By James Kunkel
It’s not that you’re a lazy kid – far from it. Whenever possible, you ride your bike to school, use a skateboard strictly for transportation, climb trees for the hell of it. Like most boys your age. But a shortcut’s a shortcut. As far as you’re concerned, this country thrives on the principle that the easiest, most direct route is the best route.
It wasn’t planned, this shortcut – although its discovery couldn’t’ve come at a better time. Besides, having to walk over to the Crawford Avenue Bridge, or all the way down to the 159th Street viaduct, is simply too far out of the way for practical purposes.
Sure, you could ride your bike across town – but to do this requires one of two things: it doesn’t have a flat tire (a seemingly perpetual issue these days), or it hasn’t been recently stolen. Again. (Another daily issue you must deal with, living on this side of the hood.)
It just… happened. You’re walking along Frontage Road, come to its end and suddenly realize: “If I keep going straight ahead, I can knock 15 minutes – a whole mile! – off my voyage!” Herein lies the birth of The Shortcut.
No need to trespass either. Your new path of enlightenment runs just along the edge of some guy’s property. This guy – whoever he is – never speaks a word to you. Occasionally, he looks your way – while mowing the lawn or washing his car – maybe he gives a slight shake of his head. But he never voices any displeasure with your newfound route.
* * * * *
The first time you attempt the crossing is the toughest. The fence is wobbly, spiked, and barbed. There are sticker bushes hiding amongst the weeds, and those things with the burrs on ’em that attach themselves to your clothes with vise-grip-like tenacity. Little, unwelcome hitchhikers.
Traffic along this particular stretch of Interstate 57 is comparatively sparse. Crossing over is surprisingly easy. Except when it’s muddy. Or frozen. This makes the median strip between opposing lanes an adventure within itself: unseen drop-offs and various articles of highway debris (beer bottles, tires, and hubcaps) lying in wait, hidden by high weeds, in mud puddles, or covered by snow. Many a shin you will bust over the years, taking this route without proper caution.
The opposite side of the highway can be just as treacherous: high weeds, more sticker bushes, a steep embankment that, after it rains – or snows – becomes nearly impossible to scale in a single attempt. It also has the wobbly, spiked-topped, barbed fencing that borders many American highways; the only major difference being the mile marker bolted to a rusty iron fence post. You use this for leverage and stability, in order to avoid getting snagged on the unstable fence – or worse – while climbing over it.
* * * * *
Mile Marker 17 isn’t like other mile markers. It’s a little bit taller, a little bit wider. Laminated to an aluminum backing plate – the industry standard – this one is also mounted on a wooden backboard. What really sets it apart from other mile markers is the vibrant patch of healthy, green grass below it.
You obviously didn’t notice this oddity upon your first few crossings, so focused are you on your destination. But, eventually, the slight indentation in the ground becomes apparent; the large stones underneath protruding a little more at each turning of the season. Still, you pay this next to no mind. Using this shortcut three days a week has left a distinct path; this minor detail blending seamlessly into the background.
* * * * *
One summer, the Illinois Department of Transportation (IDOT) unexpectedly planted row upon row of a prickly, all-purpose shrubbery along the fence line, bordering both sides of the expressway. These are strong, stout little bastards that will hold your weight when you jump on them. They are also quite adept at tearing up your clothes and skin, if you aren’t careful while navigating through them. Like the rest of the trail you’ve blazed, excessive use eventually wears a path between them as well, once again exposing the odd patch of grass in front of the milepost.
The following winter, IDOT experimented by installing a milelong snow fence along the northbound lanes. Your shortcut falls right in the middle of this ordeal. This horrible idea creates a snowbank twelve foot high. At first, you think: “This is sooo awesome!” Until, partway up it, you break through the outer crust. Now you’re up to your nads in ice-cold snow, three feet off the ground.
Scrabbling your way back to terra firma, you have an epiffery? epithime? a great idea: you will slice a path through Mount Everest to rival a loaf of Butternut bread! You just need a snow shovel…
The guy who ignores you has a shovel on his front porch, a sturdy, steel one that will make short work out of the snowy hillside. Without permission, you commandeer his snow-removing instrument, and commence digging.
Two-and-a-half hours later, you’ve managed to produce a dead end – a finely chiseled, nine-foot-tall dead end, but a dead end nonetheless. Disappointed that your plan isn’t coming together as well as you like – and wore out by all the effort you put into failure – you lazily jam the pilfered implement into a snow bank beside the man’s car, instead of returning it to the place at which you found it. Wearily, you lumber your way home.
* * * * *
Gravity can be a fickle thing. One moment you’re on your bike, soaring over garbage cans – using no more than a 2×6 and a cinder block – the next, you can’t seem to leap over a measly three-foot gap in the creek without getting soaked – tonight being the latter. Good thing you’ve been saving that fart you ripped – two hours ago – inside your snow suit, to unleash on your brother when you get home. There’s nothing like blasting someone with a wicked foul stench to lighten your mood. On you trudge through the snowy tundra, limping along on one frozen foot.
Arriving at your destination, you discover – by means of your father’s angry glare – that you’re late, by an hour. However, you have a perfectly reasonable defense: “I was trying to shovel through a snow drift blocking my shortcut, and I lost track of the time.” You add a lame “I’m sorry” to the end of it, to help strengthen your case.
Your dad is only too happy to remind you that his “hard-earned tax dollars help keep our streets plowed, salted, and safe.” Safe? You think quietly to yourself. When’s the last time he was chased down the street by three punks trying to steal his bike? you ask the idiot inside your head. Right on cue, your little sister adds her two cents worth to the discussion: “I seen Jimmy and Jason grab a car bumper and skeetch all the way to school! A thousand times, I seen this.” To emphasize the accuracy of her count, she deftly holds up a sticky spoon, and two wet fingers.
If that’s not enough to earn your father’s ire, forgetting the “surprise” you have saved for your brother inside your snowsuit – until after you unwittingly pull down the zipper – surely does the job.
Your sister runs off, shrieking like a banshee, your brother laughs and gags simultaneously, and your dad questions your lack of good manner – as well as your heritage.
* * * * *
While finishing your extra chores the next evening, you come up with another brilliant plan: instead of slicing your way through Snow Mountain, you’ll tunnel through it! Having to remove only one-third of the amount of snow will only require one-third of the effort, thereby accomplishing your objective in one-third of the time. A perfect plan makes for perfect execution – in theory.
Arriving at the best-looking dead end in all of Chicagoland, you suddenly realize that your cunning ingenuity failed to include bringing a snow shovel in your divine plan. Forgetting that you’ve already misappropriated that man’s snow shovel – only to return it in a most uncivilized manner – you stalk over to his porch to repeat your transgression, only to find the tool in question missing. Hmmm. You swear it was right over…
Remembering now your roguish ways the prior evening, you believe you’ve offended this man who’s never bothered you and begin to think he’s hidden his precious snow shovel from you. Turning to give his innocent front door a wrathful scowl, you notice something sticking out above your head. Backing up, you spot the handle of the missing shovel poking out of a snow mound covering the porch’s slightly angled roof. Aha! you proclaim triumphantly – albeit silently – before defiantly making a Jordanesque leap to retrieve the hidden object of your attention. In a single bound, you grab its handle, pull down and… WHHOOOOMP! Uninvited, gravity shows up yet again.
It takes all of 30 minutes to clear the man’s porch of the massive amount of snow you singlehandedly brought down upon it. And do this with a severe case of swamp-ass, as the heavy snow fell straight down, ruthlessly making its way past, through, and under everything covering your upper body, slowly melting its way to your nether regions.
Having used up the full three-thirds of the allotted proportions, you decide you’ve had enough misadventure for one week and head back home – this time detouring around the traitorous creek.
* * * * *
A few summers later, you begin noticing different things along the route of your shortcut. Things like the rugged shrubbery installed by IDOT never changes – like most local plant life – with the seasons. The branches stay full. The leaves stay green. Also, that odd patch of greenery in front of the milepost never seems to fade – or grow – for that matter. And those stones within its confines slowly continue to work their way to the surface, their tops becoming more and more visible over time.
The stones grab your attention, in part due to their large size, as well as what appears to be a specific arrangement to their placement on the ground. Nothing you can clearly put your
finger on, but subconsciously your brain perceives a hidden pattern. You just don’t know it, yet.
* * * * *
Into your teens now, this shortcut has also become a sort of refuge: a place to chill – a place to smoke an occasional bowl, sip on a stolen beer or two – a good place just to sit and think in private.
Once, while leaning back against the milepost, absentmindedly stargazing (possibly under the influence of… something?), the peaceful humdrum of interstate traffic lulls you to sleep, only to be startled awake a brief moment later. Standing, you shake off the sudden edginess, trying – unsuccessfully – to recall what your short dream (nightmare?) was about. You distractedly pledge to reduce the self-indulgences and walk your way across town. A buddy has the new Misfits tape; gotta hear that before any of the losers at school do…
* * * * *
Your father takes you for an impromptu session of Driver’s Ed. Naturally, Frontage Road is the safest route. Only two lanes wide, it rarely sees much traffic.
Passing by the man’s house, you cannot help but to notice that the trail you blazed a half dozen years or so ago is starting to grow in. It doesn’t see much use these days. Almost all of your friends – and soon you – are driving now.
Pretending to ask spontaneously, you plead with your dad to allow you to hit the open highway – just this once – so you can get a feel for it. “What better time to do it then, with you here?” you casually throw in to seal the deal.
It works.
Cruising along at a smooth 55½ miles per hour – down the right-hand lane of Interstate Highway 57 – you inconspicuously watch the mile markers as they come into view, anxious to see number 17 from this perspective.
There it is! In your fit of excitement, you veer – ever so slightly – into the next lane. Your father overreacts in a most dramatic and unmanly way. Calmly – belying your true feelings of frustrated angst – you oh-so-casually attempt to correct your course when… KaBloonk! Rumbumpitty-rumbumpitty-rumbumpitty. Flat tire. Go figure.
Pulling over onto the shoulder – “Use your signal!” your dad shouts in the enclosed vehicle – you safely bring the car, and his valuable driving lesson, to an inglorious halt.
Resisting the urge to bounce your head off the steering-wheel – repeatedly – you try to ignore your father’s melodramatic hand gestures, luckily only catching mere snippets of his verbal discourse: “…you thinking… the goddamn road… flat tire… middle of the goddamn night…” It’s barely six o’clock!
Peering over your dad’s shoulder as he berates the windshield, you notice that – as fate would have it – you’re parked directly in line with Mile Marker 17.
The tire changed – your dad triple-checking the lug nuts for the proper torque – and everything securely stored in the confines of the trunk, you take a final glance out of the passenger window – your assigned seat for the duration of this fateful trip – and swear that you’re seeing the bushes in front of the signpost waving about frantically!
Knowing that, outside of the Windy City’s liveliest of breezes, only a large animal is capable of moving these stout shrubs in such a way, you make a mental note to come back here tomorrow.
* * * * *
Taking The Shortcut, after all this time, brings feelings of both excitement and trepidation, like visiting an old friend after far too long. The first thing you notice is how far out of the ground the stones have risen. Now there’s no mistaking the definitive design in their precise arrangement, though what the pattern represents is not immediately obvious at this point.
Lastly, you discover there are animal tracks intruding on this once-hallowed ground. Dog? Deer? Something large, you’re certain. While contemplating possible species, you become aware that the paw prints are traveling in the same direction, ending where you’re now standing.
Intuition impels you to backtrack this interloper’s trek to its place of origin. Like a predator tracking prey, you cunningly retrace its passage, picking up signs: areas of scuffed dirt; patches of animal hair caught on the barbed wires; scat next to a bush. Telltale signs – each and every one.
The trail comes to an abrupt end at the guardrail running up the Crawford Avenue Bridge. From up here you can clearly see where this reverse-pursuit began. From up here, you can see that something is buried at Mile Marker 17 – and digging its way out.
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