Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Second Chance
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
“Dad, I screwed up.”
Four heart-crushing words no parent ever wants to hear. The toughest part of raising my kids alone is being alone for their tough moments.
After I picked Ben up at O’Hare, his measured unpacking of his duffel bag told me something was bothering him. We are in Chicago for our annual father-son vacation.
As if to say “I’m listening,” I stop rifling through my guidebook. I sit still.
“I flunked out. Not college. Just pre-med. No way I ever get into med school,” he blurts out. The defeat and dejection on his face is the weary, flattened look of a foot soldier after a bruising battle.
Ben is a Gen Z-er. I admire his devotion to hanging out with friends, sports, road trips, dating, all of it, but his grades suffered. He knows that.
I’m not sure what to say, so I say, “I love you. I’m always going to love you.”
Offering a familiar, maybe comforting, distraction, I add, “Our walking tour starts in twenty minutes.”
We have a tradition of walking tours of cities, parks, ruins. For us, hikes are like mini-holidays inside larger holidays.
Our tour guide Liam is a natural history teacher. I lecture about western civilization to semi-bored high school students. His talks are to rapt tourists about civilizing acts of community.
Liam is wearing his blue baseball cap backwards, a black puffer vest, a stud earring. He’s closer to Ben’s age than mine.
“Chicago is nicknamed the second city. The Great Chicago Fire in 1871 burned the first Chicago to the ground. Twenty-two years later, the second Chicago hosted a world’s fair for 27 million visitors,” he tells us
“After the fire burned a third of all Chicagoans into homelessness—most were immigrants—donations from ethnic communities back home crackled and spread like a secondary wildfire. Led by Queen Victoria, England sent 8,000 books to jumpstart the city’s first free public library,” Liam crows as if he was there to help shelve them.
Chicago is a hodgepodge of skyrocketing skyscrapers, cheesy store fronts, Art Deco structures, parks and playgrounds, sports arenas and transit terminals, churches and river bridges. They are tossed about as if an angry, out-of-control child flung wood blocks, toy houses, train sets and plastic cars onto the ground.
“We’re looking at a classic Louis Sullivan building,” Liam points. “Before Chicago birthed modernist architecture, Sullivan-designed skyscrapers were constructed in three parts: foundation, then upward shafting center, then a decorative cornice or capital.” I glance at Ben.
Ben’s life is unfolding in structured stages just like a Sullivan building. School, the foundation. Next, a succession of upward thrusting opportunities, do overs, new beginnings. Lastly, a capstone achievement.
A truck rumbles by, honking and bellowing. I half-shout, “If your mom were still alive, she’d tell you not to give up. You’re going to have a great life, a good life.” Ben steps away.
“Chicago has it all,” Liam shifts into full boosterism mode. “World-famous chefs. Museums for every interest. Iconic architecture. Street spectacles. Parks, large and small. Concert halls. Sports arenas. Waterfronts and walking paths. Landmarks and monuments.”
“Chicago,” he beams, “is a city of second chances.”
Ben’s face is turned upwards to the skyline. A smile so small only a father would notice appears.
