Not a Blueprint: It's the Shoe Prints That Matter

Now that I was a parent, I needed to contribute more, so I’d gotten a job working in Chicago at Evans down on State Street. Back then, the retail stores only paid $1.60 an hour. I was told that public aid would subsidize my income and go after Craig for support. That was my chance for a new start. So, off we went to live in the big city of Chicago. I found a cozy studio apartment on the southeast side of town. I can still recall the address: 1972 East 73rd Place. It was so convenient, with public transportation stopping right in front of our apartment and the little shopping mall on 71st and Jeffery within walking  distance. It was a great area to live in, especially for a first apartment.

Once I started dating, I met this fellow, Marcus Whiting.  Marcus was clean-shaven and stood five foot six, weighed around 175 pounds, and kept his hair in a short fade. He was a groovy kinda guy and the lead singer of a rock group. His band played regularly at the Pumpkin Room, a lounge on the corner of 71st and Jeffery. Back then, this was the hangout where all the happenings were. He’d always come onstage wearing his black, gold, and red scarf wrapped around his head in a bandanna style. Whenever Marcus sang, he swayed seductively. His performances were out of this world, which was what attracted me to him. Even when I heard they were playing out of state, I was right there to listen to the band. Mom would babysit, and I had my little red 1972 Nova to get around in.

There was one time I asked Peaches, “Want to take a road trip to Saginaw, Michigan? It’s only 450 miles, and we can pull an all-nighter.” Peaches eagerly replied, “Why not? That sounds like fun.” When we arrived, our faces were already familiar. Some of the band members called us “groupies.”. . .