Even though the air has a chill to it, the apartment is still hot. Two couches, a card table, end tables, oddly spaced lawn chairs and bits and pieces of our various lives are scattered on the floor. A single lightbulb illuminates the room, casting a pall of darkness into it. The air is silent save the sound of gunshots echoing loudly from the television screen, the only source of noise in the otherwise still room. Blankets and pillows, remnants of the houseguests and various tenants of the quiet building on the street, such a quiet little oasis next to an industrial yard. Waking up in the morning, planes from Midway pass overhead, their jet streams searing sound into the air around the house. Pigeons stalk the balcony, the ever present battle for the grounds that have been theirs since before the boys moved in only a year ago. And yet, this has become like a second home to us, sleeping on the couches and in the beds, sleeping wherever there is room in an at times packed house. The shower is cluttered with our bottles, mingling with theirs, our pink towels, blue, and theirs brown and red. We drive to the beach, play football in the rain, run into the freezing cold waters of Lake Michigan, spend the nights living hard, partying for no reason other than the joy of the company that we share. Card games, laughter, the jokes speed out anew. We are for some reason caught in some strange bubble, with nothing left to hold us back. Two of us sat at the train station, on a crowded street, parked with our hazard lights on, blowing bubbles into the streets of Chicago. A cab driver passes, smiles at me and then asks me if he can have some. We smile, waiting for someone else to join this motley crew. We eat fresh cherries bought at a market on the South Side. We drive the streets, intermingling with the horns of angry drivers and the frustration that I feel in traffic. But there is nothing like the sight of Lake Michigan on your right and the city on your left as you drive up Lake Shore Drive, the epitome of the Ferris Bueller-esque ideals that perhaps we still hold on to. Waking early, we sought the addresses that we had penned earlier, scribbled notes in crayon on a used piece of paper. The phone rings, and the realtor is on the other end, begging to show us the house of our dreams. And we answer, there, arriving a moment late but not quite. She shakes our hands and then we begin the tour, our hearts melting a little at the sight of the quaint two bedroom apartment that I cannot wait to have my name signed to. And so, the adventure continues……..