BACK ALLEYS OF LINCOLN HEIGHTS

Give me your tired, your poor,Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free...

Time to write "I love my loft" on the blackboard 100 times.

Looking over the street from my second floor perch gives me an eagles eye view of the world outside. Fearing inhaling the car exhaust, I don't open my window until the evening. I can tell it's all clear when I see the neon blue and red of the taqueria blink off for the night.

I sit by the window and listen to the quiet interrupted by the sights and sounds of the evening street. Occasionally the loud sucking sound of two gentlemen and their crack pipe. Sometimes I watch a man standing on the curb peering intently at his open cell phone. As a car drives by he steps back into the darkness and as it passes, back to the curb.

Last night by the window talking on the phone to my sister, the smell of "smoke" wafted up. "I think I'm catching a buzz Sis," as I burst out laughing.

"I swear I didn't inhale" (wink wink) I told her presidentially.

Just then my loud doorbell buzzed. "Identify yourself" I ordered. The familiar voice of my friend Jon, doing a poor imitation of a Monty Python dude, called out "It's a crack addict! Can I have some crack?" Sorry that's down the block now!

That was when it occurred to me: the intercom as social intervention. Now, when the mood strikes me, I push the "talk" button and intone "This is God speaking, step away from the doorway!!!"

I love my loft, I love my loft, I love my loft...