I took the train from Joliet to Chicago to visit my old friend Sandra. She was just getting off work. We ate some sandwiches and soup at her place then walked across the street to a bar on Lake Michigan. (Also, her rent for a studio on Lake Shore Drive is cheaper than the rent on my in-efficiency in Mt. Pleasant.) They had great Pina Coladas. When it was time to leave we couldn't find the waitress. "It that her," Sandra asked me. "I don't know. All Irish girls look the same to me," I says.