This is not a really a post about the lifestyle, but I originally wrote most of this on my phone while sitting on a plane flying from Chicago to Miami, documenting one small part of our recent vacation. I wanted to document the whole ridiculous situation while it was still fresh in my mind.

It was such a beautiful night to be walking hand in hand with Elise.

The sky was clear, the temperature had finally dropped into the low 80s, and the humidity had thankfully dried up. It was July in Chicago, after all, so the heat and humidity were kind of expected. But after a few days of wandering around the city in 90-plus-degree heat that felt like we were being basted by the devil himself in the ovens of Hell, low 80s felt absolutely wonderful.

The Taste of Chicago was our destination, but we weren’t in any hurry. We were still full from our required tourist Chicago-style deep-dish pizza dinner. If we discovered something that looked like it would make a great dessert, that would be a wonderful surprise, but if not, we still had an untouched tiramisu and a giant fruit tart left over from lunch waiting for us back at the hotel.

Hey. Don’t judge.

We’re on vacation.

We avoided the busy sidewalks and strolled along the scenic paths through Grant Park, which is this huge, lush green space sandwiched between the concrete and glass city that stretches for miles horizontally and vertically to the west and Lake Michigan to the east. 

Every so often, we’d stop to take some bad pictures of the skyline, admire some of the sculptures, or just watch one of the many well-behaved dogs that apparently lived in Chicago stroll by with owners in tow.

If we ever had to move here, our own dog would definitely need to go back to school for some intensive non-reactive training. (Future Bruce here and it’s a bit sad to have included this line since we just had to put our dog down.)

Eventually, we reached one of the entrances to the food festival, right near the Ferris wheel. We had only been there for a few minutes when an announcement was made over the PA system.

Alcohol sales were now ending and food sales would stop in another 15 minutes. 

“Well, that’s just great,” we both said out loud. 

Though… it’s not like there is a short supply of bars or restaurants in downtown Chicago.

We started browsing the food stalls, still holding hands so we wouldn’t get separated in the sea of people. At first, the crowds were manageable. But the farther north we went, the more the crowd turned into a solid wall of bodies.

It wasn’t the best feeling, and that’s coming from someone who actually enjoys crowds. Elise, on the other hand, isn’t quite as enthusiastic about being packed into a human sardine can. And when you’re shorter and can see nothing but the backs or worse of sweaty dudes in front of you, I can understand why that might get frustrating. 

We began to feel trapped and immediately gave up on our search for more food. We turned around and tried to make our way back towards the areas where crowds were lighter. It took longer than you would imagine but we were fighting against the current of people. I believe we ended up somewhere near the median around Ida B. Wells Drive.

There were large patches of grass that were perfect for sitting and waiting for the scheduled fireworks and drone show that we only learned about just a few hours earlier. There were other adult couples scattered all around us, but somehow we had managed to find our own little island of grass.

That was about to change.

A few minutes later, a pair of sisters came walking toward us, towing a large cooler on wheels. Their walk was not exactly in a straight line but more like overcooked spaghetti. They also decided this section of grass looked like a pretty good place to settle in.

We suspected the night was about to get entertaining when they started walking around asking the other couples nearby if anyone had kids with them.

Thankfully, no one did.

Apparently, they had been kicked out of another nearby park a few minutes earlier, so they seemed to be doing their best to make sure that didn’t happen again.

The sisters looked to be somewhere in their late fifties or early sixties. They dragged their cooler up over the curb and into the grass and both plopped down on top of it. This was their new home base for the next hour or so.

I’m pretty sure they took our amused smiles as an invitation to start talking to us.

And why not?

“Do you guys want some Tito’s vodka? Or we have Seagram’s Coolers. Or do you want a hit of weeeeed?” 

They really emphasized the brand names in case we were the type of people who would be really brand conscious about free booze.

Then she looked at Elise.

“I know she wants some Tito’s!”
The woman paused and looked at us.

“Tito’s always makes me soooo wet. And looking at you two, I know she’s already halfway there.”

Well then.

Hello to you, too.

Elise and I are both products of the Reagan administration, though we were just little kids, but that also means we grew up during Nancy Reagan’s great anti-drug campaign:

Just Say No.

So we politely declined their repeated offers.

The older and more faded-looking sister eventually stood up and demanded that her younger sister move so she could get into the cooler. She told her in a sing-song way by quoting Ludacris:

“Move bitch, get out the way!”

Out came the Tito’s vodka in a half-empty handle bottle, just like they had promised. I could only hope they had grabbed a bottle they already had at home and brought it with them, rather than this being a fresh bottle they had started earlier in the evening. Especially since they had mentioned they drove there. 

To our surprise, she also reached into the cooler and handed Elise and me each a bottle of some mystery-flavored Seagram’s wine cooler. I guess they got tired of asking and didn’t want to drink alone.

We graciously thanked her and unscrewed the cold bottles filled with golden, bubbly liquid.

When was the last time we even had a wine cooler?

Elise and I quietly asked each other that question.

“Are we getting roofied?” Elise asked in the quietest voice possible.

Sure, looking back, that was probably in slightly poor taste. But in the moment…

“No,” I replied. “The screw tops are way too tight. These are factory fresh.”

Fresh, maybe from the 1990s, but still securely sealed.

Once again, the older sister offered us vodka. Ahem. Sorry, she once again offered us, Tito’s.

This time she was actually aiming to pour some into Elise’s open bottle. She hesitated, probably because she knew her hand eye coordination wasn’t the best and didn’t want to waste the precious Tito’s.

Her younger sister immediately told her to back off.

The four of us now drinking, we then struck up a surprisingly decent conversation with them. We found out they were locals, and it quickly became obvious that the younger sister looked after her older sister.

She apologized for her sister’s behavior, explaining that she had lived a difficult life. She was a military veteran and hinted that the experience had really affected her. There was also a sense that she felt forgotten or tossed aside by the government she had once served, but she was proud of doing it.

Living as older women of color in a city that can sometimes swallow even the best and brightest, I don’t doubt that they had experienced their share of struggles.

The conversation drifted towards their sex lives and sex in general. About a few wild things they have done or seen.
I had to bite my tongue.

Because, honestly, I could have easily joined in.

Just the week before, Elise and I had been on a bed with another couple, having one hell of a great time.

But this wasn’t the moment to one-up them.

And I realize I’m guilty of one-upping people. I totally will if the conversation naturally goes in that direction. But something told me this wasn’t the time.
Although, looking back, maybe it totally was.

I bet they would have gotten a kick out of hearing some of our stories. I’m just not sure they would have believed us.
If I saw Elise and me walking down the street, I don’t think I’d look at us and immediately think, Those two probably get into that kind of trouble.

Is there really a type?

I don’t know.

But I feel like we aren’t it.

We don’t own anything that’s covered in pineapples. We don’t wear anything remotely suggestive in public. We don’t exactly advertise what we do behind closed doors.

Though, as I’m writing this on a plane rocketing towards Miami, I have to admit that I did just buy a floral-print shirt with actual pineapples on it.

So maybe I’m finally starting to look the part.

I had to buy a new shirt the following day because the humidity had returned, and I had completely sweated through the one I was wearing. We needed to pick up a few things before our flight, and instead of calling an Uber, we decided to walk the streets of Chicago. Of course, that meant I was once again playing vacation sherpa, carrying around my ridiculously oversized backpack.

I also bought some wet wipes so I could give myself a makeshift sponge bath before boarding the plane. I figured my seatmates shouldn’t have to suffer through smelling me for several hours.
Of course, karma apparently had other plans.

I was the one who ended up having to suffer through some seriously bad BO from the elderly person who sat down next to me.

But I digress.

Back to the sisters.

By this point, the younger sister had lit up what appeared to be a loosely rolled marijuana cigarette. She took short drags and waved it around casually while she talked.

The older sister immediately chimed in.

“When are you gonna puff-puff-pass it to me? C’mon. Puff-puff-pass. Puff-puff-pass it to me.”

She must have repeated that line about a dozen times before her younger sister finally turned toward her.

“Why? You don’t even smoke.”

Then she added:

“And you can’t either. You’re going to be tested in like two weeks for the VA Games.”

That seemed to settle the matter.

The younger sister did, however, motion toward us and offered us a hit.

Once again, the voices in my head reminded me of the golden rule of childhood:

Don’t take drugs from strangers.
Don’t take drugs from strangers.
Don’t take drugs from strangers.

So I politely declined.

“Sorry. We both get random drug testing at work.”

A total lie.

But who cares?

We were perfectly happy with our surprise wine coolers.

Besides, I have never smoked weed in my life, and I’m not sure a crowded park in Chicago, surrounded by strangers, and two very entertaining sisters would have been the best place to start.

Although…

Maybe it would have been the perfect place to start, especially since the fireworks and drone show had just begun. 

The older sister once again jumped up from the cooler and became animated. She paced around in short circles, pointing at the fireworks and trying to figure out what the drones were creating in the sky. 

It was like watching that old late 80’s or 90’s game of Pictionary or Win, Lose or Draw, as each of the individual drones acted like pixels and they slowly came together to form a new image. 

“That’s a big penis!” she shouted. “Look at that penis! That’s the biggest penis I have ever seen, and I have seen some really big ones”, she blurted it out while laughing for everybody in the metro area to hear. 

In reality, the penis image she thought the drones were displaying was actually the famous Chicago Theatre marquee. We all laughed hysterically at this.

“Bruce! Bruce! Bruce!” She was now standing up behind me with one hand on my shoulder and her other hand still holding onto her drink. 

“What’s that one? What the hell is that???!!!”

Elise and I stared up at the sky, puzzled for a few moments to figure it out ourselves. We realized it was supposed to be downtown Chicago traffic. 

Thankfully she was able to figure out the next one on her own.

It was the Taste of Chicago logo, which combines a fork and dish to resemble a record player. 

“I know this one” she proudly declared.

She then put her hands up to her mouth and started beatboxing. 

I could feel her younger sister’s eyes rolling even though she was sitting a few feet behind me.

I’m glad these two sisters were here with us. They made the show so much more entertaining because the fireworks and drones were a bit lackluster to me. The fireworks seemed like they were afterthought, with the drones getting most of the attention. The drone images felt like we were watching a slide show or even a Powerpoint presentation featuring a dozen or so, best of Chicago landmarks. They even repeated a few images to pad out the showtime.

And then it was over just like that. 

As soon as the last firework in the grand finale fizzled out, everyone around our little island of grass quickly packed up and stood-up to leave. I originally thought that we could just sit around and wait with the sisters until the crowd cleared out, but we were about to get swept up in another massive wave of bodies.

We said our goodbyes to our very entertaining new friends as they gathered their belongings together. We made sure to say thank you for the drinks and by the time I was able to tell them to have a very safe drive home, the crowd began pulling us apart in separate directions. 

That would be the last time we would see them.

“Do you think they are actually driving home?” Elise asked me rhetorically. “I sure hope they are planning on waiting a few hours before getting behind the wheel.”

Holding Elise’s hand once again to keep us together, I nodded. Neither one of them seemed like they were in any shape to be driving so soon after the show.

I’ll never know, but I’m pretty sure they made it back home without any incident since I didn’t see any related headlines the following morning.

Some nights don’t need a grand ending or some sort of moral lesson. Sometimes the best nights are just a collection of small perfect unexpected moments. The kind you could never plan for, but somehow stick with you.

We had set out that night, hand-in-hand. Just the two of us looking for some unique snacks or maybe a dessert and a drink. 

Instead we ended up sharing drinks with two complete strangers, talking about sex, laughing at giant floating sky penises, and wondering if our new friends were going to make it home safely.

We could have kept our heads down or moved when the sisters originally approached us, but I”m glad we didn’t. I’m glad we met them and were able to spend even just a little bit of time together. 

You never really know what kind of story you’re going to come home with.