Welcome to the Windy City (Jude)

[Martin Le Roux]

The pair had slept until the sun set, and then Jude stared absentmindedly out the window while Martin read until Rodermark’s private jet set down in a quiet Illinois airfield an hour and a half outside of Chicago. 45 minutes if Martin was driving. It was cold, but the snow drifts had already cleared. Still, the clouds continued to let the white stuff swirl through the air. Jude’s two suitcases fit easily enough when split between the GT-R’s back seat and the boot. There was plenty of night left.

Martin got in the car and pulled the door shut. Jude slouched in his seat, unbelted. The engine started and immediately sounded like it was going to stall, but continued to lope along.

“Put on your seatbelt. You’re in a car with five hundred fifty horsepower and six pot brakes.” Martin explained. Jude blinked but complied.

Jude fidgeted while Martin babied the car as it warmed up.

“Would you like some music?”

[Jude]

“Yeah, yeah, music... and all that jazz.”

My mind is going a million miles a minute. The Man and I, we just traveled back in time, strapped into the belly of a giant metal bird. I try to be blasé about the whole affair but my excitement comes out in jitters and jumps. This is my first time over the pond. All I know about Chicago is that they released way too many albums, and that Ginger Rogers is infinitely superior to Catherine Zeta Jones.

“Where're we going?”

[Martin Le Roux]

Martin queued up Herbie Hancock’s directory and let the player randomly pick songs. It was soft. Martin had the insulation redone on the car to be both lighter and more effective than the original stuff used. As a result, the car was surprisingly quiet. He had kept the car lugging around in a lower gear with the turbos unspooled, but as soon as the engine’s oil temperature was warm enough, he belted it. The high beams illuminated the two lane highway. In a few miles they would hit Interstate 65.

“My house, first. After that I’ll give you a tour of Chicago, if you want. We're still about...” He looked at the speedometer as it rose "...an hour and a half out."

[Jude]

We drive on the wrong side of the road. It's madness. Watermelon Man comes through the speakers.

“Sooooo...” I look down and see my fingertips playing the rhythm. “What do you do?”

[Martin Le Roux]

They barreled down the interstate at 180 kilometers per hour. Everyone was passed like they were standing still.

“I keep myself entertained.” He said. “Sometimes I try and figure out what makes things fit together. The histories of people and places and things. Other times driving too fast is enough.” Martin shrugged.

“What do you do?” He asked Jude.

[Jude]

“I...”

I draw the letter out, as I wriggle about in my seat, unable to get comfortable. There is just something about cars that doesn't sit right with me, that I don't sit right in. Too fast, too modern. But what was the question? What do I do? That's a tough one.

I press one finger to my temple and all the gooey knowledge hidden inside. I twist the finger back and forth, as if I'm stirring the contents up some.

“I help Lefty, sometimes,” I say. “With... London.”

Vague. I frown. “Mostly I just... am. Though I'm not sure why.”

[Martin Le Roux]

"I see." Martin said. That was a different approach. Most people knew the generals of the why they were, or they convinced themselves they did, and it was good enough. Martin was interested in Whys himself. Why was x happening in Chicago. He suspected many things, but was unwilling to commit them to media without more evidence.

"Have you ever tried to figure it out, or is it one of those things where you don't worry about it?"

[Jude]

“I spent a lot of time figuring, when I was inside the Hatch... I suppose that all we have is time to figure things out. Just makes it all the more frustrating when the answers aren't clear.”

An odd moment of clarity. I frown and the voices smirk – imagine that voices can smirk – at my half-baked existentialism.

“Not knowing the questions also doesn't help,” I add, mostly to myself.

[Martin Le Roux]

"The Hatch?" Martin asked. The distance between Chicago and themselves was rapidly dissapearing. Traffic was begging to accumulate. Martin slowed to 150 km/hr instead of the former terrifying breakneck pace. The white coupe would speed up slightly when passing slower drivers, and then back to cruising speed again.

It was almost eight central and the traffic had finally started to break up, especially heading to the city.

"If you have any questions please ask. I'm not sure what you're most interested in." He said.

[Jude]

And neither am I. All of it, none of it. I'm not here by choice, after all. If I had my way, who knows where I'd be. I wonder what Chicago has to offer me, and vice versa.

“Colney Hatch,” I explain, my thoughts panting breathless as they struggle to catch up with the conversation. “They used to put people in there when society didn't like what they had to say. Used to be that you couldn't pay people to live there, but now people fork out hundreds of thousands for a pokey little room.”

I have fond memories of the so-called lunatic asylum, the fondest being the night I was set free. In the distance there is a bird flying. I follow it with my eyes, my head turning slowly, eventually looking back down the length of the highway, watching the flapping wings struggling against the wind...

“How long have you and Lefty been pals?”

[Martin Le Roux]

“1870s.” Martin replied, moving the Skyline behind a tractor trailer and drafting. The trailer punched huge holes in the air, and if you were there right distance, it would suck a car behind it along. Martin glanced at his mirrors after a road sign flashed past, but he seemed content to sit behind the trailer for now.

“I avoided England for a while. My inner Frenchman wouldn’t let go of the absurd grudge for a while.”

[Jude]

I get distracted by the flash of a road works sigh. The lights are pulsing in time with the beat of the music.

The 1870s. Right. “Did you know him before he changed?”