As the Wicked Watch(26)
I texted Scott.
Hey U want 2 grab breakfast? We’ve got a busy day ahead.
Scott suggested that we meet at our usual spot downtown, but I suggested we meet instead at the District Diner. It’s a relic that has survived and thrived for fifty years, proudly owning the slogan Authentic Taste of Chicago. I’ve gone there on occasions when the diner was packed with tourists who had ventured miles from Navy Pier and Magnificent Mile shopping excursions to bask in a true South Side Chicago experience. During the week, it was mostly packed with local elected officials, clergy, business leaders, and community activists, and it does enough business to shut down daily at three o’clock. After church on Sundays, there’s almost always a wait, and the line sometimes spills out into the parking lot. I myself have patronized the District Diner after church, barely able to focus on Pastor Byrd’s sermon for dreaming of creamy cheese grits and Creole-seasoned salmon croquettes.
The District Diner is a listening space for the media, especially those who cover politics and crime. Stories unfold over the retro Formica tabletops. On-and off-the-record tips waft through the air like the smell of warm pancakes and syrup, and secrets pour out like free refills on coffee. There’s no cultural line in the sand, but I’ve found that my White colleagues think of this place only when they need a scoop. They ooh and aah over “what a great place” it is and rave about the food, promising to return with family and friends, but they never do.
“Not the Black Pentagon,” Scott said, repeating the nickname he coined for the mom-and-pop dining hot spot, with its orange sherbet-colored walls, which hasn’t had an aesthetic upgrade since it opened in 1957.
“Yep. Sorry,” I said.
But I wasn’t sorry. I have survived and thrived and survived again in predominately white spaces my entire life. Scott usually doesn’t balk on the rare occasions he is “the only” or one of a very few White people in the room. When he’s whined in the past, I’ve been dismissive.
“Scott, I’ve got four words for you,” I told him once. “Welcome to my world.”
I’m a Black woman who by and large must leave my neighborhood to socialize with my community. The District Diner is where I go for a healthy dose of culture, even if my media affiliation makes me suspect to some people. Today I was going neither for the food nor for the culture but to see what I could find out about Louise Robinson. And I planned to take advantage of being something my White colleagues are not—a source of pride in the black community. That gives me a little more leeway, especially with Black politicians. And I knew just who to ask.
“I’m getting dressed now,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”
I pulled out a two-piece dark purple suit with a pencil skirt and a peplum jacket to wear during the day, and rolled up a blouse and black slacks to change into with a pair of flats for tonight’s vigil.
Scott and I drove separately. On the way there, I got a call from my bestie in Austin, Lisette. As soon as I saw her name pop up in the caller ID, I remembered that we’d been planning a weekend girls’ trip to Saugatuck, Michigan. About three hours from Chicago, it sits along a harbor and attracts boaters and water-skiers in the summer. In the fall, tourists are drawn to the spectacular foliage. I’d been looking forward to it but had all but forgotten about our trip with everything that had been going on.
“He-e-e-y, Lisette!” I said.
“What are you up to? I can tell you’re driving,” she said. “Can you talk?”
“Yeah, I’m hands free. On my way to your spot—the District.”
I had taken Liz to the diner the last time she was in Chicago. It was her idea to forgo brunch at the Four Seasons, as we’d planned, for the District in Hyde Park. Liz is money savvy and curious about investments, and she’s always looking for her next act. She wanted to drive through a neighborhood she’d read about undergoing regentrification in the emerging South Loop to check out the real estate. I was disappointed. I’d been looking forward to “Brunch is on me” at the Four Seasons, which is above my pay grade. Liz, a brilliant coder, by age twenty-seven had made a killing off a content management software she developed with a classmate at the University of Texas. She could afford to eat there every day.
“Mmmm.” She let out a low guttural growl. “The shrimp and grits! I want to go back there, but I don’t know, I might not make it this trip. Guess who’s back?”
“Mike,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, girl! Well, not yet, but he’ll be back from Germany next week-e-e-end. He offered to come down here, but I told him you and I were already thinking about driving up to Michigan. So . . .”
Lisette, a manifestation of our home city’s “Keep Austin Weird” culture, fell in love with Saugatuck, an artist enclave with quaint little antique shops and boutiques, and wineries and breweries that appealed to her Bohemian proclivities. So did Mike. Liz met Mike Spencer on our girls’ trip to Saugatuck last summer. We rented a cabin by the sand dunes with a view of the harbor. The blue-eyed, sandy blond furniture maker from New York was in Chicago for an artisans’ conference with his friend Carlo Santi, visiting from Milan, Italy, and drove up to Saugatuck to hang out with some friends for the weekend. The two men were walking along the dunes when they spotted Liz and me on the patio of our cabin noshing on a charcuterie and cheese board and working on a second bottle of a dry rosé we’d picked up at a local winery. Both men looked like they’d stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. Carlo wore an accent scarf loosely around his shoulders for a hint of euro flare. Amanda was supposed to come with us but had had to cancel at the last minute. Just as well—it kept things even.