Chicago Soaked

Saturday morning, on the second day of nonstop rain. I'm lucky, the basement hasn't flooded like it did this time last year. I help my neighbor whose basement is flooded, using a broom like a squeegee, moving water out of his basement and backyard until we're both exhausted.

Mercifully, the funky stench of rot and water ceases to permeate my swollen sinuses after a while. The rain does not stop. It just keeps steadily coming down, so that, eventually, exhausted, we quit.

I run a hot bath, tear off my sodden clothes and notice the chimney is leaking some foul tar-colored liquid through the wallpaper. The phone rings just as I'm beginning to relax in the tub. It's my wife, Elsie. She is out in the burbs, getting her hair cut by Edie of Evanston, who knows and loves her tresses best.

"I can't get on the expressway," she says. "Touhy is shut down. There are, like, maniacs pulling U-ies at the off-ramp. The Eden's is a giant pond."

"Don't worry," I say, wiggling my pruny feet. "This too shall pass."

"I wanna go home!" says a little voice in the background. She is accompanied by my ten-year-old son, who also got his hair cut. Bad idea to go out today.

"Take your time." I say. I am a font of gushing clichés. "Try to relax. "

She is still pissed off when we say goodbye. I have not given her comfort. My muscles ache. I will be nice later. I drain a little water, add some hot. The phone rings again. It's Sergei. Sergei is my Russian client. He is rude and obnoxious, but he pays well and on time.

"You got my sh*t ready?"

"I told you tomorrow morning,"I say.

"I need it f*cking now."

"My wife's out in Skokie and she's got the car."

"It's finished?"

"Pretty much.