It’s a sticky, humid Chicago night and I walk inside a North side Dunkin’ Donuts-Baskin Robbins combination store. I’m in a pair of black, cutoff Adidas sworts. I’m also wearing the road jersey of the God King of Orange City, Iowa, Nick Collison.
He rules what he touches, and I got his jersey on.
I’m at the counter. It’s cold in here and it smells like old coffee and bacon. There’s a guy behind the counter. He’s either 6 or 60. Super tan. Like he lives next door to the sun or Tanquility or Jimmy Goldstein or something. His face looks like a face would look if you sat on it for five hours, stood up, hovered over the face, farted, then sat on it for five more.
There is no name tag anywhere on his person. He’s in a standard issue Dunkin’ Donuts-Baskin Robbins navy blue polo, black pants, and one of those pink, rubber bracelets for breast cancer awareness that says “I Love Boobies” on it. There’s an ice cream stain just north of his right nipple. Keep Reading…