Memories in masonry

What happens when most of the treasured spaces of your life are destroyed?

My college newspaper is selling bricks from its now-demolished, long-time office to raise money.

I won’t be buying a Daily Illini brick.

I tried to imagine where I’d display a brick, and when I couldn’t come up with anything I realized I didn’t want one.

I certainly respect my old DI friends who are buying them. I love those brilliant people, and the days and nights we spent in the basement of Illini Hall. It’s impossible for me to forget them, and I like to see my old friends whenever I get the chance. I just don't share this particular brand of nostalgia.

If I had a brick, I’d likely be more sad than heart-warmed every time I looked at it.

But I better understood why many of my peers wanted the bricks after I heard that Rogers Park’s last movie house, now named The New 400 Theatre, had closed, and would likely never be back.

I remember one particular night there about 35 years ago. I don’t recall what movie was playing, but that wasn’t why I wanted to go there.

The 400 had a few “loveseats,” and I wanted to sit in one with my girlfriend Janet.

A theater loveseat is a seat one-and-a-half times as big as a regular seat that a couple can sit in together. You almost have to put your arm around your girl in such a seat. I liked having my arm around Janet, and I looked forward to doing it for a couple of hours.

I remember a gent sitting behind us who said our heads were so close together that it was blocking his view. I told him both of us needed our heads, and liked where they were, and he could solve his problem by moving down a few. And appreciating life’s rare romantic moments even if he wasn’t personally involved.

The New 400 Theatre, formerly The 400 Theatre, 2023

If The 400 never reopens and they gut the place, do I want one of the love seats? I could bolt it to the floor in the front room. Something to remember the old theater by after it was gone. Of course I did!

But then, no, not really. Not even if some other lovely person was willing to sit on it with me in front of the TV. It would probably fail miserably to bring back the old feeling, just as Woody Allen’s character failed to recreate the lobster experience with a successor girlfriend to Annie Hall. You can’t make magic happen again just by buying the old props. 

Years ago, I liked a job operating elevators at several old Chicago hotels. 

It was great fun plunging the cars at full speed, then expertly slowing and stopping them on a dime, with the riders stepping off gingerly and with relief. More conservatively, I hauled elevator repair guys as they perched on top, so they could work on a car in the next shaft. Sometimes, that occupied me for weeks.

I have no interest, however, in a chunk of the last human-operated elevator in town, at the Fine Arts Building, 410 S. Michigan Ave., when it’s retired in a couple of years. I don’t even want to ride it before it’s gone. It’s enough to just remember operating the elevators of my youth. Riding up and down with a careful, elderly 21st-century operator does nothing for me.

I didn’t want a brick from old Comiskey Park, either. I wanted the ballpark to be rehabbed, so I could keep going where all those great players once labored, just like the Cubs fans get to do.

I also want to play pool again at the old Howard Bowl and bowl at the Sunset Bowl. No dice. 

All of my old newspaper offices were shuttered long ago. Most of the other places I worked, also MIA.

Esposito’s Pizzeria is gone from Morton Grove. I can’t go for potato pancakes at Rocky’s on Morse Avenue. No more Jailhouse Special at Jeri’s Grill. No special jailhouse on Foster Avenue.

Jeri’s Grill, 2017

I feel like the constant churn of real estate has robbed me of my life. Souvenirs won’t help.

Instead, I’ll try to keep track of the people I shared these lost spaces with. Thankfully, some of the other playgrounds of our youth survive.

The Fish Keg is still selling shrimp and fish chips late into the night on Howard Street.  Wolfy’s is still open for hot dogs on Peterson.

I can’t get a drink from either Helen or Gabby at Helen & Gabby’s, 6920 N. Glenwood Ave. But two owners later, I can still get one at the same address, now Rogers Park Social. Brutally gentrified, but still.

In season, I can still go to the little museum under the Michigan Avenue Bridge and watch the gears tilt the spans. It’s now called the DuSable Bridge, which I’ve come to appreciate.

They still sell shirts with snaps at Alcala's Western Wear, Grand and Paulina. The Music Box Theatre remains a going concern at Southport and Grace.

I like to drive through the ancient Rosehill Cemetery or past the spectacular relics of the South Side, like the Fountain of Time, the Statue of the Republic and the Damen Silos. 

Fountain of Time, 2015

Almost everybody has their own collection of places they used to go to years ago that are still hanging on. They’re more fun if you might see the people you used to see there. Good luck.

When I was a teenager, I used to take apart old buildings with a big hammer. Then I’d shovel the bricks up. That paid for me to go to school.

I don’t want any of those bricks, either.