From "Surrender a Dream" Chicago
Spring 1894
A black enamel Overman safety bicycle rounded the corner. The silver spokes flashed in the sunlight, and the rubber ball-bearing pedals propelled the bike at an outlandish speed of twelve miles per hour. Air-filled pneumatic tires absorbed the shock as the wheels bounced over the deep ruts and steel cable-car tracks that checkered the busy intersection.
Ringing like Quasimodo's bell was the cycle's newest doodad -- a sparkling London chime with a genuine nickel gong. It sat atop the handlebars next to a black leather tool bag and a lollipop-shaped oil can that swung from its chain and clanged in ear-ringing discord against the steel bar post. Despite its annoying sound, the can was necessary, for its contents -- the Dynamic Cycle Oil -- made the chain mechanism glide like a yacht on Lake Michigan. Speeding through the morning air, the bicycle made another turn and then sailed down Randolph Street, right into the path of an oncoming bakery wagon.
The wagon team reared and the bicycle swerved right, jolting over the curb and cleaving its way through the crowded sidewalk. Women shrieked and men yelled, but the bicycle plunged onward, brakeless and out of control. Suddenly the cycle veered left, heading straight for an iron street lamp. The cyclist released the handlebars and, with both arms, grabbed the lamp post. The front wheel dropped down the curb, and with a loud crunch the bicycle dumped over, leaving its rider clinging like ivy to the cold iron post.
Adelaide Amanda Pinkney slowly slid down the lamp post. Her pent-up breath whooshed out the moment her kid pedaling shoes touched the granite sidewalk. She let go of the lamp post and looked at her bicycle, lying across the curb at a twisted angle. Its front wheel was still spinning. Stooping down, she tilted the cycle upright and stared at her pride and joy.
It was crooked. She stood and rolled the crippled bike up onto the walk and then watched helplessly as her special plaster-cast, custom-fitted saddle fell to the ground with a sickening thud.
"Hey, lady! Get a horse!"
Her gaze shot up. A crowd had gathered and stood back a bit -- her audience. Some of the men were smirking and the women shot her horrified looks before they regained their composure and scurried away. A few men mumbled something about women drivers before they went on. Not one gentleman offered her assistance. So she ignored them, figuring they were just angry at the thought of being run down by a woman. Then she saw the driver of the bakery wagon and she heard real anger. He stood with his arms waving like a flag. German curses bellowed from his mouth as he stared at the mess in the street.
Addie stifled a groan at the sight. The wagon doors must have opened when the horses reared, and all the wooden trays, filled with loaves of bread, golden doughnuts, and crusty muffins, were scattered in the street. The bread loaves looked like oval pancakes, and the muffins were crumbled chunks. Whole doughnuts rolled along the cobbly gray street until they chanced into the path of speeding carriage wheels.
A Chicago policeman, appearing solemn-faced behind his thick gray brush of a mustache, walked toward her. Clenched between his teeth was a whistle whose shrill trumpet could be heard even over the clamor of the busy street. His long, dark coat had double rows of brass buttons. They sparkled, but not half as brilliantly as the star that was pinned on his left breast pocket.
Addie wanted to run.
Instead, she leaned her bicycle against the lamp post and managed to appear busy as she tucked a few loose strands of raven-black hair back under her straw hat. She tugged her boned shirtwaist back into its proper position and fiddled with the braid on her jacket. Just as she began to dust off the chalky dirt from her navy serge skirt, the policeman arrived. Unable to ignore him when he stood only a scant two feet away, she took a deep breath and looked up, ready for battle.
Under the shade of his tall helmet, his eyes were kind, and familiar. Every Thursday for the last few months, Officer O'Grady had come to Addle's counter at the Mason Street Library and she'd given him the latest books on California, the golden land of opportunity. They shared an easy friendship, and a dream.
"May the saints be singing, Miss Addie! What brings you out in this mess?" He gestured toward the street in the heart of the business district, where every morning a jam of trolleys, wagons, and carriages crammed in a fifty-foot-wide jumble.
"Oh, Officer O'Grady, I'm so glad it's you. I had to deliver some of the library's loan books to the Ryder Street School this morning and I, uh...I seem to have had a little mishap."
The officer eyed Addie's bent bicycle and then turned toward the teamster, who yelled while he tried to shoo away a couple of loose dogs that scavenged through the remains of his baked goods.
Addie, her face in a half grimace, peered around the officer's shoulder, secretly hoping the teamster would have vanished. He hadn't. Instead he turned and stomped straight toward them.
"Better make a quick getaway," O'Grady said, and with a wink he added, "I'll handle him."
Addie smiled in relief.
"Get along with you, now!"
A quick thank-you and Addie rolled the hobbling bicycle into the sidewalk crowd, moving along as best she could with the heavy bike and the awkward cadence of its bent wheel. She thumped around the corner and stopped to rest and get her bearings. She inspected the wheel, knowing she needed to get to a repair shop, but the shop she usually used was in the riding academy near her small apartment, which was all the way across town. There was a sister riding club somewhere on Water Street but she wasn't sure exactly where. Taking a deep breath, she crossed her fingers -- hoping she was going in the right direction -- and she and her bike headed away from the business district.
Half an hour later, as the sweat drizzled down her face and onto her soaked clothes, Addie stared at her crossed fingers and wondered why she kept doing something so silly, especially when it didn't seem to work. The riding academy was nowhere to be seen. She sagged back against the cool bricks of a nearby building and searched through her jacket for her handkerchief. It wasn't there.
The sweat drops trickled down her nose, making it itch so much that she swiped at it with her sleeve. Then she saw her hankie. A small lace corner of it was sticking out of her cuff. She removed it, straightened, and wiped the moisture from her face and neck. She fanned her face. The humidity was awful.
It was a Chicago spring day, typically unpredictable. The morning had been cool, so Addie dressed accordingly. But now, in only a couple of hours, the weather had changed. The air swelled thick with humidity, and the wind that had breezed by earlier was gone.
Whenever the wind halted, the people of Chicago had to swallow her industrial waste. Addie could taste the brackish taint of smoke seeping closer. Vulcanian fumes belched from the city's smokestacks, and the sky turned into a dark and billowing cloud. Drifting downward, the smoke cloud mixed with the rising stench of the stockyards, the black, gritty soot that spewed from the elevated trains, and the heavy, moist air. Soon, a gray fog coated the city.
This was progress, and Addie hated it.
She grabbed her bicycle and headed east, away from the fog, and two blocks farther she found the riding academy and its repair shop. A short time later she left, having made arrangements for her bicycle to be delivered the next day. She pulled on her leather gloves and made her way to the trolley stop.
It was not a good day. The first three cars were so crammed with passengers that they didn't even stop. She if was so flustered that when one did stop, she just jumped right on, not bothering to check the number. The trolley rumbled on before she remembered. She glanced up; it was trolley No. 613. It was common knowledge that No. 613 was the worst car in the city, and not just because of its unlucky number. This car's route went through the most hellacious area of Chicago.
Addie released the trolley pole and eyed an empty seat. She plopped down on the hard wooden bench. At least she had a place to sit. She was short and hated to stand on these things because everyone was always taller. She never got any air. Standing on 613 would be horrid. This route would take her to work the long way. The car bucked over an intersection, and she hung on tight as the electric trolley-car rattled over the streets.
The car jerked to a stop every few blocks and more people squeezed in, until Addie was pinned against the window side of the trolley. Apparently, the majority of Chicagoans were not superstitious. The car was packed and the odor of unwashed bodies was so strong that she turned her face to the open window, preferring the dirty outside air to the stink inside.
She looked at the street. They were in the slums. Filthy children crowded the stoops of the tenements. Some of them were little more than babies, naked and toddling through the street muck. Gangs of boys, angry and cocky, stood and stared, until one began to throw pieces of broken tenement brick at the trolley. The others joined in, jeering and swearing. A health cart slowly made its way down the street, spraying the walks, and anything on them, with disinfectant. Buckets clucked against the cart's barrel pump where they hung, waiting to be filled and handed out to anyone who wanted the disinfectant. No one did.
Piercing through the trolley racket was a baby's wail. It had a hungry sound. Garbage was thrown in the gutters, and the desperate ones rummaged through it, looking for something that resembled food. These people were starving, hundreds of them. It was then that Addie remembered the doughnuts, rolling out in the street. The street dogs of the business district ate better than most of these people. She felt a pang of guilt, yet she knew she couldn't help. Chicago was her hometow...
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