Zombie, Illinois Read online

  Closer to Indiana, we encounter shipping canals. Boats— most of them ugly, flat affairs laden with unpleasant cargo like animal offal or crushed cars—use them to pass into Lake Michigan. The area around these canals is something most Chi-cagoans never see. It is functional but unsightly, like an orifice or sphincter. (One knows it is there, but would, all things being equal, elect to never actually see it up close.) We pause in a line of stalled traffic—my preacher car standing out starkly against the rusted Neons, Corollas, and Fiestas—and wait for a bridge to be raised and lowered as a long, slow barge carrying refinery waste passes underneath.

  Then we leave the shipping canals and cross into the Hoosier State by driving underneath the Illinois/Indiana Toll Road (known officially as the “Chicago Skyway”). It looms above us, a massive structure, thrusting upwards into the air. Since it was built in 1958, the neighborhoods below it have literally existed in its shadow. This is fitting. These are shadow places.

  The character of the neighborhood begins to change a few blocks in, the racial demographic shifting from lower-class black to working-class white and Latino.Yet, this does nothing to diminish the temptations awaiting my parishioners here, in this short drive from South Shore. If anything, the temptations are compounded.

  The back alleys and side roads are havens for prostitution. At night, the truckers driving the Chicago Skyway know to pull off here to find “lot lizards,” prostitutes (usually grizzled and emaciated) who specialize in servicing truckers. They walk from rig to rig, climbing into each cab to do their lonely business. The interstate nature of a trucker’s travel means my parishioners who seek solace from these same prostitutes can collect venereal disease from every corner of the lower forty-eight. For those seeking slightly tamer fare, the neighborhood is also riddled with topless joints. These are somewhat safer, yes, but still the last places the men in my flock should be spending their time and money.

  Pressing deeper into Hoosier-land, we’ll make a quick detour to a place called Whiting. At first glance, it’s an All-American community sitting pristine and unnoticed on the lake just south of Chicago. The quaint downtown is practically picturesque, with cute restaurants and shops you could spend an entire Sunday exploring. There are well-kept residential streets and houses with white picket fences—but those picket fences have to be repainted annually because of the constant discharge from the massive BP oil refinery that sits right next door.

  Since time immemorial—technically 1889—British Petroleum has owned this place: first literally, then only figuratively. Pollution lurks everywhere, always just below the surface. The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency has designated Whiting an “Area of Concern” whatever that means. The residents who choose to remain are the kind of people who can either accept a dark bargain, or who find the truth too unthinkable to credit. “Never mind the cancer-clusters and off-the-chart asthma rates,” these folks will respond. “BP sponsors a nice fireworks display every Fourth of July and makes donations to our civic programs. Why, the basketball team wouldn’t have those new uniforms if it weren’t for the refinery!”

  I exaggerate a bit, but only a bit. I have heard residents of Whiting, when questioned about how they stand the refinery-odor that pervades their town, answer with no trace of irony: “It smells like money.” (I should add that the residents ofWhiting, per capita, have only slightly higher incomes than my parishioners, which means that they are very poor. Certainly, they are in no substantial way privy to the wealth being generated next to their town.)

  And despite BP’s enormous resources, there is no magic dome keeping the pollution generated in Whiting from seeping over the border into the south side of Chicago. My parishioners’ asthma rates aren’t as high as those of the people ofWhiting, but they’re still too high. And we sure as Hell don’t get a fireworks display.

  (“Amen” sure does go there. Thank you kindly.)

  But we have tarried long enough. Now let us grit our teeth and head for the belly of the beast. Into Calumet and outlying Gary, and the scourge that is the Indiana Riverboat Casino industry.

  While there are no casinos in the City of Chicago proper— yet—”Chicagoland” has become the third largest gaming destination in the United States after Las Vegas and Atlantic City. If you count the casinos less than an hour’s drive away in Michigan, Wisconsin, Western Illinois, and here in Indiana, then there are about fifteen casinos in Chicagoland. Their billboards are everywhere, as is their pull on those seeking solace.

  And here’s a secret: Casinos are racist.

  And no, I don’t mean “Do blacks get drink service as quickly as whites?” I’m talking about a quiet, sneaky, cultural racism that’s virtually invisible but damnably damaging.

  Here’s the problem: The quicker a casino game is to learn, the worse the odds are for the player. I didn’t grow up white—so this is next part is, granted, a guess—but whites (and also Asians and Middle Easterners, I think) grow up learning to play casino games. I don’t know how this happens, but it does. Maybe the family trips involve gambling with cards in the back seat. Maybe the kids all play casino games at their expensive private summer camps. However it happens, they show up knowing how to play games like Texas Hold ‘Em, Blackjack, Pai Gow—stuff like that. Stuff with the better odds.

  When all these new casinos opened in the late 1990s, my flock didn’t know casino gambling from hot air ballooning. My flock hadn’t been jetting off to Vegas for generations or spending summers on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. When my parishioners—curious and in search of a thrill—walked into the casinos for the first time, they were confronted by the newness and strangeness of the games. Naturally, they gravitated to the two you can learn the quickest: slots and roulette. Pull this lever, and you might win some money. Pick red or black, and you might win some money. Yet these are the two games with the worst odds in the casino. And they are no less addictive for it.

  The players might care—might bother to learn the other games—if they were actually out to win money. But they’re not. They only think they’re out to win money.

  Really, they’re after the same thing they’re always after.

  Say it with me.

  Solace.

  (“Amen” goes there, indubitably.)

  To say that casino gambling addiction is rife on the south side of Chicago is like saying that water is wet. It’s rampant within my congregation (and those, remember, are the churchgoing folk in the neighborhood—the folk who have, at least on some level, decided to make an ongoing investment in self-i mprovement). Many of the young couples in my pews have fights over money that one or the other has lost across the border in Indiana. Many of the grandmothers while away their pensions and Social Security checks on “the boats” Most of the grandmothers, if I’m being honest. Grandmothers are the biggest concern. (With all their sexy advertising and waitresses in low-cut dresses, you’d think the casinos were designed for men aged 18 to 35, but the average Chicagoland casino patron is a woman over 60. The casinos aren’t there to steal from the young brothers; they’re there to steal from big mama.)

  A gambling addiction is also easy to cover up. In my neighborhood, you don’t need a reason to be broke this week.

  (“Amen” goes there, my brothers and sisters. “Amen” defi-nitely goes there . . . . )

  And so we pull away from the cluster of casinos and head just a little deeper into the Hoosier state. As we near the end of our tour—I’m now pulling my preacher car into one of the back-row spaces in a parking lot in Merrillville, Indiana—I have a confession to make. This drive was not for you. This drive was for me.

  Like the members of my congregation, I am in the habit— now and then—of driving south in search of solace.

  Like the members of my congregation, I have a vice. Something I must keep secret.

  Come with me, then. But only a few steps farther.

  I’ll exit my car—along with the other, mostly middle-aged men—and walk with them into the Merrillville Hotel an
d Amphitheatre. The evening’s festivities are about to begin.

  They are my solace.

  And they are my shame.

  God help me.

  Excuse me a moment . . . I’m trying not to cry.

  Sometimes I just want something to come along and change my life, you know? Wipe it all away. This, me, my hypocrisy. The south side of Chicago. Everything.

  But the pull is too strong. At least tonight. I know what I’m going to do. I am already seduced. I walk inside.

  “Hey Mack, nice to see you” says a man named David. (I sometimes see him at these things. He’s a dentist in a suburb called Orland Park.) “Can I get you a beer?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, though I’m not much of a drinker.

  And then the smell of the place washes over me. And memories it conjures flood back. And I am there; in that temporary place that is so wonderful and so awful at the same time. I am in that fire that will burn out and leave me covered in ashes, but the heat feels wonderful all through my body, and that’s all that matters right now.

  I am the old lady from the second pew, letting her Social Security check ride on black. I am the twitchy kid in the back of the church who can’t wait for Pastor Mack’s stupid, boring sermon to be over so he can go get high with his friends in the brownfields. I am the prostitute’s customer 2,000 years ago in the Holy Land who only wants an evening of cinnamon-scented sex away from his troubles.

  And in this instant, ladies and gentlemen, I do not care.

  In this instant, I have solace.

  (And I think—just maybe—”Amen” goes there too.)

  Maria Ramirez

  Drummer

  Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata

  My name is Maria Gonzales Ramirez, and I want to fuck Stewart Copeland.

  That’s the one really defining, overriding thing to know about me.

  There are other things, too, I guess . . . I mean, I’m 24. I’m from a neighborhood on the northwest side of Chicago called Logan Square. I live with my mother and younger sister. (I take care of them both, and they are the most outstanding ladies in my life.) And, oh yeah, I drum in an all-girl rock band called Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata, which is the best band in Chicago.

  But enough about me.

  Stewart Copeland is a beautiful man. What? A man can be beautiful, and Stewart definitely is. He is beautiful in so many ways. He is my fixation, my fantasy, my obsession.

  It’s not just that he’s the most important New Wave drummer of all time. His work with the Police should have been enough to solidify that. But there’s also Oysterhead, Animal Logic, Curved Air, and then all of the films he’s scored. I mean, the man’s a musical genius. But he is also a gorgeous,gorgeous son of a bitch. And I don’t mean “Stewart Copeland back in 1987” or some bullshit like that. (Though I do have that poster on my wall, and he does look damn fine.) I mean Stewart Copeland now. Sixty-something Stewart Copeland still looks fucking hot. Better than hot, actually, with his short gray hair and those glasses with the thick dark frames . . .

  Oh Jesus God, do I ever want to fuck Stewart Copeland.

  I want his skinny ass between my legs. I want his calloused drummer’s hands interlaced with my calloused drummer’s hands. I want to suck in his breath as I lie underneath him and fuck him.

  Or he fucks me. I mean, Stewart can do anything he wants.

  Anything.

  He can fuck my tits. (I’m told I have nice tits.) He can come in my mouth. He can fuck my ass, if that’s what he’s into. Could I be any more clear?

  I. Would. Do. Anything. For. Stewart. Copeland.

  See, drummers are a brotherhood. (It’s a brotherhood that’s 15 percent chicks, but a brotherhood nonetheless.) And I am— damn-straight—a brother. I can’t explain how or why we drummers feel connected as we do . . . but we do. We look physically different. We play different styles of music. We even play different-l ooking drums and drum sets. What do we really have in common? Hitting things with sticks (or sometimes just our hands). Lugging heavy drums up and down stairs and in and out of cars, when the other musicians have long-since packed up and driven off. Being the butt of jokes from guitar players. (“What do you call someone who hangs around with musicians all day? A drummer.”)

  And yet, there’s this bond. I don’t know what it is—or why it is—but it’s real. And sometimes it’s magical.

  I can bump into a drummer I’ve never met before—and with whom I have nothing else in common—and within five minutes we are talking shop like old friends. It’s a bond that I don’t think other musicians have. (Do clarinet players get together and bond over reeds? I seriously doubt that.)

  But I don’t want to fuck my brothers in this brotherhood— that would be incestuous, right?—I only want to fuck Stewart Copeland.

  Anyhow, my drumming is important to the story. It has to do with the zombies.

  Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata rocks harder than any other band in this city. Put us up against anybody—I mean anybody— and we’ll take ‘em down. (I love it when we’re the opening act. There’s no greater pleasure than knowing you are going to destroy the band that has to play after you. Nobody wants to play after SBVD, I’ll tell you that for sure.)

  Grizzled Chicago bluesmen? They look boring and about to die compared to Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata. Twee, underfed indie rockers? They ride their fixies back to their trust funds when they have to follow us. Wilco? Okay . . . someone has needed to say this for a long time: Fuck Wilco. (Guess what? Lots of Chicagoans don’t like Wilco. There are waaaaay more of us than the local media would have you believe. This stupid town likes to assign musical standard-bearers for every era—probably because music reporters are lazy. It was Smashing Pumpkins in the 90s, and Wilco for the ‘00s. [And it’s going to be SBRK for the teens. Just you fucking wait.] But being told that Wilco is the best band in Chicago by fat, old music critics doesn’t make Wilco the best band in Chicago. It certainly doesn’t make listening to them any less boring.)

  Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata plays all the best venues in the city, and our shows are fun as hell. You know ahead of time, if you’re going to an SBVD show, that it’s gonna be crazy. Stage antics, smashing guitars, sexy outfits—we do it all. All that shit.

  But you gotta create scarcity. That’s what Richelle—our bassist, who has a business degree—calls it. “Creating scarcity.” Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata can pack a venue like the Metro or the Double Door, but only once a month. The other three weekends we might play Milwaukee, Indianapolis, or some meathead sports bar out in the suburbs (where redneck guys just want to ogle at our asses, but whatever). But that’s still only four shows a month. Is that enough rock for a girl in her prime? Hell fucking no.

  Which is why, on weekdays, the members of Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata become The Kitty Kats from Heaven, Chicago’s premier all-girl cover band, available for weddings, private parties, and corporate events. (Corporate events might be the most fun because we wear these little pinstripe suit jackets and kitty ears. They fucking rule.)

  Some musicians in the local scene call this prostitution. Maybe so, but it’s at least high-end prostitution. A good cover band can make well into the four figures for a gig in Chicago. (And we are a good cover band, and we are in Chicago.) We’ll play a rich girl’s sweet sixteen up in Wilmette, a company picnic out at McDonald’s’ headquarters, and a neighborhood street festival, all in the same week.

  The Kitty Kats from Heaven see a whole other version of the city . . . a boring one.

  Jesus fucking Christ. I mean, is this what people really want—a thrashy version of “Brown Eyed Girl?” Watered-down Green Day? “Play that Funky Music White Boy” but with “Boy” changed to “girl?” Apparently so, because they’re willing to pay us thousands of dollars for it.

  Is that depressing? No. Because fuck these people. If idiots want to throw money at the Kitty Kats from Heaven, we can turn around and use it to fund a kickass punk band called Strawberry Brite Vagin
a Dentata.

  What else? What else?

  I should take care to mention the other girls. Sarah plays guitar and sings lead. Richelle plays bass and sings backup. Danna plays guitar and sometimes keyboards.

  We met through an audition posting a couple of years ago, and now we’re like sisters. These chicks can have a kidney, as far as I’m concerned. I would do anything for them. And we’re all kickass Chicago girls. We’re from different neighborhoods and backgrounds, but we all agree that Chicago is the greatest city in the world in which to rock.

  East Coast? West Coast? Fuck that noise. How about no coast?! That’s where you go to rock. Right fucking here. City by the lake, like Billy Corgan says.

  When I’m playing with my band, I feel like I’m ready to conquer the world. I feel like I’m ready for anything. My girls and I are soldiers, and we’re ready for a fight.

  So now...

  Let me try to step back and set the scene for you.

  It’s in downtown Chicago.

  It’s with my band.

  It’s on a dark and snowy night . . . .

  Ben Bennington