Chicago

It's Monday night. Maybe you're here with a date, or for class credit or something, but it sure feels like all of you know each other, like you're all a big group of great friends. That's fine. I feel real comfortable. So coolcat, so relaxed. It's me and Dad and I feel great. Him and me, Dad and Katie. Rocking it. At the hippest place on N. Clark street, where the coolest looking twenty-year olds go to get drinks, go to cluster in packs outside on the street and smoke cigarettes. This is where the best improv is in Chicago and we all know it, that's why we're here. Dad and I are sitting in the front, so you can look at the back of our heads and wonder about us. 

That's why we arrived so late, so fashionably late, so we could make our entrance. Strut in like fancy foreigners. Make you turn your head, think, who in god's name is arriving so close to the curtain call? Wonder, who are those people, that old guy in sweatpants and the fedora hat and that intriguing girl with those glasses and stained pants? Who are those two, I know you guys are curious. We don't belong. We stick out like sore thumbs. Dad's the oldest guy in the room and I'm the only one here with my dad, but we're so happy about it. Dad loves being noticed and I love hanging out with him and we're laughing hard at these jokes, not caring if we're too loud. God, I love being in a hip place like this with my Dad. It's different. Yeah, I'm different than you. I relish this difference. 

At intermission when the lights turn on, I'm not going to slink down in my seat and feel shy. No, I'm going to strut across that stage to the bar and get Dad another gin and tonic. Goddamnit, I will.