Having a Blast
“It’s 7 AM,” I grumbled. “Why are we up at 7 AM?”
“I remember,” I said.
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I thought about hanging up and going back to sleep. But I knew Erik would just keep calling until it was too late for him to go, and then he’d blame me for making him miss it. Besides, I’d never seen a building demolished before, and since I was already sort of awake–and still a little drunk–why not go?
We rode south to Roosevelt Road, then cut over to the lakefront bike path. The best thing about the south lakefront trail is that it’s never crowded. Every now and then you pass a ponytailed professor with side-view mirrors and an odometer on his handlebars. But other than that it’s pretty clear sailing from the aquarium to the U. of C.
By the time we got to the Oakwood Boulevard bridge it was swarming with people. Cops blowing whistles. Cars honking. Radios blasting. There should have been somebody selling hot dogs.
I leaned my bike against the rail, climbed up on the frame, and looked around. There were a lot of white people on the bridge. “Hey Erik,” I said, pointing at all the white people. Suddenly the bridge was rattled by a BOOM. I looked at the high-rise at the far south end of the strip. Its top was blurry. It started crumbling inward, as if in slow motion. Then the first building north followed suit. There was another explosion, and the last two buildings wavered and collapsed into chunky gray hills. Dust blew up into the air, and since the sun was still pretty low, a shadow was momentarily cast over the bridge. Everybody cheered. It was better than Venetian Night.
