It is a very hot day today. A Jew and I walk down the crowded boulevard, avoiding the splashing water from the hydrant as it messily relieves itself over the sidewalk. Children run noisily through the street.

We decide to have an ice cream. I approach an ice cream man and ask him for two large chocolate cones. He reaches into his tub with his special Ice Cream Dispensing Scoop Utensil and almost right away his face is contorted with a profound look of inexpressible disgust. I try not to notice. It would be bad mannered to do so. The Jew talks to a dog that has approached.

The ice cream man pulls his hand from the tub. He can all see another hand reaching out of the tub, grappling with his lower arm, trying to haul him into the tub. The ice cream man resists well, although he drools slightly into the tub.

Over on the other side of the road, a smart new and shiny Ice Cream Van draws up. The running children run for it avidly. The Jew runs for it avidly. The dog runs for it avidly. I run for it avidly.

He has no chocolate ice cream, but we feel relieved. We feel relieved and grateful. We feel relieved and grateful and happy to be alive with the strange dog that belongs to everyone and no one. This is the Chicago of 1961 that everyone remembers.