Memoir

Rats, Roaches, and the Russell—Oh My!

The Chicagoland Chronicles

Russell took a long drag on his cigarette and motioned for me to sit next to him on his squeaky cot with no sheets. He draped his arm around me in silence.

I stared at him in awe.

Sitting on the bed, his wild mane of brown hair cascading around his shoulders, he cocked his head to the side with quiet thought and then said, “Kris, we need to go buy groceries. Do you still have that card?”

Yes. You are the Lizard King. And I will follow you anywhere.

We stood in an empty parking lot outside a grocery store called Osco. I’d never heard of Osco before. I came from the land of Grand Union, Great American, Super Duper, and P&Cs. Freezing rain and angry snow spat quickly into the streetlight above us. My platinum blonde hair and cherry red wool winter overcoat were neon signs pointing to the fact I was naive little chicken lost in the wild; Russell blended in perfectly.

“Don’t worry, Kris. We’ll just get what we need.”

He could tell I was getting nervous about using the card. It was like — I wanted to show him I was cool and was an “artist” just like him…but I also didn’t want to be a loser. I didn’t want to take advantage of anyone, and I wanted to make my own way, and if I was going to starve and eat cans of beans — damn it, I was going to do it the right way.

But we needed to eat.

Just a few groceries. This one time. I knew what I needed to do, and I knew what Russ would say about it. But I wasn’t going to use this joint credit card that I once shared with my ex anymore. It made me feel so dirty. Yes, it was my money too. But I left this man. I chose to break his heart, I chose to run. I was the one who did the hurting in this scenario back home. We may not have been right for each other, and we may have been way too young, but I was the one who left a path of destruction in my wake. And I knew every penny I spent was another twist of the knife. I was young, but I wasn’t without compassion or empathy. It just stupidly took me a while to get there.

As we roamed the aisles, I was quiet. I wasn’t happy, nor was I excited. Russell clocked into this quickly and would play into my desire to live as an artist. He stayed true to his word though. We didn’t go crazy. We picked up just a few items that we thought we could get by on: spaghetti, sauce, eggs, bread, milk, cereal, and a few other assorted items.

“Your card is declined,” she said snapping her gum. “It’s reported stolen.”

I was expecting it, yet it was like the air was sucked out of my body. I’d never felt such shame.

“I have to take it,” she said, not really caring much, as if she’d done this a million times before.

Russell pulled out crumpled up bills out of his pocket and paid for our items. And I didn’t say much. I remained mortified and humiliated. And I knew I deserved to feel that way. Russell didn’t apologize. Was he used to this kind of thing? He didn’t even acknowledge his part in, oh, encouraging me to use that card when I never wanted to. But, you know what? I was 23. I’m now in my 50s. I believe in personal agency. I can’t blame anyone for any of my decisions other than myself.

But cool that Russell used his cigarette funds for our pasta and eggs, right? Right.

I’ll tell you another thing. I wasn’t a smoker. But I was so enamored by Mr. Dirty Birdy New York City that even his smoking seemed—what’s the word?—exotic. Until it didn’t. His smoking was starting to make me vomit in my mouth. As well as the smell of him.

He made fun of me at first.

At the time I believed in a way he was threatened. I was beginning to recognize, despite his sexy Jim Morrison body, we had different approaches to life. Perhaps I was jealous of his carefree artistic way. The reality was, I was more cautious and thoughtful than the dream allowed.

I needed a job. God, I needed a job.

I wasn’t going to be hiding from a landlord every other week like Eddie Murphy’s Mr. Robinson sketch and pulling corn cobs out of my couch-mattress-bed from my rat roommates. (Not Russell. The real rats.)

I mean, I’m sorry I thought it was a good idea to get a job.

My plan quickly became to get a job, find a nice lady roommate, and get the fuck out of Crackhouse Centrale.

The Good Times

Skipping a bit to the end of the story, I was in Chicago from Christmas Eve through the end of February. So it wasn’t a long stretch of time in the grand scheme of things. But considering it was what Chicago radio deemed the “great freeze” of the 90s, it was enough.

It took time and maturity to realize the extent of Russell’s spell and what he was really putting me through. At the time, I sincerely believed I was on an adventure; the kind of adventure I’d only dreamed about. The truth is, it wasn’t all bad. We did have some fun and I do have memories from my time in Chicago that still make me smile as well.

My favorite, albeit a bit Red Skelton-ish (America’s favorite hobo), was a fancy restaurant we found right next to Second City. Once a week they had a special — likely for senior citizens — I can say that now that I’m over 50 — it was like $4.99 for a half rack of ribs and a vat load of skinny fries. So, as a treat, we would go to this restaurant and split the special with fancy glasses of water. Oh, I can still taste those fries!

I remember spending hours at Samuel French looking at the plays, discovering the streets of Chicago, eating gyros for the first time, and watching James and Cory in their improv groups and on stage at Second City. No, I did not make it to Second City there because it was not time for new groups yet, and also because you needed money to begin classes. But it remained the goal. We were getting to know the improv crowd though, not that I remember anyone I met. We spent a lot of time exploring the city — given that the house was always freezing and the rats and roaches ruled the roost.

Losing the Loser

I called a temp agency and they immediately had work for me.

I had put myself through college doing word processing/secretarial work and could type 100 wpm and other administrative tasks pretty damn well. Not that I liked it. But I could do it well. They had a long-term position for me assisting a VP of some financial organization.

I went to a cross between Ross Dress for Less and Goodwill and found what I could use for work clothes for under $30.00. What could get me by until I first got paid, and then I’d buy a few more.

On my first day, I left our crack house and went out to the bus stop on the corner. It did not escape me that my red coat and bright blonde hair cast a screaming spotlight upon me. But although I was so different, everyone in the neighborhood—at the bus stop, on the bus—was kind and protective of me. (Despite my predilection for not selling or buying crack.)

When I got to downtown Chicago to the building I was to temp in, I felt a rush of adrenaline. I shouldn’t have felt so excited by a Starbucks and people in work clothes, and shiny floors, but I felt like I was in my element. Which was distressing. Because I was supposed to be an artist. I was supposed to be against this type of “man,” you know? Jesus. I was the man!

The woman I reported to I recall as a Miranda from Sex and the City. She was a smart, savvy divorcee who lived in the suburbs. She was tall with short blonde hair, kind, and took me under her wing. Finance wasn’t, isn’t, and will never be my thing — she would have let me soar if I wanted to—but she advised me when it came to my personal life, and advised me when it came to my career as well. She was one cool broad, and I owe a lot to her. Whoever she was.

Meanwhile, I was looking for permanent work. What was Russ doing? I don’t know. Smoking his cigarettes while caressing his long flowing Jim Morrison hair and diddling himself while reading Lolita? Didn’t care anymore.

I knew that my other passion — besides acting — was writing. So I was looking for something as an editorial assistant or in journalism. I landed an interview for Where Magazine. Back in the day, Where was in every city, and every major hotel would have them in their rooms. It would be a pretty good gig! I was so excited. The position was for an editorial assistant. Bottom rung, but a good place to start. In any case, I was offered the job. I would soon be free from the rats, the roaches, and the Russell.

In just a couple of weeks.

All Was Going Great

Things were falling into place.

Until the Great Deep Freeze of ’93 took a turn for the worse. It was cold before, but it got even colder. I grew up on the Canadian border, so I was used to below zero temperatures, but these Lake Michigan windchill below zero temperatures were beyond brutal.

My car was dead. Out on the street in front of our crack house, died, dead, gone. Would not start. Not the only one. Not a lot of cars could start — especially older shitty ones like mine. Since we survived on little heat inside, it took wandering around with extra blankets overhead.

My relationship with Russell had obviously waned dramatically. I was receiving letters at this point from Jason in Los Angeles and Tom in Albany — both probably much more suited to me (and one of them was gay). At this point, the Winter Olympics had started. Born and raised near Lake Placid, NY (home of the ’32 and ’80 Olympics), I was a huge fan — and loved watching the winter sports on television. We didn’t have cable, but we had one TV with rabbit ears. One night, our other roommate Cory pulled the television near his room in the front, right next to the wood stove, and fixed the rabbit ears to pull up a snowy picture of the Olympic games. It was one of the nicest things someone had done for me yet without me asking. He got an extra blanket and put it over my shoulders and went off to do his own thing.

No expectations.

It was during the Olympics that I received an interesting invitation from Jason in Los Angeles. Jason was my Junior High School sweetheart. We’d been carrying on for a year or two in a secret pen pal relationship. He thought Los Angeles would be more my speed and invited me to come visit him. And he would pay for it.

Jason…was my fairytale.

Los Angeles…was my fairytale.

Chicago…sucked ass.

Would I come visit? Yes.

A thousand times…yes!

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