Close Encounters of the Chicago Kind

To Whom It May/Mayn’t Concern,

Last Sunday, I bore witness to a story of alien abduction involving one SOLOMON GOSHAWKS whilst at a hightop table drinking bloody marys in a neighborhood bar. Below are the details.  

LOCATION: The Rail, a bar in Ravenswood, Chicago, Earth, near the Damen Station of CTA’s Brown Line. 41.97° N, 87.68° W. The Rail is a popular happy-hour dive for Northsiders returning home from their daily commute as well as a favorite brunch location frequented by suburban Chads & Trixies. Most popular on the menu is the Rail’s Sunday DIY bloody mary bar: for $7.50, you can receive unlimited bloody marys from 10:30 am – 3 pm. 

FOOTNOTE: this location is where the abductee confessed his story; the abduction itself occurred some years earlier, elsewhere within the CTA elevated train system.

SUBJECT: Solomon Goshawks, 5’10”-ish, brown eyes, curly brown hair, puckish ne’er-do-well who does well-enough to reside in a Lincoln Square garden-apartment with an ant’s-eye view of the sidewalk (during non-winter months). Slightly inebriated during his confession, Sol insists he was in-fact sober during the abduction event. 

SIDE QUESTION(s): Why is there a checkbox on this MUFON questionnaire for “Indigenous Canadian Descent”? Are they more at risk for abduction?

SUBJECT Cont’d: Sol appears to be miscellaneously caucasian, though, it has been said he is “as cool as Eskimo toes” when he is playing high-stakes video poker. Not sure if that counts as Indigenous Canadian. 

WITNESS A: Desdemona Riley, 5’6”-ish, blue eyes, red-hair, feisty sushi chef with a foxtail tramp-stamp. A longterm associate with SUBJECT, Des was mildly intoxicated during Sol’s confession. As far as lineage: Des has Portuguese passion, an Irish wit, a Portuguese temper and an Irish temper, but is not known to be of Indigenous Canadian descent. 

WITNESS B: Handsome Chuck, a very stocky 5’4”, has mean eyes, is cueball bald, looks quite vexed. Or constipated. Maybe hexed. Someone’s Italian grandmother may have run up and malocchio’d the hair from his cursed head. A lot of Italian grandmother hexes in Chicago these days. Not as many as latter days, but plenty given the heat. On the day in question, Chuck was serving bar and not a known associate of SUBJECT. He was drinking shots of Malört at a pretty good clip. Handsome Chuck is likely of Hyperborean descent, or from wherever early people were cold, pale & angry when they weren’t raping & pillaging warmer people. I doubt he’s of Indigenous Canadian descent.

WITNESS C: Victor Ulysses Neverman, or so he says he is, stands between 5’10” and 6’1” depending on how much he is faking a limp. He has a plain face disguised by a surly beard and an occasional eye-patch. Vic has an uncanny sense of direction, including a nose for detail. He is also the author of this field report. As far as I know, I have no Canuck blood, indigenous or otherwise. 

AMENDMENT (a): Des is telling me the bartender’s name isn’t “Handsome Chuck”; he is instead known throughout the Northside as “Hands-On Chuck” for his molesty tendencies. He does not appear to be endeared to this moniker. We decide to continue calling him “Handsome Chuck”. 

DESCRIPTION OF THE ABDUCTION TESTIMONY:

On the Sunday in question, three Chicago residents woke midday and, after being kicked out of the infamous Ravenswood dive bar Gio’s, they arrived at the Rail to take part in the bloody mary brunch. Given their mid-afternoon arrival, the DIY bloody brunch special was over, however, Handsome Chuck, WITNESS B, was serving bar and allowed it because, “what’s the fucking difference?, shit’s been sitting out all day, if you don’t get at it I gotta throw it out”. Sol, SUBJECT, made his bloody mary heavy with the citric acid of old fruit rinds. Des, WITNESS A, prepared a bloody heavy with suspect olives & Worcestershire. Vic, WITNESS C, opted for extra greygoo horseradish & pickled pepperoncinis. 

Two jukebox songs later, the three patrons were toasting a local hero, Saint Enrico, aka Enrico Fermi of Chicago Piles fame, aka “the Godfather of the A-Bomb”. When Des asked what the “piles” actually were, Vic incorrectly suggested plutonium, which Sol corrected, saying, yeah, no, the Chicago Piles were fueled by uranium. You of all people should know uranium, Des. Sol said to her, I mean, since “Desdemona” is the name of the tenth moon of Uranus? Get it?, he asked, “moon of Uranus”?, get it?

Yeah, that joke never gets old, Des said. The weight of her eye-roll could crush a beer can. 

Des, WITNESS A, mentioned she was more familiar with Enrico Fermi because of “Fermi’s Paradox”, a cosmological theory about the absence of intelligent life in the infinite expanse of space. Sol, SUBJECT, said, Enrico Suave doesn’t know shit. Obviously, Sol said, I know for a fact we are not alone in the universe.

Wait, what?, Des asked. “Obviously”, what “facts”?, she asked.

No, so, y’know…, Sol said as if it were common knowledge. My story… about the aliens… from a few years back? On the Brown Line? Jesus!, Des said, if this is another Chicago Piles bullshit joke, I am going to rip your fucking ears off. Sol said, no bullshit!, Vic will back me! No man, Vic said. I never heard of any alien shit. Oh, no shit?, Sol asked with moderate surprise. Well, okay, so, where do I start…?

Wait!, Des, WITNESS A, interrupted. I gotta pee. Order another round. When I get back from the wash we’re going to unpackage this alien shit. And Sol, you need to show the merch. Okay? Jagoff. 

5 MINUTE INTERLUDE FOR BIO BREAK

No, so tell me if you’ve heard this before…, Sol says:

I was abducted. I don’t know how long I was gone for, but Scotty beamed my ass up. I didn’t see aliens, but I knew they were there. I couldn’t really see shit. It was fuzzy, torn-up, weird colors where there shouldn’t be. Like cable TV scrambled porn. I was like lobotomized, disemboweled brain, couldn’t feel any part of my body… nothing, except teeth. I could taste my teeth. Like sucking on piano keys after the roof’s been blown off in a tornado.

Wait!, Des said, dial that shit back. You said you were on the Brown Line? Coming from where? Out South? The Loop? Were you high? Drunk? Ate too much pizza? You been pissing against the 3rd rail?

FOOTNOTE: Des’s inquiries are justified. Hallucination via pizza over-indulgence is a regular occurrence in Chicago. “Pissing against the 3rd rail” is another common Chicago phenomena where the esteemed urinator’s stream of piss reaches the electrical third rail with steady-enough incessancy of urine to allow a jolt of electricity to slip back upstream into the urethra of the offending penis*, causing at worst: death by electrocution; or worse: an exploded dick w/o death; at best: a subtle tingling sensation and singed pubic hair. 

*: The 3rd Rail electrocution experience has only been witnessed, to my knowledge, where the medium of excretive propulsion was via male phallic genitalia.

Sol Goshawks, SUBJECT, denied any intoxication to Des, suggesting he was sober during the abduction. And, he admitted he lacked the bladder fortitude required to complete a “3rd Rail Handshake” as seen on TikTok. Sol explained, no, yeah, to be honest, I don’t remember where I was coming or going only that I came-to and was on the L. I remember thinking, “oh shit, so I guess we’re back”, but that was fleeting as the angels started pulling me away again. 

Angels?, Des asked. What happened to the aliens? We’re you abducted or raptured?

Yeah, so, Sol said, I think the aliens wanted me to trust them, right?, and in my head they go, “we’re angels”. But I knew they’re aliens. I couldn’t ponder it tho cos every five seconds or so my head would be wiped clear. Like fucking windshield wipers. Here’s a drip of thought: gone. Here’s a drip of thought: gone. They kept washing my brain. They kept me confused. Out of focus. 

Des asked, so the voices in your head say they’re angels, but you know their aliens? And you promise you didn’t forget to take your schizo meds that morning?

Yeah, Sol confirmed. The voice goes, “don’t resist”, right? Like, I should let go, not fight it. And a thought shows up in my head: I should yank out my teeth. My teeth were the only piece of myself I could feel. I could taste them. They tasted like iron, bloody, maybe cos I was sucking on them hard. They were my lifeline, my only anchor. I don’t know where the idea came from, but maybe the angels planted the idea. But I knew pulling out my teeth was a bad idea. I tried thinking happy thoughts to ground me, but the aliens kept washing my windshield. The problem with happy thoughts was they were too easily wiped away. I couldn’t focus on them. I needed the deep-seeded shit. I needed way-back memories at the bottom of the dustbin. The real buried shit. Like the shit you’re paranoid about at your grandmother’s funeral cos, like, what if she shows up in Heaven and God goes, “Nana, you wouldn’t believe half the shit Solomon did!” That shit. Those old skeleton-in-the-closet memories, the repressed shit, like when I got pantsed in gym class. Or the time I skinny-dipped with my cousin… 

Wait!, Des asked, what?, how?, wait, which cousin?, was it Jackie?

No, well, technically…, Sol said, it was my second-cousin, and second cousins don’t count, but at the time, I did think she was, like, a real cousin. But she and me only have, what?, 2 ½ grandparents in common. No!, that ain’t right, more like only 1 ¾’s of the same grandparents. Sorry, I’m bad at geometry, but this cuz is distant. BFE distant. But not distant enough for Nana to not roll in her grave if God’s givin’ up the hot goss, tho, right? 

So Jackie then?, Des asked. 

No, not fucking Jackie!, Sol said, not that I would fucking tell you anyway, but can I get back to my story? So yeah, the thought of getting pantsed in gym class was strong enough to, y’know, emotionally help keep me grounded. 

You mean to say, Des said, an incestuous skinny-dip saved your life? Vic raised his hand, saying, I have questions. Foremost, were the angels deep enough in your head they got to see Jackie naked? Second, what did their voices sound like?

Yeah, so no, the angels had my voice…, Sol said. 

Jesus!, Des said, that’s fucking terrifying. Having a bunch of jagoffs in your head telling you to pull out your teeth and to stop thinking about skinny-dipping with your cousin Jackie…

I never said it was Jackie!, Sol insisted, saying, but the angels, they made a mistake: they were shaming me for my appetite for worldly things, but they go, “forget your temptations and hungers”, so I go, like, “oh shit, y’know what?, I kinda am hungry.” Now, I am thinking of French-fries and that Connecticut-style pizza they have down at Wicker Park. But hey!, don’t tell anyone I like that New England thin-crust shit. But really, it may have been hunger for east coast pizza and second-cousin skinny-dipping that saved me from being hoovered-up into the mother ship. 

Freud would have a fucking field-day with you, Des said. You’re sure you weren’t on LSD or something? And, no, I don’t mean Lakeshore Drive. Maybe someone laced your chapstick?

Yeah, so no, but really, Des, Sol said to her, this was how I experienced it. Of course it all sounds like bullshit. All abductee stories sound like bullshit. That’s why no one pays us any mind, right? 

Sol, Des said, if you were sitting on my barstool and I was there going on about how E.T. sucked me off the Brown Line, you’d think I was shittin’ you. One minute the space angels are telling you to extract your wisdom teeth and then suddenly you’re back on the L? What the fuck, guy?

No, not suddenly. Just back. I was there all along. But not there there, Sol said. No, so it was like being caught in the waves, y’know? Like washing up on the beach and thinking it is over, but then you get pulled out to sea again. Nothing was sudden, Sol said, just slippery. 

IN CONCLUSION: 

SUBJECT has no physical scarring or other characteristics evidencing an abduction. WITNESSES attest to SUBJECT’s sincerity, despite the levity of his story-telling. SUBJECT later expressed an opinion that his abduction was not of a material nature, but rather something mental, not physical but maybe psychical or, even, spiritual. He believes his body never left the train, it may have just been his soul, the essence of his consciousness, which had nearly been pickpocketed by unknown extraterrestrial thieves.