The answer is no; I do not
have family, with or without [an] article, in Chicago. I have only been there
once, for three days, and I was drunk most of that time—drunk enough by the end
that I was still drunk and not hungover on my return flight through Memphis. I
took one of the boat tours and ate at a hot dog place where the woman who took
my order called me pencil-dick
motherfucker but made it sound almost friendly. My cousin Yatooma bought the
hot dogs and most of our drinks. We are not actually kin. In truth I have always imagined that
Yatooma has no family; he is that big a bastard.
