Peacock/ Stares
By Kyle Chong (Photo: Miranda Phaal)
It’s a step. Concrete, maybe. Definitely solid.
Steps. Ascension. Gradients. Maybe shadows? Still solid.
All we know is that I’ve seen many people travel this case of 31 stairs.
It’s called a case of stairs, that means they should all travel together. But we travel them.
Grains. Pebbles. Up. Down. Divides between land and sky? Maybe bridges them?
All we know is that no one was supposed to do anything important on these stairs. Except me.
The stairs are so wide, who has the arms to reach that handrail? Do they need to?
A place to sit. A place to work. A place where a first kiss was planted on a boy’s face. A place untravelled.
No one warns each other that these stairs are so wide that you may fall from grace here. Maybe they just wanna be malicious and see people’s faces and pride bloodied.
Everyone just expects the next stair to just... be there.
Blocks. Pavement. Idiots. They knew it was gonna erode and collapse eventually.
Is that because they wanted us to invent something better later?
What can be better than blocks of pavement damned to the hell that is the wind and rain of our sunny Chicago. At least, I think that’s where I was.
Gangsters fought here. They wanted that high ground. Like Custer, or Snoopy. Skirmishers, maybe guerrillas. One side charges and the other holds at the top step. They say you can make a throne of bayonets, but you can’t sit in it for long.
Grains. Pebbles. Going nowhere. The guys who made this staircase don’t even know what’ll become of their creation. They just wanted lives that didn’t force them to risk their skins every damn day. Then again, they were smart enough to pick this job.
Some guy just fell on his face without a moment’s notice. He left a hardhat impression in the concrete.
I once saw an old lady in a wheelchair, just staring. The stairs stared back. They just seemed to say, “Try me, grandma. Try and can conquer my first three-inch step”. That was, of course, before the gang war and after the hardhat. But much more happens in my neighbourhood.
Pigeons. Breadcrumbs. Daytime roost. They flock Gerald. The bastard with the stale bread and the even staler beard. I want to say to him, “the birds deserve the good Jewish rye more than you, you fat old fool.” Hardly kosher, but he keeps tossing those birds the good crumbs. I’d give them some too, but my pockets are empty.
Wait, that’s my finger poking out.
That old bastard’s trying to get the pigeon to eat outta his hat. We can all see he has a cane and he’ll slap the pigeon if it tries to. He’s probably going to eat the poor thing.
I have one rule, never eat anything that’s smarter than you.
Blood. Cold. Still. A man got shot here. I think. Or maybe that was in Evanston. Remember Ziggy? He was that poor delusional fella that thought he could train a squirrel to steal food for him. He could have been one of those construction workers if he hadn’t shot his girlfriend’s behind claiming she hadda “blast off to outer space because her ass was outta this world”.
Maybe the stairs are a test of human character, they bring out the best in people.
...I hate that fortune cookie shit. Though I did find one resting on the trashcan about ten metres from the stairs. It said “climb towards the wisdom that awaits you” on the inside.
I walked up the stairs.
I felt stupider after.
Okay, fine. I have another rule. Save the fortunes. They will make the frigid nights in this sunny city more tolerable.
FINE! I have another rule, never have one rule. I have this rule that, when I’m watching the people look at the stairs, I always think about what’s in their pockets because I tend not to have anything in mine.
The stairs are made of stacked rock slabs. You don’t need much to enjoy the stairs, but I spent a lot more time here than most. I needed a lot to enjoy my stay here.
Most people only come with their phones, wallets, keys, or lovers’ in tow. Me? I just keep my newspaper. My coffee cup kept making noises, so I left it in Grant Park. There definitely wasn’t coffee in that cup.
I don’t see how the tourists can even walk up into these stairs with their stilettos and loafers. They don’t realise they needa be close to the ground to feel the pulse of this city’s beating heart. They don’t see that they can enjoy the stairs, for the stairs. They always have somewhere important to be in their important lives.
They don’t worry about the experience of the stairs unless it is their important business, but the guy who was supposed to care totally fucked it up. I kept tripping on his stupid hardhat impression when I walked to my kitchen.
Idiots. Intruders. Careless.
I have one rule, park benches are for losers.
This is my home. 31 concrete stairs, give or take three. My pockets are still empty because I own nothing, just these stairs. Apparently I don’t own them. That is, if you believe the Chicago Police who took me away from my home. Those stairs miss me. I miss Paul, Jim, and Hakim. Those are the names of my pigeons. I hope they still beg for bread crumbs. I wish I still could. It was better than the food here.
I guess Ziggy did die at my place. I remember seeing him lying all still when I got back from shopping at the Safeway parking lot. I made him like that. I shot him. That’s why I’m here. My new home says “Metropolitan Correctional Center” on the door. Yet Springfield won’t help me. But I get to walk up ten, then eleven, stairs on the way to my execution.
