It was the summer of 2006, and the Chicago White Sox were the reigning World Series champions.
The small consulting firm I was working for sponsored an outing to a baseball game for the dozen or so employees in the office.
This was the equivalent of a paid happy hour in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the week.
We all took the El down to “The Cell”, as it was affectionately(?) known back then.
Everybody walked in together, and sat in a in the same row.
The office manager held petty cash to pay for beers.
I was double-fisting through the 7th inning stretch when beer sales ended.
I made the error of not “breaking the seal.”
This would become important later.
As the game ended, we all filed out of the stadium.
In the tumult and because we were fully-loaded, it was haphazard and everyone was separated from each other.
For those unfamiliar with the geography around the stadium, there are two El stops within walking distance.
The Sox-35th stop on the Red Line is closest to the stadium.
However, after games, it is – predictably – fully-loaded with fully-loaded fans who also double-fisted through the 7th inning stretch.
I was with a colleague and we decided to walk to the Green Line stop to avoid the crowd.
And that is when the seal threatened to break.
As we got closer to the Green Line, I knew I wasn’t going to make it.
I needed to find an alley, a tree, or a wall to relieve myself or things were going to get very messy, very quickly.
As I power-walked under and past the Green Line, I spotted a tree next to a building.
In my hyperfocused state of emergency, that was all the cover I needed.
In my own defense: it was dark and I was in distress.
I had noticed a number of patrol cars in the parking lot, but oddly, they were all empty.
I unzipped and tried to relax.
Crisis averted.
Just as I was zipping up and turning to head out, I heard the loud bang of a fire-door being slammed open behind me.
I turned to see a Black police officer in uniform storming out of the building headed straight for me and shouting, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing!?”
I must have stammered something incoherently (remember: double-fisting through 7 innings).
I remember instinctively reaching for my wallet to pull out my driver’s license as if that would somehow explain everything. It must have been muscle memory of following the protocol when pulled over for speeding: license and registration.
In the quiet dark he examined me and my license, and then said, “Tennessee, huh?”
I responded that I was visiting.
Somewhat resignedly, he handed me my license back and said, “Get out of here.”
As I walked back towards the sidewalk, I took a closer look at the parking lot. The parking lot was full of police cruisers.
I had walked onto the property of the City of Chicago Public Safety Headquarters.
And then pissed on it.
Eventually, I rejoined my colleague at the Green Line stop.
I was so dumb-founded, I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
When we were finally sitting , I told him the entire story as you just read.
He collapsed in laughter and literally fell to the floor of the train.
And that is how I got away with it.
