Chicago — a city with centuries of rich history, a population of 2.7 million, a border spanning over 230 square miles. Also the name of a very good musical. But more importantly, one of the largest cities in the United States to most people.
But not to Gerald Portfront.
To Gerry, Chicago was no different in size than the miniature replica inside the snowglobe he kept on his desk. The Windy City could fit in the palm of his hand if he so chose to reach out and hold it. In fact, to put it simply, that was exactly what he did every day — placing the chaotic microcosm of Chicago under a microscope and studying it.
Gerry Portfront was a journalist, one of the most renowned in the area. He had started writing as a young man and worked his way up the ladder to be where he was now. It had taken nearly three decades and ten thousand packs of cigarettes (give or take), but to Gerry, it was worth it. Journalism was his pride and passion, his calling. Whenever he was asked as to what made a successful journalist, Gerry always gave the same answer: “An unnatural amount of luck.”
Gerry had always been lucky, so he claimed. Always in the right place at the right time to capture the perfect news story. Always able to track down and interview even the most obscure witnesses that would’ve slipped under the radar of anyone else. “It wasn’t a talent,” he’d insist with a cigarette dangling from his lips, “and it wasn’t a skill. It’s always been luck, plain and simple.” And so was the life of the luckiest journalist in all of Illinois, in the entire country even.
Then one day, one of Gerry’s coworkers found him slumped at his desk, unconscious with blood dripping from his nose. His limp body was pressed down on the keyboard, filling the screen with the letter “R.” He was subsequently rushed to the emergency room.
***
“It’s lung cancer,” the doctors informed him with clasped hands as he lay weak in his hospital bed. “We’re very sorry.”
“‘Lung cancer’?” Gerry spat, as though he had been told a particularly offensive joke instead of a severe diagnosis. “I can’t have lung cancer!”
“Mr. Portfront, with all due respect,” one of the doctors objected, “your relatives say you’ve been smoking since your twenty-first birthday. You should’ve known this was a possibility. Maybe if you had come in for regular cancer screenings earlier on–”
“No, you don’t understand!” Gerry cried. “I can’t have lung cancer! The mayor’s inaugural speech starts in half an hour, and if I’m not there to take some pictures and ask some questions, someone’ll overtake me.”
“Mr. Newport, I don’t believe that should be your top priority right now–”
“Well, it is!” he snapped, trying to pull himself out of bed by steadying himself with the IV pole beside him. The doctors quickly moved in to stop him, and an impolite exchange of words transpired before Gerry finally surrendered. “I bet that intern Marcus is gonna steal my story,” he sneered, arms crossed. The doctors shook their heads and sighed before leaving the room, leaving the cancer patient alone with his thoughts.
“The injustice of it all,” he grumbled, tossing and turning in the scratchy sheets. This was supposed to be his biggest headline of the year! He was the Chicago journalist. No one else came close to his status, least of all a lowly intern whose only job had been bringing Gerry his coffee just a week before this mess.
The cigarettes hadn’t been the cause of his lung cancer — it was five decades worth of bad luck catching up to him all at once. The universe must’ve decided he’d had it too good for too long and turned the tables on him. And was Gerry just gonna rot in this bed and let the universe take the only thing he loved from him?
He clawed his way out of the bed and stumbled out of his room. His IV stand stalked after him, tethered to his wrist by a plastic tube like a leash on a dog. Gerry rushed down the hall to the elevator. It was empty when the doors parted before him. There’s my good luck returning, he thought with a grin as he stepped inside. When the doors opened once more, he tentatively crept down the corridor of the ground floor. He paused as he came to a fork that led to either reception or the emergency room. He chose the latter, certain that someone would spot him and take him back to his room if he went with the former. The ER would be more chaotic, potentially providing a distraction so he could make his escape.
Sure enough, as he walked into the waiting room, a man on a stretcher was rushed past him, surrounded by a flock of frantic first responders. He caught the words “car crash” as they moved right by him and smiled. There it is again, he thought, hurrying to the exit. My good luck. A woman shouted something as he rushed out and into the parking lot, but Gerry knew he was free now. Free to fulfill his purpose.
He carelessly tore the IV drip from his wrist as he ran to the curb. He didn’t even have to flag a cab down — there was already one waiting there for him, as if his good fortune had called ahead for him. “City hall,” he demanded as he slammed the car door shut. He checked his watch. “And step on it. I’ll pay twice your rate if you get me there in fifteen.” The cab driver didn’t even stop to question Gerry’s medical gown. Instead, he got straight to work burning rubber into asphalt.
***
Cameras flashed viciously as the newly elected Mayor Shandra West stepped onto the podium. Microphones craned over the roiling crowd, poised like snakes ready to strike. She smiled brightly at the audience and waved. Near the front of the throng of reporters stood Marcus Leith, fidgeting with a small microphone in his hands and looking a little lost and wide-eyed. But he grinned excitedly, happy to be involved nonetheless.
***
“Here! Stop, stop, stop!” The tires screeched to a stop and Gerry leapt out.
“Hey! What about my money?” the driver yelled after him.
“I don’t have my wallet! No pockets!” Gerry called back as he hurried up the stairs to the town hall. He squeezed his way through the crowd. Some people gasped or yelled when they saw him, but he didn’t care. He had to get to the front of the mass. The concrete burned the soles of his feet. His heart was hammering in his chest, pounding against his battered lungs that struggled to suck in breath after ragged breath. He felt dizzy. God, I’m gonna need a smoke after this, he thought.
***
The mayor smiled, wet her lips, and brought the podium microphone closer to her mouth. “First and foremost,” she began, “I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your support throughout my campaign. It was a long and arduous journey, but thanks to your efforts, I now hold the title of mayor–”
“Miss West!” a jagged voice cried out from the audience.
The mayor watched, dumbfounded, as a middle aged man in a medical gown pushed himself out from the crowd, nearly falling to the ground. He was breathing hard and dripping with sweat, but he didn’t stop.
A younger man in a suit clasping a microphone stepped forward, squinting at the strange figure climbing up the stairs towards the mayor. “Mister Portfront?” he called, looking more shocked than confused. “What are you doing here?” But the man in the gown — Mister Portfront, apparently — didn’t seem to hear him.
“Miss West!” he shouted again. “How do you plan to address the growing concern towards–”
Then his face went slack, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed.
***
Local Reporter Flees Hospital, Dies At Mayoral Inauguration Ceremony
The residents of Chicago were left horrified yesterday afternoon after renowned local journalist Gerald Portfront interrupted mayor Shandra West’s inaugural address wearing only a medical gown before succumbing to his recent health concerns and passing away at the scene. “This was not the start I was anticipating for my position as mayor,” West admitted. “I can promise the people of this city that this is not representative of how the rest of my term will pan out. I hope we can look past this bizarre ordeal towards the bright future I see on our horizon.” Some have begun to suspect that Portfront made a deliberate attempt to sabotage mayor West’s campaign. However, others discard this theory. “I only knew the guy for two weeks maybe, but even I can tell this was out of character for him,” refutes fellow journalist Marcus Leith, Portfront’s apprentice. “He loved his work. He’d never do anything drastic like this. He’d give his life for a good story.” There are those who speculate that this might be the very reason for the late writer’s behavior, a man willing to die if it meant he could carry out his work to the bitter end…