Why I’ll Never Go Back to Chicago
That icy cold February afternoon reeks in my mind like a corpse under the floorboards. Sometimes I even have to take off work because I can’t focus on anything. I had been visiting my in-laws with my wife for the week in Chicago. We were staying on their tiny brick house on the corner of 13th and Hope Street, and all the people in the house started to become unnerving. My in-laws are not very fond of me, and with all four of us packed in that house like sardines, tensions rose pretty quickly.

“This is why we never visit!” screeched my father-in-law, and I could feel his spit on my face. Disgusted, I stormed to the coat rack, and swiped my peacoat. I felt the boom of the door slamming inside my chest, and walked away already feeling guilty. I guess you could say I’m somewhat of a pushover. Debating on whether to turn around and apologize, I stepped in a big mush of mud. After a few attempts at budging, it was certain I was stuck. Maybe it was because I was literally stuck in the ground, that I decided to figuratively put my foot down. I removed my shoe from the mud, and walked with my damp sock, determined to at least do some sight-seeing on this lousy trip. Not even ten feet later something caught my eye. Thinking back now it seems a little silly that a shiny object I noticed in the dirt stole my attention. Perhaps I was searching for a distraction without even knowing it. I walked up to the object, which was covered in mulch by a nearby tree. I swiped some dirt off the top and my inner archeologist told me it was a briefcase. At first I thought nothing of it, but I noticed how heavy it was. Tricking myself into thinking I was looking inside for the name of the owner, I clicked open the locks and decided to look inside purely out of curiosity. The exact moment the case opened I felt a surge of anxiety blast from my palms holding the case through my arms up to my chest and hit my heart. I had never seen so much money in one place. I couldn’t even blink, let alone close the case. It was only a few seconds that it stayed open, but they were the longest seconds of my life. So many thoughts ran through my head. Do I keep it? Do I turn it in? What if someone thinks I stole it? These questions distracted me from the microphone that was now protruding out of the extended hand of the reporter. Once my eyes shifted up, I noticed that an army of camera flashes, and brigade of police officers suddenly swarmed me.
“What’s your name?!” boomed the reporter. I froze, and so did time. Again the thoughts rolled in. Do I tell them? How many years will I do for this?
“Sir?”
“Jack” I admitted, getting my wrists ready for the cuffs.
“You’re a hero!” the reporter let out. Cheers and screams overwhelmed me, until the creeping emotion of guilt crawled up my leg, and again into my heart. I smiled, took a few pictures, and the feeling shook me. I had to get out of there. I ran. Ran, until I got lost in this city, and it took me almost 45 minutes to get back to my In-laws. I opened the front door almost positive that I dreamt up what just occurred. Three pure white sets of eyes greeted me; the only thing illuminating them was the TV screen. My wife hugged me tight and pointed at the TV. The same reporter was telling the other half of the story that didn’t know.
“A one-shoed man saves the day today by stopping legendary Chicago bank robber, recovering the money and didn’t even ask for the reward! What a guy!”
I bolted to the bathroom and all the emotions currently holding my heart hostage suddenly made a break for it, spewing into the toilet bowl. The door flew open to three warm grins. I couldn’t handle the guilt. I must have been set up! I must have! I marched up the steps and grabbed all of our belongings. Our car was in motion before my wife even got in. I’ve never driven so fast. To this day, the guilt kills me, but I guess that’s what I get for visiting my in-laws.