Where Are They?

I’ve lived in Chicago for five years. The question has remained the same, from the time I moved here, to potentially the time I leave. The question is broad and it’s the title of this story: Where Are They? Conversations have revolved around this question. Contemplations in the middle of a night out. Concerns amid a crowded bar. Where the fuck are they?

By they, I mean the potentially nonexistent pocket of people in the city of Chicago who have a penchant for fashion, pop culture, music and literature. The pocket of people who read interior design books cover to cover. The raw denim wearer, Malboro light inhaler and designer by day DJ by night.

I’ve covered ground far and wide. I’ve unhappily partaken in the post-graduate scene, where Patagonia vests and Veja shoes become signifiers of the state of Wrigleyville on the weekend. I’ve watched young married couples in Fulton Market as they stroll their children in head-to-toe Kapital. Lincoln Park is home to the jersey-wearing, flannel rocking finance fanatic who will undoubtedly wake you up in the middle of the night, yelling on the street. These people are oversaturating the market. You will see them without fail, be it in a bar or walking down Michigan Avenue.

I’ve always been far more interested in the person you see once in a Cubs world series win. The person who “gets it.” They’re wearing something unordinary, or they’ve got a unique sense of style. They could be reading while crossing the street. They’ve got first-generation apple headphones. Of course, these things they present to the world are merely peripheral to what they spend their time doing, what they’re passionate about, where they choose to go in this city.

I’ve met very few of the people I’m speaking about. However, I’m grateful that they have the same contemplations. Where are they? Do these sorts of individuals stay inside on Friday night? What’re they trying to show the world, when they wear an obscure knit hat and Tabi boots? Through these conversations, I wonder what I’m trying to find. I suppose a simple conversation to make sense of my intrinsic need to belong to a group. To belong to this type of group.

With my lease ending in March, I have my sights on New York. A place where walking out the door means seeing the “they” I speak of. In New York, you don’t have to search for them. They shine on the street, in the bars, the subways and everywhere in between. Is there anything special in that fact?

I had a conversation with my dad the other night. We were driving on Lake Shore Drive and complaining about the winter weather. “Chicago makes you work for it,” he said. What he meant transcended the weather. In Chicago, the ever-changing weather isn’t all you have to put up with. In the case of my question—where are they—maybe I’ve overlooked having to work to find them.