On a Sunday night a few months ago, my girlfriend and I took a moonlit stroll down Hutchinson Street just north of Irving Park and off Marine Drive. The street’s mansions and Prairie-style homes were built in the late 1800s, during that era’s version of suburban expansion. The area was already wealthy. The summer home of S.H. Kerfoot occupied 11 acres of plush gardens and abutted James Waller’s 60-acre estate known as “Buena.” The neighborhood began to be called Buena Park in 1889. Some of the houses on Hutchinson were designed by George Maher, a great architect in a city of great architects. The two-block stretch between Marine and Hazel is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
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Down the street a guy said good-bye to his buddies and started walking toward us. Full of turn-of-the-century charm, I told Michelle this guy was certainly “an imposing figure.” She chuckled. We continued down Hazel, and the street grew darker. As we crossed paths with the guy I gave a cool and respectful nod. “Hey.” I didn’t stop.
“Do you know where Trumbull Street is?” he asked.
“Is this all you have?” one of them asked, holding the 40 bucks he found in my wallet.
“Get up and run before I kill you.”
We sat alone because our detective was out on a call. On the walls were pictures of criminals in all races, shapes, and sizes. An FBI poster offered a reward for information leading to the capture of Osama bin Laden, just in case bin Laden took refuge in Hubbard’s Cave. Finally the computer spit out 916 matches.
The mugging made me understand how victims of random violence must feel–everyone became a potential victimizer. It made me understand how people could become obsessed by the apocalypse. The collapse of civilization had never been a major concern. But when you’re walking down the street holding hands one moment, and on the ground with a gun at your temple the next, it feels like the end of the world.
