Our box is in that particular area due west of downtown Chicago where the city peters out and the processing, manufacturing and distribution begins. There’s a smattering of residential, small business and shuttered buildings, with the ghostly Metra slicing through it all.
It’s not the kind of place you stroller around seeking brunch.
Yet plopped in the gritty middle is The Breakfast Club. I pass by it almost daily at 6:50AM, a block away from beast time at the box. We share a silent dialog, me and The Breakfast Club. Well, it’s a one-way sort of thing. Some outtakes:
Oh it’s you again.
(In the winter) So warm. So inviting. Must. Keep. Walking. Pancakes…
This must be the best part of the shift. Nobody there, nobody needing anything.
Why so formal Breakfast Club? Bow-ties mean business I guess.
I could just get pancakes instead of doing pull ups. Pancakes…
Hey, hey, hey HEY.