Free Sleep Tight by Jeffrey Jacobson

sidewalks erupt with life.
    Louis W. Holtzfelder liked to take a midmorning break from his tax law office in the upper floors of 845 North Michigan and stroll across the bridge to the Starbucks on the other side of the Chicago River in the Trib building. In the winter, he parked in the heated underground garage, and rode the elevator up to his office. Same thing in the deep summer. There was no point in suffering the extremes of Chicago’s weather like some common laborer when his status afforded him twenty-four-hour climate control.
    When the weather was mild, a Goldilocks blend of spring warmth and refreshing breezes without summer’s oppressive heat, he gladly left the sedate hum of fluorescent lights tastefully hidden behind soothing smoked glass, and ventured onto Michigan Avenue on foot. No doubt the attire of the office girls that suddenly appeared on streets had something to do with this decision, but he would never admit this, not even to himself. Still, he couldn’t help but notice the annual baring of shocking amounts of female flesh and he tried not to stare as he made his way through corporate workers and throngs of tourists to get his soy chai latte espresso.
    Sometimes he would even take the time to sit on one of the benches along the river if the stench from the polluted water wasn’t too bad. Today, though, he needed to get back to the office as soon as possible. He shouldn’t have even left, because the temp’s lack of intelligence was staggering, but by eleven in the morning, Holtzfelder hadn’t been able to resist the sunlight and smells of tree blossoms and snatches of intoxicating, exotic perfume he occasionally could catch as he passed the girls on the street.
    He was on his way back when he saw the homeless woman, approaching the bridge on the far side. At least, he thought it was a woman. She was black, of course.
    He’d seen her before, shambling along the sidewalks like some great sluggish buffalo, pushing a shopping cart. He had had the misfortune of having to wait for her as she took hours to cross in front of his Jaguar. Holtzfelder believed there should be some kind of ordinance that banned the homeless from the city. Or at least kept them in the South Loop, well away from where the decent people worked. This was the price he paid for venturing onto public streets on such a beautiful day he reasoned, and tried not to let her presence interfere with his pleasant stroll.
    She stopped at the edge of the bridge, nearly completely blocking the sidewalk with her overloaded cart. Tourists kept a wide berth, pushing their children out in traffic on the Michigan Avenue Bridge to shield their delicate sensibilities from an honest-to-God street vagrant.
    No matter the weather, she wore layers upon layers of tattered, rotten scavenged clothing. A pair of oversized black Chuck Taylor shoes could be seen under the frayed plaid bell-bottoms. Holtzfelder knew the brand because his son had begged for a pair for his thirteenth birthday many years ago. Holtzfelder had refused. No son of his was ever going to look “punk.”
    Most curious of all though, the homeless woman wore some kind of plastic Halloween novelty Viking helmet. The cartoonish horns pushed their way through holes in the brown hood attached to a brown cloak that draped her bulky frame. A circle of graying, waxy hair encircled a dark face with the texture of an old walnut. She could have been anywhere from a beaten forty-year-old to a still spry eighty-year-old.
    Holtzfelder just knew she was going to accost him as he drew closer. He curled his free hand into a fist and focused his gaze firmly on the blinking DON’T WALK sign on the far corner. The lights were not going to help him. He would be stuck on the corner while the traffic sped along Upper Wacker and he feared that he would be exposed and vulnerable. Well, that was ridiculous. He was Louis W. Holtzfelder; some of his clients were among the most