nate jones
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Just is, I Guess

This isn’t new, but a recent 3:30am trip outside with satch brought it back to mind.


At the juncture of the Wrigleyville bar scene and Boystown, we obviously live in a colorful neighborhood (usually rainbow-colored, but colorful still). While we come to expect a certain amount of craziness, I’m not sure what could have prepared me for what was about to happen.

Satch and I were out for his last walk of the evening, and, over the din of taxi horns and drunken shouts, I was convincing him that this certain patch of grass was up to his standards. I glanced up the street to see two figures making their way toward us.

As they stumbled in and out of the streetlights, the one on the left struggled, under their combined weight, to keep the other on her feet. Closer and closer they came; Satch sat down in his normal ritual of fooling his prey closer by masking excitement with manners.

As the pair was close enough to speak, the sweet twinge of pot wafted my way, and Satch’s tail started to twitch with our newfound proximity. Then, just as Dr Jekyl became Mr Hyde, the skinny blonde propped up by her gentleman caller suddenly & viciously became hideously deformed. Her skin melted into nasty, flowing rivers of wrinkles that sagged below her hollow cheeks.

She gazed at satch in amazement, from behind her dull, glassy eyes.

Just is, I Guess ×

Satch didn’t quite know what to make of this odd new commotion, and began to do his own interpretation of dancing from foot to foot, intermittently punctuating the night with barks.

“What’s his name?” she asked abruptly. Her gravelly voice slurring its way to my ears.

“Satch,” I replied, desperately trying to mask my horror.

All the while avoiding eye contact or directly facing anyone, she stood there, mystified.

“What?” she shot back at me.

“Satch,” this time a little more slowly.

Still befuddled by the complexity of three consecutive consonants, she spun around to face slightly in the direction of her companion.

“Say it, johnny,” she demanded.

“Ssssaaaaattttcccchhhhh,” he said, making sure to deliberately pronounce the name.

Satisfied, she began to clap and stiffly bounce from foot to foot, trying to rile up the 55-pound ball of muscle and fur that sat, confused, before her. Satch didn’t quite know what to make of this odd new commotion, and began to do his own interpretation of dancing from foot to foot, intermittently punctuating the night with barks. This immediately stopped blondie in her tracks and caused a look of utter confusion to creep across her pock-marked face.

Johhny, silent once again, sensed the change, and began to urge her along.

“Why’s he so funny?”

I shrugged, not quite sure why satch was the funny one, and not the crackwhore wearing clown makeup. Evidently unsatisfied with my answer, she turned to her guide.

“Why’s he so funny? Johnny, why’s he so funny?”

“I dunno. Just is, I guess.”