Holiday

Holiday Jason Shimotake

Chicago is in her holiday outfit, the Christmas lights batting electric eyelashes in mid-November. Thanksgiving Day, holiday littered with paper bag pilgrims subtle brainwash of the American youth who would later read about the eighty million who were sold, tricked, or traded, so everyone could eat yams and turkey and whipped potatoes.

A Japanese man walks down the street, he'll never really understand the lies, only knows he's supposed to eat more and fall asleep watching the Bears on television. A Japanese woman walks up the street, she'll probably drink too much tonight, smoke too many cigarettes, and linger onto some guy like her exhaled smoke hangs on air of a crowded apartment owned by her boss.

The elevator is stuffed. Twelve whites, four blacks, two yellows, a cat and two turkeys. But it doesn't matter anymore, black touches white at the hip, turkey touches yellow in the face, and everyone laughs and some eyes meet for lingered seconds where everything makes sense and for two yellows the seconds turn into years of yams and turkey and whipped potatoes with no real explanation why.

On a Pilgrimage for Pad Thai- Chicago, Summer

of '99 Heather Danielewicz

North side of Chicago - Clark St - near Addison. I know I've seen the blue neon sign before. Pad Thai-that's the name of the place right? But where is it now? Left side towards Wrigley. My mouth waters, I crave it like an addict. Noodles, peanut 'sauce, broccoli, tofu. Perhaps even an order of fried tofu. The El rushes past overhead. I cringe. Past Fly Me to the Moon (reminds me of a gangster hangout). Past Pick-Me-Up caf.

And there it is - the blue neon sign - Pad Thai. I enter; take a seat, the woman (she speaks broken English) tries to give me a menu. "No need," I say, "I'll have number 2-Pad Thai."