PLEASE SEE DISCLAIMER ON PART 1 BEFORE TAKING OFFENSE.
I already mentioned that I had moved into the city after high school. The first apartment we rented was a garden level. I can’t quite remember if it was a two- or a three-flat, but we were on the ground floor. While we were moving in I saw a cockroach that stopped us in our tracks. If we had known any better, we would have stayed. The landlords were willing to exterminate but, our immaturity pushed us into a quick decision.
About a month later we rented a large, third-floor apartment about 10-feet from the El. It had a fireplace and that was what we focused on. We ignored the fact that the El shook the building on its way by and often stopped right next to our apartment. The passengers peered into our windows for a minute on the way to and from their destinations. But it had a fireplace which, by the way, ended up cemented shut.
Our new place was two blocks from Wrigley Field. I never really felt safe there and spent most weekends driving back down to the suburbs, my comfort zone.
Right before our year lease was up the race thing reared it’s ugly head once again. The news began broadcasting warnings of a rapist terrorizing Wrigleyville. He had attacked nine women in as many weeks. A friend at work showed me the story, which had made the front page. There was a map with a large circle illustrating the bad man’s territory. Our apartment fell dead center in the circle. It was terrifying. The story told of vicious, life-threatening beatings. The man was described as a huge, black man. His MO was to grab women as they walked into the breezeway of their apartment buildings, forcing them to take him to their apartments. From that day on I would drive home and sit in my car for five minutes, watching for bad guys. Then I’d run for my apartment door. It was a ridiculous way to live.
When I was given that newspaper, I shared it with another coworker who lived near us, to warn her of the threat. We’ll call her Jenny for the story’s sake. A few days later Jenny did not show up for work. I was told that she was attacked by the same man the night before, but had gotten away. She had quit her job. The next day Jenny came into the office to gather her things. She stopped in the art department to thank me for the warning. With a bruised face she shared that an enormous, black man rushed into the breezeway as she was trying to get the interior door unlocked. He shoved her into the door and asked who was in her apartment. She lived alone but lied and said her husband was home. He punched her a few times and knocked her into the wall. She began slapping doorbells and the man ran. Jenny went back to the farm in southern Indiana where she’d grown up. She’d had quite enough of city life.
That day I decided the same. I’d had enough. When our lease was up I moved back down to the segregated suburbs where I felt safe. Hammond, Indiana where I rented a one-bedroom apartment was far from safe, but it was my comfort zone.
To be continued . . .