The Wooden Stairway

This is not a very good photograph, but it brings up an entire world and a time for me. I was living on Wayne Street, in Chicago – off of Southport – and M., the man in my life, lived four blocks away. He was the one who would crawl through my window at three o’clock in the morning (or, once, by accident, through Mitchell’s window), scaring me half out of my mind – until I got used to it because he did it so often. I’d wake up from a deep slumber, see a man crawling through my window in the dead of night, and be like, “Hey there, what’s up …” Insane. He lived in one of those classic Chicago apartments – with a wooden back staircase, with little porches on each floor (porches that, on occasion, collapse under partygoers – causing much catastrophe) … and when I would go over there, and I was always over there, I never buzzed the buzzer. Ever. Maybe the first time I buzzed the buzzer but after that – I would just go around to the back alley, climb up the staircase, and let myself in through his kitchen door, which was always unlocked.

We had been seeing each other for three years at this point – but we had always had to make dates, and make plans … but for that last year all of that kind of stopped. And we were constantly just letting ourselves into each other’s apartments on a moment’s notice. Or, as the case may be, crawling through the window.

Here is the back staircase on a snowy night. It’s hard to photograph snow so that it really looks right. The photo is dark and dreary … but I do like how the snow looks. And I do like remembering that time in my life, when … I didn’t need to ask permission to enter, I didn’t need to even call first … I could just walk four blocks, and there I would be, five minutes after leaving my own apartment, lying on his couch watching some ridiculous kung fu movie and eating takeout.