Chicago, I'd heard, was a toddlin' town. In fact, I'd heard it repeatedly from a woman in the seat behind me on the bus from South Bend. "Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town, toddlin' town." That was as much as she knew. Then she'd sing it again every two or three minutes. "Toddlin' I later learned, referred to a fast-paced 1920s dance, The Toddle. Of course, it can also mean walking with short, unsteady steps.

Which I was probably doing myself a little later. Because in Chicago, in 1972, being young and not looking like a solid citizen and needing a restroom could be a problem. A crowded, tattered coffee shop, The Paradise Diner, seemed my best bet. Unfortunately, the giant behind the counter took immediate exception to my destination, and possibly my existence. "Customers only," he bellowed, lumbering toward me threateningly. I told him I needed the facilities before I ordered, and I couldn't wait. My intentions were semi-honorable. If necessary, I could spring for coffee on the way out.

I don't think the people Gargantua was so keen on keeping out could have made the restroom any filthier. Actually, I don't think a gang of lepers riding a pack of wildebeests could have made it any filthier. I was afraid to touch anything. I don't mean I was reluctant to touch anything. I was afraid. Like the filth might be flesh-eating.

Before leaving, I used toilet paper to work the faucet and rinsed my hands as best I could. There was, of course, no soap. And no indication there had ever been any. Just a faded sign on the mirror reading, "Employees must wash hands before exiting." Someone had written on it, "Does Chicago have a Board of Health?"

Apparently not. And just feet away, unsuspecting people were actually eating. Oh, the humanity!

The endless towel was frozen in place and the dirtiest thing in the room. Which was saying something. A sign on the case warned that looping the towel around your neck could lead to strangulation. Maybe that's why the giant was so anxious to keep people out. Maybe this is where Chicagoans came when they just couldn't face another toddle. Maybe the restaurant should cover itself with a sign warning that sticking your head in the toilet could lead to drowning.

I wasn't anxious to put coffee or anything else from that place into my body. And I was steps away from freedom — and the relatively clean city smog — when the giant grabbed me from behind, enraged. I thought he was going to throw me through the plate-glass door. But just then, the door opened and a Chicago cop appeared. Salvation, I thought.

Only the cop smiled, laughed and held the door back, indicating that Jumbo should fling me out. Which he did. Right into another cop, who swore and elbowed me — painfully — out of the way. I scrambled out of there without looking back.

Down the block, a scattering of people was heading into an auditorium. A limo pulled up to the curb next to me. Immediately, a black couple and I were surrounded by cops and several husky guys in suits. Someone opened the limo door, and Richard Dailey the First, Chicago's Mayor for Life, Hizzoner himself, stepped out and scowled directly at me.

With that, the circle tightened around our obviously dangerous selves. Next thing I knew, the first cop from the dinner — the door holder — was toddling me the hell out of there. "Isn't this a public rally?" I asked, since it clearly was. "I was hoping to hear Hizzoner reach, as he says, greater and greater platitudes of achievement. Are you trying to get me to cist and decease?"

"You want to quote Hizzoner?" the cop said, "How about this one: The policeman is there to preserve disorder. And you don't want me remembering I witnessed you assaulting that officer back at the Paradise. That's four to 15 years. This is Chicago."

A toddlin' town.

Barry Maher's dark humor supernatural thriller, "The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon," has recently been released. Contact him and/or sign up for his newsletter at www.barrymaher.com.

To find out more about Barry Maher and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Neal Kharawala at Unsplash