before. The upper class resides away from these yells, screams, and gun shots. On some nights, I pray for a constant traffic of trains from the West Loop to help drown out the screams; while on the other hand, the upper class has the ability to escape them by merely shutting their doors and windows. The mansions are huge and always well lit. On some nights, it seems you can almost reach out and touch them. This familiar social status is something everyone strives for, often at almost any cost. Me, I just want peace and quiet. I would also like to find a way for my mind to forget the war.

I suddenly feel a draft and look down at my feet sticking out from under the covers. I instantly yell in anger, You mother fuckers, listen to me!!

I raise my head and look up at the mansions on the hill, not a single light comes on; they are, as usual, not listening. Sometimes, I really feel compelled to do something to make them listen. But what can I do? I’m just another lonely veteran. I feel helpless to do anything. I work at the local butcher shop, cleaning, and occasionally helping cut the meat. And sometimes, Mr. Wallace feels bad for me and lets me take meat home.

Mr. Wallace is a nice old man with a kind and gentle heart. More than once, I’ve seen him sell more than a pound of meat for the price of a pound. I’ve also seen him sell meat at a sale price that didn’t exist minutes prior. And on Friday, he donates a hundred pounds of fresh meat to a homeless shelter to feed the hungry. He is bald, not even close to six feet tall, and often has a hard time walking around the store. I can tell his back is killing him by the look in his tired eyes, and his right leg seems to go almost numb in the late afternoons. I can tell this by an obvious limp that he tries to hide. However, he continues to smile and laugh whenever possible, especially at himself. And, he always seems to have a joke ready for any occasion.

He has a set routine that he follows every day. He unlocks the doors, opens the shades, and gets the coffee pot of free coffee for the customers ready right away. And, he is happy doing just that. He whistles while doing this and smiles to everyone who enters the store. He is always ready to give them an uplifting compliment to start their day.

I, on the other hand, do not have the same routine, such as walking to work. I do this because the military has trained me to alter my route to avoid the enemy. But, each route does have a couple of things in common. They make it easy to spot possible threats at any given location. And, they provide no places where someone could catch you off guard even if they wanted to. One route I follow the most is West Eighteenth Street to South Dearborn, then to West Sixteenth Street, and then to South State Street. I follow this busy street all the way to East Thirteenth Street, then one block down to the butcher shop. Or I can take more than a dozen combinations. The point being, we are both different, yet we get along.

I remember when he gave me the job, even though he really didn’t need me. He even gave me the job knowing of my Acute PTSD; all he said was to make sure I took my medications to avoid any problems. One day, out of the blue, he told me he felt a little safer when I was there. I don’t know if it was because of my PTSD or my military training, but we were talking about both of them at the time. He smiled when he asked me how many people I had killed. I have no idea what answer people are looking for . . . . It seems they’re looking to validate something within themselves, depending on my answer. I’m afraid I’ll never figure this little mystery out. Then again, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it either. Regardless, I agreed to tell him a little more than most about my military adventures since he had been so kind to me. It’s a strange feeling to me that he frequently calls me a hero, while other people that find out I was a sniper call me a heartless killer. Some people even think I am a threat to society, ready to snap and go on a killing spree at any moment.

One day I was forced to change my shirt because of the incredible heat that day. Mr. Wallace noticed the rather large tattoo of a cobra snake that I have on my back. One question led to another, and I told him that I was called Snake in the Special Forces. He seemed to get a real thrill from this fact! His eyes lit up and he was instantly interested in my other tattoos as well. I have a Gargoyle on my right shoulder and the Right Eye of Horus on my left arm; both are custom designs by me and hold special meaning. The Gargoyle is what they called our unit, you’ll get that story later; and the Eye of Horus is a Pagan religious symbol.

At first it bothered me when he called me Snake, but it got easier over time. However, I respectfully had to ask him not to call me Snake in front of customers. I felt it would bring unwanted questions that I didn’t want to answer, especially to a perfect stranger. After all, to me, they were strangers. Besides, it’s kind of like an intimate nickname that a wife or husband may share. You don’t want everybody to know about it. He readily agreed and it was never a problem. I don’t even like it when my girlfriend calls me Snake.

Mr. Wallace would often say to me, Ah, you’ll always be Snake to me. I’m too old to remember anything else. It was almost always followed by loud laughter as he walked away. I really have no idea why he’ll always remember me as Snake… . I guess he had his reasoning. I respect a snake in that it is silent, has strength, and always watches its environment. And, it would never attack unless provoked or threatened. These attributes are a sign of honor, integrity, and the discipline of a strong mind. He would also often tell me, Snake, take some ribs home, and some T-bones. I have too much to sell and they’ll go bad in a few days. However, like I said, he never called me Snake in front of the customers.

But I see the dates on the meat and I know that they are quite fresh. I take them and let him think what he wants to. I honestly have an enormous amount of respect for him and believe he may have been one of the last honorable men alive that I knew. He showed compassion, caring, and always put others before himself. He truly cared for the community and the people around him. I mean, it wasn’t like he made lots of extra cash. However, he donated the meat every Friday, without ever missing one whether he made money that week or not. You may be asking what I mean by honorable… . You see, true honor lies within the soul of a man. It is in everything he does and says, and in every thought he has. True honor is undeniable and above questioning. And these things Mr. Wallace did showed the true soul of this man. One day, I could see a wedding band on his finger. I could also tell it’s been rarely removed, if ever. I thought about asking him about his wife several times. But for some odd reason, I assumed she passed away and I saw no reason to bring it up, so I didn’t.

As for me, I find it hard to fully describe myself. However, for some people, I guess the brief description I gave earlier may not be sufficient. So, to conclude me, I am slightly muscular, stubborn, and I have blue eyes. My weight actually bounces around two hundred and two fifteen. I usually look and feel tired, like I said earlier. My girlfriend says I look like George Clooney, for what it’s worth. However, I think it’s far more important what lies within a person than what is seen from the outside. I’ve known some beautiful people that turned out to be very ugly on the inside when they said a word. We’ll get to that little personal insight more as the story goes on.

As you might have guessed, most nights I just look out my window at the busy street below. I see the drug pusher selling crack, the prostitutes being pushed around by the pimps, gang members harassing couples trying to walk, transvestitism… . I can go on and on. And you know, it doesn’t surprise me that nobody is trying to do anything about it. The fact is that this is Chicago and this particular neighborhood is not known for being overly friendly. In my opinion, I think time has forgotten this part of us, in a lot of ways. I mean, most of the buildings are the common simple red brick with the same-sized windows on all four sides. The presence of balconies is nearly non-existent, with the exception of the high-end penthouses on a few newer buildings. To further make the social divide clear, the newer buildings are on the outskirts of the central apartments. They sit between where I live, and the mansions I mentioned earlier. From my window, I can only see one of these buildings through the always present dense smog and haze below the hillside. I know it’s new because it has a bright new awning over the front entrance. My building only has a single lit neon sign saying entrance, over the door leading to the staircase, which flickers when moisture gets around the connection. The name of the apartments burned out years ago. It’s also not uncommon to see at least one homeless person lying just inside the door. Sometimes, I get two cups of coffee from the machine recessed under the stairs; one of them is for whoever is there that cold night. It’s a gesture that goes mostly unnoticed, not that I care.

Regarding transportation, it’s not really safe to walk, but I guess if you don’t mind the occasional robbery it’s the easiest way to get around. The subway and the busses can be worse for crime, because you literally have nowhere to go. The required metal retractable bars in the front adorn most all of the stores when they’re not open. There are dozens of dark alleys that are used for whatever during the day and the drug addicts shooting chemicals into their veins by night. They are also used for the hookers to service their tricks, or for their tricks to get rolled. I can’t even imagine the rapes or murders that have occurred. It only fuels my anger to think how, sometimes, they have the nerve to treat me like I’m some kind of murderer. Then again, I chalk it up to their ignorance and try to let it go at that.

Even me, who lives in this shit hole, try to forget that part of this hell. I guess a lot of the descriptions I could give you go unnoticed even by my eyes; I guess I’ve lived here too long to see it anymore. I see it mostly as just a bunch of old buildings on each side of the street, where most people like me pay way too much money for an apartment that was probably condemned years ago. But, everyone needs a place to live. And to add insult to injury, most of them feel trapped in these tiny apartments, trapped into paying too much for rent; and a prisoner, unable to get away from all these fucking idiots in the street.

Personally, I find it nice to walk a little at night, despite having to kick a little ass once in a while to either protect myself or another who is unable to do so. At first, they just seemed to run away. However, in the past year it seems I’ve had to use stronger and stronger methods to deter the violence. Regardless, no punk ass bitch is going to keep me from doing what I want to. For this reason, I’ve had a few confrontations. I think the fact that I have to use a cane to comfortably walk, I guess they may think I’m too weak to kick ass if I have. The cane is a lure for the dumb ass punks, but the fact that it has a hidden weapon inside is my little secret. So, I have been forced to give a few of the punks some time in the county hospital to ponder this very idea. I guess over time I might have gained a slight reputation to stay out of my way. However, many years ago, I made a promise to myself to use fighting as a last resort, and I have. On the other hand, if they start it, I am sure in the hell going to finish it hard and quick.

Don’t get me wrong, even I have gotten involved when I’ve seen that people might be seriously hurt. For me, it really comes down to a trained reaction more than a willing action, due to my Special Forces training. You see, the thing is that my back disease demands certain considerations in these matters. Then again, my training tells me to react, disregarding any feeling of pain or fear. I’m sure how these two contradicting schools of thought could play havoc with the mind. The fact is that I felt so much stronger in the war. I felt like I had a purpose. It was to simply kill the bad guy that I was ordered to, sometimes but not always, in the other uniform. Political targets or non-associated casualties, which we tried desperately to avoid, were often in civilian clothing or hidden from view. The fact was that he was just wearing a different color, my assigned target, or I was ordered to perform a task that initiated someone getting hurt. And for this, I was thanked by some, spit on by others, and forgotten by our government.

Today, I continually think how it would be so easy to have the fucking criminals in the street below in my sights and pull the trigger, but they walk around as though people should be in awe of their very presence. I like to say they are fucking vermin, for lack of a better term. However, for lending a helping hand in their pitiful extermination, I will be put in prison and deemed a criminal no better than them. It makes me angry that I would even be put in the same category as them! As far as I’m concerned, they have no honor, integrity… . or fought to maintain the freedom they take for granted in this great country.

Okay… . let me get back to my story, to the last time that I went to work, because that is the most sensible place to start, in my opinion, anyway. I believe you’ll see why in a few quick pages.

The alarm rings in my head at 5 A.M., a conditioning I can’t get rid of from the days in the military. I roll out of my worn mattress, start my coffee pot, and stretch. My sweat drenched t-shirt and boxer shorts cling to my body. I think about the same thing that I was thinking about last night. Secretly, I was hoping something had changed in the night. But, the activity is the same on the streets below, same fucking damn scum doing the same fucking damn shit. I get my coffee and my first cigar of the day and sit by the window. Mentally, I try to put myself in a comfortable, peaceful place. I think about seeing the ocean and feeling the cool breeze. Then again, not having the same reoccurring nightmare would be nice, also. I finish my coffee and browse the cabinets for food. I have never gotten into breakfast, even though I hear it’s the most important meal of the day. Then again, I can always count on Mr. Wallace for a pastry when he comes in. I get dressed, shave, all the things that have been brainwashed into me by Uncle Sam, and I lock the door as I leave. I don’t really know why, I have nothing that anyone would want to take, not even a television. I leave my building and subconsciously instantly put on my Don’t Fuck With Me mask for the entire bunch of misfit criminals I pass as I walk to work. They are everywhere, regardless of which route I decide to take.

I hear an old prostitute say, How about it sugar, you looking for a date?

I pretend not to hear her and walk on, thinking to myself, she’s as old as my mother. This goes on for several blocks. I travel up Clark Street, to 14 Street, and down North Wabash. My gut suddenly tells me something is wrong, but not in a confrontational way. It simply is telling me to walk with caution around the next corner. So, I slow my pace and slowly walk around the corner.

I slowly pull out the key to unlock the door, when a police officer stops me and says, "Hold on a minute, this is a crime scene, you need to go to the other side of the street sir.

I can recall; We marched into a town, a typical town for the Middle East, and I saw dead bodies line the streets. In some cases, their nerves still moving their bodies and bleeding from places where legs and arms should have been. But we have to keep moving, we aren’t medics. Our job isn’t to take care of the dead, or to render medical assistance; they already have men doing that. Our training is to find out who caused it, and to return what they have caused. It seems that in some towns, every corner we come to, more and more bodies, more blood-soaked walls, and we witness more death than any one mind could sanely endure. I wish they were all enemy soldiers, but there are women, children, and soldiers of our own as well. It never occurred to me to call it a crime scene; but sometimes, I think it should have been.

I drop my keys and just stand there. I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing. The officer looks at me when I fail to cross the street. My eyes are immediately focused on a figure about thirty yards from where I’m physically frozen. I was emotionally shocked at seeing this sight. It had been a number of years since my whole system was shocked to this extent. Frankly, I don’t think it knows what to do. However, it will react in the near future, I am sure of this. The officer moves his face directly in front of mine and places his hand on my shoulder. He curiously looks in the direction where my eyes are deeply focused.

The officer asks, Sir, did you know that man?

He is obviously referring to the man who is hanging halfway outside the broken front window. You can see how some large pieces of glass have penetrated through his upper body. The blood has slightly darkened from being exposed to the air for a period of time. In humid conditions, this takes about twelve hours. However, here in Chicago, I don’t really know. In any case, Mr. Wallace must have been dead for most of the night. I can see the blood has pooled on the outside of the window, and I assume it did on the inside as well. My mind and body seem separated at this very moment. My mind knows who it is; his clothing is unmistakable to me. After all, I have seen it every morning for the past several years.

The officer repeats himself as he gently shakes my shoulder, Sir, do you know the victim?

I look at him and reply, Yes, yes I do. I work here. His name happens to be Mr. Wallace… . my boss.

CHAPTER 2

MR. WALLACE’S DEMISE

The officer escorts me over to a squad car and asks me to please stay there. He walks to a plain clothes officer, a detective, I assume, and points in my direction. They both look in my direction and nod. The detective walks over to me and leans against the car next to me. I was horrified, frightened, and shocked at everything and everybody in front of me, all at the same time. My palms started to sweat, I started to get light headed, I even felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight in the air. I always felt these emotions in battle, even though I would never admit it.

As he lights a cigarette and offers me the cup of coffee in his hand, he asks, So, you knew him? You told the other officer he was your boss? I do not reply. I hear him but I’m still not mentally here at the moment. The detective takes a puff from his cigarette and moves in front of me. He moves his face in front of mine to block my view, in the same way the other officer did, and says, Oh, I’m sorry; I’m detective Kasey, Chicago P.D. You do know him?

I slowly answer, Yes… . Mr. Wallace. What happened?

The detective takes a long puff from his cigarette, disregarding my question as though he never heard it. He takes a sip from the cup of coffee he offered me earlier.

Listen, do you know why anyone would want to hurt Mr. Wallace? You know, did he have any enemies in the community? He asks as he leans back against the car

I look at him as though it is the dumbest question I have heard in a very long time. His eyes seem as cold as any I had ever seen, and his attitude about the whole matter is just as uncaring. He takes a sip of coffee and quickly follows it by another puff from his cancer stick. He tries to blow the smoke away from my face but it floats back into it anyway. He looks at me, seemingly waiting, like I can give him the name of the killer.

I reply, Enemies… . he was the fucking butcher! He charged very little and kept hardly any money in the store. Who in hell would rob him, it would be like robbing the homeless.

The detective looks down and says, He wasn’t robbed, he was beaten to death. Then he was decapitated with his own butcher knife. We just want to find out if he had any enemies that would do this to him, and for what reason. He then coughs and asks, And you are Mr.?

He said this as if he’s reading it from a card. He shows no emotion or caring of what he has just said. I mean, I know the police are, largely, ineffective, but now I know at least one of the reasons why. Apparently, this detective has worked this job too long to care anymore. I have to work extremely hard to keep from showing my anger to this heartless bastard of a cop.

I answer in a harsh voice, Mr. Talbert, my name is Jim Earnest Talbert. I’m sure you’ll find my name in his records.

He throws his cigarette on the sidewalk and replies, "Yes, yes we did. Well, I’ll be in touch if I