Walking past the Tribune tower I see a guy by the bus stop, looking sort of ragged and disheveled and with long dirty fingernails. He might be a homeless person or your basic urban oddball, it's hard to say. He's working hard, though, even at 8:30 a.m., industriously writing on the low stone wall by the stairs to lower Wacker. As I get closer I see what he's working on: he is doing a crossword from the morning paper.
----------
At lunchtime, a jazz combo is playing in the plaza outside my building, a snappy rendition of George Benson's "Give Me The Night," one of those signature '80s tunes that certain kinds of bands do. They're bopping along and the lead singer is waving his arms with enthusiasm. Before them are three or four rows of chairs, populated with female office workers. Sitting in a quiet, orderly fashion, as if they were waiting for church to start, they listen, looking as if they are exhausted, or have just given up.
-----------
After work, in the elevator, a woman gets in on the 19th floor and eyes me intently. "That's a very nice outfit," she says at last. "My teacher always told me, if you have something nice to say to someone, you should say it." I say thank you as we get out of the elevator and head for the door.

"Of course, she later proceeded to have a nervous breakdown," she continues telling me. "I think I might have played a part in that."

"Because you didn't say enough nice things?" I ask.

"No, because she was mean to my sister," she said, and left the building.

Thank you and good night.