Editor’s Note:

Ladies and Gentlemen, it feels good to be back. Last week we took a bit of a hiatus, as a number of things came to a head all at once for yours truly. Also, I needed a breather. I hope you’ll forgive me. But now we’re back, and we’re going to do our best to get back on a three-to-four post a week schedule for the foreseeable future. That starts today, with Part 1 of the second book in Todd Lazarski’s Make the Road by Walking. Tomorrow it continues, when you’ll get Part 2.  Hope fortune is favoring you these days, and be sure to check back once or twice a week. For now, however, enjoy Part 1 of Book 2 of Todd Lazarski’s Make the Road by Walking.

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Through the clouds, through the impossibly-paned windows of a Boeing 7-something-or-other, 30-some-odd-thousand feet up and wearing my once-white last clean t-shirt, the grayness of Chicago opens below me. Like a man returning home from an orgy – pants a-wrinkle, eyes streaked with red fatal highways, the sun like an out of place bookmark between night and day – the time is ripe for an increase in seriousness.

And so it will be. Or so I tell myself. Or so I told myself before this whole sojourn began. Back when the destination and miles and bars seemed out of reach, so far away and anything that might come after unimaginable. When the notion of ‘once I get back’ seemed such a 50-50 proposition that ideas like ‘finding a job,’ ‘figuring it out,’ ‘getting my life together,’ ‘contributing to society’ and the like seemed a safe enough distance away to actually be, flippantly, uttered.

You know, you’ll need to find a way to make money.

I’ll take care of it.

When?

When I get back.

No need to support such claims, no accountability necessary at that early juncture.

As soon as I get back will I begin a strict regimen of sit-ups, chin-ups, cardiovascular, no smoking, no drinking, no carbohydrates, no cheesesteaks, more cardio, no more 5am nights, more fiber, less caffeine, some vegetables, less chicken wings, no more, no more…

And here I am. Descending through the gray gristle of Chicago night air. And these things, these ugly, wretched things – soon to embody my waking existence – once as far away as Monday morning seems with a 12-pack in the fridge during Friday’s happiest hours, will come to pass like the awful asshole buzz of my sworn enemy, the alarm clock.

But awful things never look as bad through the filter of decompression (pizza and a movie on a post-weekend-debauchery Sunday evening, a beer on the walk home from a really good concert) which is precisely, obviously, what a blistered-foot, weary-livered traveler needs. Upon arrival at O’Hare (whose traffic patterns have become so familiar to me, whose insistence on landing the planes in such rapid-fire succession so obvious, that upon approach I am always leaning forward, awaiting the any-second-now rear ending by the one behind us), there will be a layoff at the parents’ sprawling suburban domicile, halfway between Chicago and Milwaukee. A brief row before the ship of fools is righted once and, maybe, for all. The dividing line between the south of my waywardness, and the north of maturation…

There will be dust blown from my day-planner; itineraries will be less littered with bars and Mexican restaurants and more with appointments and interviews; inventory will be taken; stock, of a spiritual sort, will be analyzed; life will be assessed, refreshed, started anew. My resume will be polished (damn you Word, I will figure out that bullet pointing). Cover letters will be sparkled (ah hum, reader, what is the proper opening greeting for a cover letter, again? ‘Dear Sir or Madam’? Seems so formal…). The cigarettes of my errant ways will be snubbed out, the windows of fresh air smashed open. Doors of my insular ambling will be kicked and tumbled by a wash of networking, striving, and all-around professionalism. Yes, these tasks will be performed mostly in nothing but boxers (ok, fully in only boxers); yes, my grandmother will be phoned for a check; and yes, my severance is far from worn. But a die will be cast, one of up-before-noon gravity and clean-nosed seriousness. Laundry will be done, ties will be worn, shoes buffed, and there will be fresh-shaven sobriety.

But this being Chicago, first, there will be pizza.

And not the bullshit, tourist-consumed quiches of sauce and cheese oft-associated with my southern neighbor city, but rather the quarter-inch-thick bed of spiced red gravy, mozzarella and pepperoni on crisped dough. The holy grail of any Midwest-aimed traveler.

So, once my big bird touches down (turning quickly, as if we don’t notice, Mr. Air-Traffic Controller, so as not to get ass-fucked by the Boeing schnoz literally sniffing behind us), once the checked bag is shoulder-hoisted, once the cab line is negotiated, I call and place my order from the backseat at 85 mph on I-94. And 35 miles to the north, my greeting mat is being laid: spooned tomato-y gobs over that warm, welcoming dough.

Less than an hour and more than 50 bucks later, my boots are off for what feels like the first time in weeks. I air my scabbed Achilles, quietly curse Seattle’s 45-degree-angled Capitol Hill, and crack an obviously expensive bottle of red wine lying on the kitchen island. Around me the surroundings of my childhood home are near impossible to digest after 2-weeks of boxcar blinds, beans, and nights under the overpass. Everything is immaculate, plush, warm, overstuffed. Cats – friendly, nourished – everywhere I turn. Couches with fleece-like blankets over their backs, near impossible to rise out of. And so I find myself comfortably stuck at the moment, reclined at just the right angle so my wine glass, stem between forefinger and thumb, can rest plum on my empty, gurgling gut, my right palm resting gently over the remote on the black leather next to me, my feet on the coffee table. The 50-some-inch TV glows. I could fall asleep, the miles and dust behind me; or I could get drunk, shitty drunk, and let the party go on. Or I could not move. Yes, definitely, I could not move.

I think of calling out to my mom, infantile yes, spoiled, maybe, but her so happy to see her weary rambler, and who am I to curb such maternal excitement? Ask her to bring me a fresh t-shirt and maybe some slippers. I forget for moment, in my euphoric pre-pizza, wine-drinking contentment, that my parents remain in Mexico, that modest playground of the middle-aged and gainfully employed, while back at home their world-weary drifter son has yet to leave the country, and could not even think about moving from this very spot.

Not for anything.

It was just the kind of emptiness and silence I used to yearn to fill. Weeks ahead I would scheme: ok, they’re going to be in the city all night, Bry will score the booze, Dean the dope, everyone will park around the corner, we’ll crank the Stones… Now, liquor and pot so familiar, my biggest vice is whatever combination of cheese, meat and bread is closest to hand. The most sensual allure: that fuzzy blanket draping the couch. The ultimate boner of the mind: sitting.

But there’s the bell, my pizza, delivered. And I’m running. Before I know it, moving at an extraordinary rate through the echoey house and a gaggle of startled cats.

20 clasped firmly in hand, I swing the huge front open to reveal my pie, my eyes honing immediately, but, more strikingly, my old buddy “Patrick Ewing” holding it. Cue Marv Albert.