Tree Pruning- the Chicago Way

It was October of 1984, and we lived about six blocks from Wrigley Field on Grace Street between Pine Grove and Lake Shore Drive. I was at home that Friday with the flu in its second day. Although my temperature was over a hundred and one, I was tired of bed, moved to the living room, and was reading a biography of Leon Trotsky. To combat the chills, I had set a low fire in the fireplace; Hilda, our Dachshund, was snoring on my lap. I was in a lousy mood, nothing I ate or drank that morning stayed down, my eyes were heavy. Trotsky’s biography was badly translated. I put the book down and joined Hilda in a nap.

After five minutes of sleep, pandemonium broke loose outside: shouting, trucks honking, revving chain saws, one of the crew tried to direct hostile car drivers who made rude gestures. Several Chicago city trucks had parked in front of our three-unit brownstone; one truck had a cherry-picker crane. A large red-headed man, apparently the supervisor, was issuing orders like a Marine drill instructor — loud, demeaning and nose-to-nose. I wondered why his men put up with that loud-mouthed jerk. I went to the kitchen to see if a cup of tea would stay down. The phone rang at 3:00 that afternoon.

It was my wife, Emily. She asked if I was doing better physically and mentally. Instead of sounding pitiful, I made a mistake by telling her about the tree-trimming crew outside.

Emily said, “Great, ask them to remove that large dead branch on the tree in front of the building next to us — piece of cake.”

Given my brief preview of the boss, I doubted Emily’s piece of cake assessment. I took my time with the tea that seemed content to stay put. A brisk and cloudy day, I put on my overcoat and went downstairs.

I approached the boss who was larger and more powerful than I had assumed. I pointed to my unit on the second floor in the brownstone behind us, introduced myself, and extended my hand. He rolled my knuckles as we shook hands. “Mike Harrington,” he said.

“Irish?”

“Gosh, ya think?”

I managed a friendly tone, “I’m half Irish; the other half is Welsh.”

“Jordan isn’t an Irish or Welsh name.”

“It’s a Norman name. Normans were Vikings who grew tired of barrels upon barrels of herring. They left Norway and moved to northern France where they thrived on over-sauced food. Vikings had anger management issues and killed anyone who got in their way. After they conquered England in 1066, some of them invaded Ireland and became Irishmen. Other Norman-Irish surnames include Joyce, Dillon and Fitzgerald.”

“How do you know all of that?”

“I read a lot. People should study their roots. I did. Now I root for the Minnesota Vikings instead of the Bears.”

“Really?”

“Attempted humor, I don’t follow professional sports.”

“You don’t sound Chicago; where are you from?”

“San Francisco,” I said.

“That figures.”

Instead of asking what his observation implied, I said, “Could you take a look at the large dead branch on that tree to my right? It died a couple of years ago and will fall soon. Perhaps you could remove it?”

He was carrying a folder and showed me several large photographs. “See those branches circled in white; we’re taking those down today. The branch you want removed isn’t circled; so, pal, you’re out of luck.”

I explained the potential liability for the damage the falling branch would initiate. “So, you see…”

He cut me off, “Better luck next time.”

I countered with a prolonged sneezing and coughing fit.

“Wow, you look as bad as you sound,” he said.

“The flu. You know, I pay a ton of property taxes…”

“Well, you chose to live in a fancy neighborhood. And your overcoat with the velvet collar, what are those called?”

“It’s a Chesterfield coat, rather formal. What’s my coat have to do with anything?”

“Fancy-schmancy, just sayin’.”

“What should I do about that branch?”

“Why don’t you climb up there and saw it off, in that fancy coat?”

“Mr. Harrington, I tried being helpful, and you retorted with an attitude and a questionable insinuation. Good day to you.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I’m thinking of calling my alderman…Sorry, alderperson.”

“The Communist?”

“She’s a type of Communist, more of a Neo-Trotskyite. They believe in the permanent revolution; in other words, firing squads twenty-four-seven to cleanse the body politic. On the other hand, maybe she’s a touchy-feely Pol Pot, you know, the Cambodian idealist.”

“Wait a second,” he said and directed me away from his men. “Look, there’s another way we can fix this problem, ya know?”

I shrugged.

“How would a problem like this get fixed in San Francisco?”

“San Francisco is a one-party city that isn’t as corrupt as Chicago; but given time, it probably will be. I know where this conversation is going, but I’m not going to pay you. My wife has the car. I have four dollars in my wallet and won’t make it on foot to the grocery store that cashes my checks.”

“Treasure Island on Broadway?”

“Right. Look, I don’t park or walk under that tree. And I’m not about to report you to your boss, or my crazy alderperson, or anyone else. So we’ll walk away and forget this conversation, okay?”

“Fifty bucks could settle the problem, right now,” he said. “I’ll drive you to Treasure Island.”

“I lived in Indonesia for two years under a military dictatorship. Corruption was rampant; the army spent a good deal of time shaking down people with road blocks and armed men. I learned how to say in Indonesian, ‘If you take your finger off the trigger, we can get this settled quickly.’”

“Did you pay the army guys?”

“Of course. They were pointing automatic weapons at me.”

“Have you paid off cops here?”

“Oh, sure, the transition from Indonesia to Chicago was easy.”

“Why the cops and not me?”

“Because Chicago cops have an implicit threat; when I pay the cop, the threat vanishes.”

“What threat?”

“If he gives me a ticket, my auto insurance rates increase.” Another sneezing fit ensued. He stepped back. I began shivering and said, “I’m going back to bed.” I started walking away and turned back, “Those photos of the trees that need trimming, you took those pictures and drew the white circles?”

He replied with a sheepish smile.

I got into bed around 3:30 and was sleeping when Emily returned from work at 6:00. She asked, “How’s it going?”

“Just terrible.”

“Oh, that dead tree limb we discussed was removed,” she said. “Any problems getting it done?”

“Piece of cake.”