Ten Dollars' Worth
February, 1987
It was one of those Chicago afternoons when the city behaves like an anthill. A big old thunderstorm had spent an hour dumping water out of the warm, heavy air, shining the pavement, driving the pedestrians indoors. When it broke, the ants filed back out onto the streets to do their business.I made a crooked way around the deeper puddles across a small park on the North Side and came out onto a shady block near State Street. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small woman walking slowly, eating...
