Chicago is a beautiful city. Coming from Detroit’s malaise, Chicago seemed more like NYC to me than it probably otherwise would; streets are alive during the day with suits and slacks, t’s and tourists—and not one Parrothead in sight.
We took the drone up over Millennium Park once before being told we couldn’t do it again and headed to Buckingham Fountain to get a time lapse.
“Ay man. These yours? These Parliaments?”
Some dude came out of nowhere and started rooting through bags looking for a cigarette.
“Yeah, they’re Parliaments.” Mark said. He seemed like he was on drugs.
“Sweet! Hey man, I’ll trade you a hit of my joint for a Parliament.” He opened his palm to show an almost-entirely-smoked joint.
He was wearing a wrinkled black polo, black cotton shorts, and scuffed sneakers. He was short, thin, and had a slightly scratchy voice. His short faux-hawk made him look younger, but I’d still pin him somewhere in late 20s, early 30s.
We soon learned his name was Polo. Polo was a career porn star who wouldn’t seem familiar to many “unless you give some credit card information to Vivid Entertainment.”
Polo, while waiting for Mark to give him a cigarette, told us about his past 2 days. Nothing much out of the ordinary: a chick he was with was held at knife-point while idling at a red light and this obviously made Polo angry—so he made her blow him until he got to an ATM. He reminisced about picking up two girls at a bar, bringing them back to his aunt’s house (whose bedroom “conveniently” had a bed—isn’t that the whole point of the room’s name, Polo?), and paid her $140.00 so he could bang ’em in her room. He threw in a little ditty about getting kicked off a bus for having a $50.00 bill or something, I kind of stopped paying attention; dude could ramble.
He also ate dinner on the top floor of Trump Tower every night of the week. Pretty swank, Polo!
In an effort to prove his sexual prowess, Polo told us “trade secrets”.
“Yo, you want a girl to orgasm every time? Try this move out…it’s called “The Walk”. Polo demonstrated by motioning his index and middle fingers like, you guessed it, a walkin’ pair of legs. He was explicit with his instructions, too, “DON’T force it. Never force it! They don’t like that.”
“Hey, you want your dick to grow? Try this. When you’re jerking off, wrap some sewing string around the head of your dick—it’s a muscle, bro! You gotta work it like you do every other muscle. So then just jerk off and tug on the string a little bit. Bro, I grew 6 inches in 7 months.”
Polo, with all his worldly advice and expertise (I’m wrapped tight as I type this), was kind of hostile, angry. He was mad—not as us, just at the whole world. Maybe getting paid to fuck wasn’t all Polo thought it would be. Maybe he was just a broke Chicagoan playing out a fantasy to whoever was willing to tolerate it. Maybe Polo really was a complaining porn star with the world on a string—or at least his dick.
Ronald, Mark, and Polo left to waste time with whatever was left of the joint, Jimmy and I waited with the equipment.
About 20 feet in front of us, we could see Polo aiming his water bottle at a pigeon.
“Precision.” He said before missing his mark, giving chase to the bird with his arms outstretched. This lasted about 15 seconds before a group of Segway tourist-riders reached the fountain.
“HEY GUYS! LOOK! SEG-GAYS!” He said while running after birds and tossed water bottles. Dude was definitely on drugs.
The next day, we caught up with Polo one more time before leaving Chicago, meeting him in front of Buckingham Fountain to buy from a friend of his. Polo was wearing the same exact outfit as yesterday; it was like he was living in some kind of drug-infused, lubricated Groundhog’s Day loop.
Dude ended up coming through for us and made the drive to Denver more relaxed. Somewhere in California right now, the good people over at Vivid Entertainment are singing Polo’s praises:
I’d give anything to go for a walk with Polo!
This is gold, Polo! GOLD!
After we left him, I like to believe Polo walked into Trump Tower and high-fived security. He took the elevator to the top floor and enjoyed the complexities of a rich Cabernet between bites of filet Mignon. Afterwards, he had sex with the wait staff, all of them—and didn’t have to pay anybody to use their bedroom.
I’m like Fox Mulder. I want to believe.