THE EPISODE OF THE MONROE STREET PARKING GARAGE Monday, January 7, 2006 (Henry is 43)

THE EPISODE OF THE MONROE STREET
PARKING GARAGE


Monday, January 7, 2006 (Henry is 43)

HENRY: It’s cold. It’s very, very cold and I am lying on the ground in snow. Where
am I? I try to sit up. My feet are numb, I can’t feel my feet. I’m in an open space with
no buildings or trees. How long have I been here? It’s night. I hear traffic. I get to my
hands and knees. I look up. I’m in Grant Park. The Art Institute stands dark and
closed across hundreds of feet of blank snow. The beautiful buildings of Michigan
Avenue are silent. Cars stream along Lake Shore Drive, headlights cutting through
night. Over the lake is a faint line of light; dawn is coming. I have to get out of here. I
have to get warm.

I stand up. My feet are white and stiff. I can’t feel them or move them, but I begin
to walk, I stagger forward through the snow, sometimes falling, getting back up and
walking, it goes on and on, finally I am crawling. I crawl across a street. I crawl down
concrete stairs backwards, clinging to the handrail. Salt gets into the raw places on
my hands and knees. I crawl to a pay phone.

Seven rings. Eight. Nine. ‘“Lo,” says my self.

“Help me,” I say. “I’m in the Monroe Street Parking Garage. It’s unbelievably
fucking cold down here. I’m near the guard station. Come and get me.”

“Okay. Stay there. We’ll leave right now.”

I try to hang up the phone but miss. My teeth are chattering uncontrollably. I crawl
to the guard station and hammer on the door. No one is there. Inside I see video
monitors, a space heater, a jacket, a desk, a chair. I try the knob. It’s locked. I have
nothing to open it with. The window is wire reinforced. I am shivering hard. There
are no cars down here.


“Help me!” I yell. No one comes. I curl into a ball in front of the door, bring my
knees to my chin, wrap my hands around my feet. No one comes, and then, at last, at
last, I am gone.