The Walk of Shame

January 1, 1979, around seven in the morning and I am trudging down Foster Avenue in Chicago, through thick, stinging snow. I am heading west away from the lake front, not on the sidewalk for that is already impassible. No, I am walking down the middle of the street. I don't have to worry about being hit by cars, taxis, or buses. There are none. It is the first day of the blizzard of '79.

This had all started a few hours earlier when I met a guy in a bar, and we decided to take a taxi to his place on Marine Drive. All I really remember from that night is standing in front of the guy's large window and looking down on the pure, white blanket of snow some twenty stories below. That, and the long walk home. The rest was pretty much forgettable.

I thought of that incident as I was walking Chandler around the block this morning. It was around seven thirty and I noticed not one, but two different young men walking out of our neighborhood. They were both dressed more for a night out on the town than for going to work. They also looked slightly disheveled, and maybe a bit hung over. I assume they were walking to their cars sitting forlornly in some bar parking lot. This happens a lot. Guys meet, and decide that they should take one car. Probably not too bad of an idea if they've been drinking. The sticky part is when their little tryst is over, and the guy whose house it is, is passed out. Nothing to do but extricate your arm from under his pillow, and quietly leave. Mark calls this the 'walk of shame'. I don't see it that way. I say it's the walk of good sense, and the earlier you do it, the less people who might see you. And the best part about walking out of our neighborhood after a night of debauchery, no snow.