Once upon a time, there was a town called Prairie View, Illinois; I had an apartment there, way back in 1990 - 1991. My address was 22961 Apple Hill Lane, which has the distinction of being the largest house number of any place I've ever lived.
It was a nasty apartment. The previous tenant - a fella named Tony something-or-other, according to the unforwarded mail that kept showing up in my mailbox - was a heavy smoker, so the walls & carpet smelled terrible. The apartment was incredibly hot, even with the furnace off. (Perhaps the thermostat was broken.)
The neighbors were nice, except for the people who had the apartment directly above mine. They were fond of loud parties and loud music, late into the night. During one particularly annoying party, one of them managed to send the balcony railing - a quite sturdy wooden structure - and himself crashing to the ground. (As I recall, they were evicted for that stunt.)
The maintenance fella lived in the building. He was strangely chatty, and would stop by my apartment sometimes just to say hello. (Did he do that to everyone? I never found out.) His wife used to be a White House photographer; she had pictures on the wall of herself, shaking hands with President Reagan.
In 1990, I worked at Washington National Insurance Company of Evanston, Illinois. It was a company with a proud past but no future: every quarter, the CEO sold off another chunk of the company and laid off a few dozen more people (the survivors of these purges were reassured afterward that they were all valued members of the team - a speech that only works the first time it's given). They finally went under - the last remnants being purchased by Conseco - in 1997.
My commute was roughly twenty-two miles, each way. (I had to fill up the Blazer every week, which was a hardship when gas was $1.25/gallon. I pity anyone who has to drive 45 miles/day when gas is $3/gallon [or more].) Traffic went from nonexistent (at 6:00am) to complete gridlock (at 7:00am), so after a while I gave up on finding the quickest route to work: instead, I went for the least stressful route, which was Sheridan Road. It never had any traffic, and it passed through some very pretty neighborhoods (where the rich folks live).
My fastest time for the Prairie View to Evanston commute was twenty-six minutes. I'm still a bit surprised that I wasn't arrested, barreling down Golf Road at 60mph. (One hopes the statute of limitations on vehicular insanity has run out.)
The world has moved on, but my old apartment building is still there. Google Maps has a nice aerial view of the place. (It's all condos now.)
