Benny Jay: Valentine's Day

At eight o'clock, I get the call from my younger daughter: She's on a bus bound from Ann Arbor to Chicago and it's racing through Gary.

Damn, that bus is going faster than I expected. I thought I'd have time to grab a bite to eat. But now I gotta fly....

So my wife and I hop into the car and hurdle down Ashland. To Elston. To Milwaukee. To Grand. To Halsted. Like a halfback running for daylight, looking for the street with the least amount of traffic. We're moving pretty good. Past Chicago Avenue. Under the elevated tracks at Lake Street. Until -- wham -- we hit a wall of traffic at Washington.

It's Greektown on a Saturday night and the joint is jumping. Like the whole city's coming down to eat. Outside of the restaurants, drivers race out of their cars and valets race in, u-turning across two lanes of traffic. As my buddy, Ed, would put it: It's a cluster-fuck.

So I make a quick turn down Monroe over the expressway and into the western end of the Loop. I'm gonna turn right on Jefferson. "Don't," says my wife. "It's one way...."

"Oh, yeah...."

"Why would you turn the wrong way down a one-way street?"

I have no answer. So I do the best thing -- I don't answer.

We got to Wacker and over to Jackson and up to Canal, where we wait for the bus.

I turn on the radio and hop from station to station: Oldies, Dusties, Disco, Rock. Nothing good. I turn off the radio. I'm still thinking about turning the wrong way into traffic.

The bus drops off our daughter and we head back to Greektown on Madison.

"Turn left at Halsted," says my wife.

I move into the right lane.

"No, I said left," says my wife.

"No, you said right," says my daughter.

But my daughter's wrong. My wife did say left. So why would I turn right when she said left? Just like why would I go the wrong way down a one-way street? Is it my age-old battle against dyslexia? I always had trouble reversing letters -- especially the e and the i. Even now I couldn't tell you how to spell yield.

Or am I losing my mind? Is this the first step toward senility? I got to eat more carrots. Or is it spinach? Damn, what the hell is it that you're supposed to eat to fight off senility?

Maybe I'm just hungry. Low blood sugar, or whatever's low when you're hungry. It's genetic. My whole family gets ornery when we get hungry. Especially my sister. Man, you don't want to go near my sister when she gets hungry. That girl will snap you're head off....

"Let's eat at the Greek Isles," says my wife.

We were going to eat cheap, but I'm too hungry to protest. I double park on Halsted. My wife runs in and out. "It's a 90-minute wait," she says.

"Damn, I thought we were in a Depression," I said.

"It's Valentine's Day," says my wife. "No cooks on Valentine's Day. Even in a Depression...."

We stop by the Parthenon. But the line's so long, it comes out the door. My daughter calls an Italian restaurant on Ashland. They tell her they're not taking anymore reservations for the night.

Where can we eat! I want to cry. But I hold my tongue. I'm not going to say anything cause anything I say will come out nasty. And I don't want to have a fight on Valentine's Day.

So I hit the highway and we get off at Elston and drive to California and wind up eating at this taco joint near Belmont. It's got this ugly fluorescent light that makes your face look green. I realize my daughter is staring at my forehead.

"What are you looking at?" I ask.

"You're breaking out," she says.

"No, I'm not...."

"Yes, you are -- isn't he, mom?"

My wife scrutinizes my forehead.

"It's a pimple -- everyone gets pimples....."

"But you're over fifty," says my daughter.

"People get pimples when they're over fifty -- what you don't think people get pimples after fifty?"

"Not like that...."

My wife leans over, pushes up my hair and moves in close like she's a jeweler eying a diamond.

"Stop looking at my pimples," I say.

"It's that hat," says my wife, referring to a cap my oldest daughter gave me. "It's too small. His head can't breathe...."

"But how do you explain the pimples on his forehead?" asks my daughter.

"Okay," I say. "Stop talking about my pimples...."

I order the Chicken Mole and my wife gets the steak (my daughter doesn't order anything cause she ate a big lunch in Michigan). I fall on my food. I mean, I'm just wolfing down that chicken. Every now and then my wife throws me a chunk of steak. And I mop up the Mole sauce with my tortilla until my plate is almost clean. It's one of those things where I eat so fast cause I was so freaking hungry that I still feel hungry even though I'm full.

I tell myself to take a deep breath. Breathe, baby, breathe. Life's gonna drive you crazy if you don't learn to breathe.