Thursday · January 29 2004
My dad worked days and my mom nights when I was small. My mom worked at the Conrad Hilton (now Hilton Towers or whatever) and made it home for dinner around 8. Her arrival was the final stop of a weeknight.
The school day ended at 2:15 when a bus picked me up for an after school program until 3:30 when my grandpa got off work and drove me to his house in the Pontiac Bonneville. Grandma and I would play 500 rummy, Sorry!, or build Legos until dad showed up at 5:30 or 6. We then went home to heat up the food mom made during the day.
If my mom was working a saturday afternoon, we'd hop on the Kennedy and drive downtown to pick her up at Michigan and Balbo so we could get church over with on saturday evening at St. Michael's in Old Town. Driving down the Kennedy in the passenger seat next to my dad, I remember three things.
The sign said "Express Lanes - Closed". I hoped the reversible lanes would be open this time, but the traffic always flowed the other way. I was sure a plot was set, because I wanted to know what those lanes were like. Would we really get there faster?
The lights of the Hubbard tunnel glowed gold overhead. Dad liked to point out which viaducts he installed lights and pipes on, but none impressed me like that curved tunnel. He drove fast and weaved in and out of traffic. I gripped the door handle, pressed the imaginary passenger brake and knew our exit was coming up.
In between the tunnel and the disappointing express lanes stood the Magikist lips. Many years later, I'd learn that Magikist was a carpet cleaning company advertising their "-kist" as a "-kiss". Six years old, the huge bright red lips stood on the left side of the ride in and meant one thing: we're headed downtown to pick up mom on the Kennedy. Magikist's neon flashing lips were the landmark that connected our house in Norridge with every ride to get mom on a weekend night.
And now they're gone.
(Trib login: kegz03/kegz03)
Alright grammar cop...dangling modifier again.
Rephrased: "we're on the Kennedy headed downtown to pick up mom"
Seeing those lips meant we were going "downtown" for dinner. When you live in the suburbs, even if your suburb had a downtown, you called chicago "downtown".
Heading down the Kennedy, getting excited about seeing the city and the lights and the lips. "are we there yet?"
and then on the return trip: falling asleep in the back seat and my head jerking after hitting a bump on the highway. "are we home yet?"
There's comfort in knowing that when I come back to visit (which is somewhat often), that there are certain things that just don't change. the lips were one of those things.
I always thought it was a lipstick company, by the way.
Those lips were just HUGE, and now that they're gone, it's a blatant reminder of just how much time changes everything and how much we've changed since were were small. We used to drive into the city every Sunday to visit my grandfather's mother, and those lips were as much a part of my memories as the giant hot dog in the Fred Flinstone suit at the hot dog joint where we'd always stop. Now if only I could remember the name of that place...
Time marches on, and it has apparently taken memories with it.