The directions I collected got me to the University of Chicago campus. I found almost everyone that I accosted who attended the university knew of the site for the first nuclear chain reaction. It must be included as part of their orientation packet, along with, of course, all the accomplishments and successes accrued by fellow alumni.
The scientists at Fermi’s lab worked on The Manhattan Project beneath the football stadium on secret experiments as they raced to split the microscopic - to create chain reactions, to create the first nuclear bomb. Direction wasn’t outlined in concrete gridded blocks for them. The tension that mounted, the beating hearts inside chests as scientists scurried underground, working against the ticking of a clock counting down two inevitable conclusions - that they would discover the secret to nuclear power, or someone else would first. There were no precedents for their task at hand, no reference points, no landmarks, no maps. Some trust was there in gambling away the safety of the city for oblivion.
Sometimes moments hand us our options in closed fists, and by the very nature of curiosity, the thrill of the knots in our stomachs we listen to that quiet voice inside our head. The scientists got their necessary direction. Now I needed to find mine.
Over and over again I tried to ask for a drawn map to my location. What if I needed to get there again? Memory misshapes spoken directions, reducing the odds of ever finding my way there again. Conversations were regulated by a prescribed number of seconds, and then I’d be swatted away like a pesky fly. No one wanted to draw. They wanted theater, gesture and eloquence, but they didn’t want to draw a damn picture for me.
On my way home, I descended into the Red Line subway tunnel from the street. A quiet voice called from the middle step of a paralyzed escalator, “I’m having a heart attack.”
It echoed from his chest to a barely audible whisper. “I’m having a heart attack.” Another middle-aged man, well-built and with silver hair, changed direction to climb the stairs and descend down the escalator. He lifted the man up to bring him to street level. He offered assistance, his shoulder. That’s the key: He offered. Or, at least I assumed he did so as I stole my sideways glance. Turning, I continued with a clench and an ache. Something acidic singed my tongue …was that an ambulance I heard? Is it coming? The train collected us and before the doors shut, the man with the silvery hair slid in.
I watched the man with the silver hair ride the red line with me. More people filled the space between us, and eventually I didn’t see him anymore. That someone helped. I didn’t.
I found Fermi’s lab. But who cares? Find it yourself, without a map. I dare you.
The site? It’s situated around 56 blocks south from the loop and some number east. There’s pink construction paint on the sidewalk. There’s a Henry Moore sculpture that blocks a circular portion of the sun. A fuzzy snowball is lying by the curbside.
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