Growing up, I was always the punchline for directional humor i.e. humor based on not having the slightest idea as to where I was, geographically speaking. It didn’t (doesn’t) help that my brother can go to a city once and give locals directions and that my dad can close his eyes and tell you verbatim where everything in Northeast Ohio is (and throw in history to boot). Unfortunately, I took on (my otherwise awesome) mother, whom also couldn’t tell you whether to take a right or a left down 20, despite living there for a majority of her life.
Not having any sense of direction never really hurt me, besides being a punching bag for my brother and father, until I moved out for a summer. After my sophomore year of college, I moved to LA for the summer (where Midwestern awesomeness goes to die) and was calling Pops every other day, lost somewhere in Southern California. I worked on random, craigslist film crews, so getting lost was only natural.
For the next few years, as I finished college, I was fine. I went to school in a small town where you only needed to know two roads, so all was well in Joe’s sense of direction world. Then I moved to Chicago.
To my credit (eh), I welcomed the challenge of getting to know our nation’s third largest city, street by street. Thankfully, I also met Courtney right away, who treated me like a wandering child, always reminding me what streets were where and where they crossed. Before I knew it (months later, in reality), I grew to know the north-side of Chicago like the back of my hand! Hell, I was even giving OTHER PEOPLE directions! If only my brother and father could see me now! They’d be just in time to see me get lost for an hour! Ah, shit… I did it again!
The past 15 hours or so have been a blunt reminder that I still have the sense of direction of a newt. Last night after improv practice down at Second City, I headed out for the bus. Basically I was looking to walk east in order to catch the 151, which goes up Lake Michigan to where Courtney lives. Granted Second City is in a neighborhood I’ve only been in a couple of times (still a terrible excuse), so that’s probably why I thought I was on the right track after walking for a few blocks without seeing the lake.
Earlier, I had called Courtney and was going to ask her to look up the closest bus stop to me. She was in the shower, but I was sure I was heading east! I figured I’d keep walking until she called back. Fact is, though, I should’ve been at the bus stop quicker than the time it takes anyone to shower. Yet I kept trudging on! When I found myself wondering for a moment perhaps I am heading in the wrong direction, I quickly shrugged the notion aside and kept walking. I know where I am!
Wrong. Oh, so very wrong.
Finally, Courtney returned my call.
“Where are you?”
“Halsted and North.”
Silence “You’re walking West.”
“What?”
“Yeah, you’re walking West.”
Expletive, expletive, expletive
“Just walk east on North until you hit LaSalle and take the 156.”
…Expletive, expletive, expletive
So off I went, back East. As I passed by the Chase bank for the second time, I decided to stop in this time to cash a check. Moments later I arrived at North and LaSalle in time to see the 156 across the street, driving by. Good thing I cashed that check when I did.
“Courtney expletive, expletive, expletive, I missed the bus. Can you see when the 151 is coming?”
“Oh! Actually there’s a few coming up. Just keep going East on North.”
And so I did, until I hit the freeway and saw no bus stop and was standing on an island of grass as cars went speeding by.
“Courtney! expletive, expletive, expletive!”
“I’m sorry!”
“This expletive, expletive, ridiculous. I’m going to grab a cab.”
Moments later I was in the cab, on my way over to Courtney’s.
“Do you want me to get off at Belmont?” the cab driver asked.
“Take Diversey,” I responded. The driver must have sensed that I have no sense of direction, since he instead got off Fullerton. Why? Because there is no freaking Diversey exit. It’s a street, sure, but not off the highway.
Finally, I was with Courtney who was ready to receive a grumpy bear, throwing chicken and rice at my face. It was delicious.
Keep the jokes coming, brother and father. They’re well warranted. Because apparently my directional abilities only have an embarrassing mile radius.