The Whistle: A Mini-Mystery in Two Parts, part II
When I first heard the whistle, I had just gained consciousness. This is not when people typically do their clearest thinking. But still I hypothesized:
At first it sounded like a bird call, but I ruled that out because no bird has the attention span for notes that long. Then the train passed my building, as it does every five or ten minutes, and made the usual metal-on-metal grinding sound as it rounded the curve. The whistle sounded a little like that, too, except that the train never makes the exact same grind noise twice. Nor does it ever hit two distinguishable notes.
Then I considered construction. As developed as downtown Chicago may be, they're always finding room for another building and they'll only work on it while you're trying to sleep. But the only whistle on a construction site is stereotypically the one that signals the lunch break or the end of the day (think of the Flintstones opening sequence). I don't even think those are used anymore, since all construction workers work at desktop computers now and computers have clocks on them.
I finished this list on the elevator. When I got to the lobby, I realized I had forgotten my camera.
I got back to my room a little frustrated. For some reason, I was hurrying. I was afraid the whistle would stop, stealing my reason to ignore my obligations and ruining my sense of adventure. And then, although it had read my mind, the whistle stopped.
I stood at my window, my nose mere inches from the screen, and waited for a full minute. I listening breathlessly in complete silence.
Fifty five seconds… sixty. Low, high.
I exhaled and turned to leave, nearly forgetting my camera for a second time.
State Street was surreal. A busy artery of downtown during the day, it is almost completely empty in the wee morning hours. You could stand in the center of its intersection with Congress if you wanted and live until at least six o'clock.
Low, high. Every time I heard it, I was more relieved to not have to give up the hunt. I headed for the parking lot behind my building. Facing east on Harrison, I heard it coming from the North. Then, on Wabash, standing under the train tracks, I heard it from the west. Two men passed me on the sidewalk while I was listening intently. I didn't notice until after they had given me strange looks that I had been standing on my toes.
The whistle sounded again and I turned to face the third floor terrace of my building. Of course, I couldn't see anything up there from the ground. But why hadn't I checked there first?
The terrace was empty, as usual. I think it's under-appreciated. Then again, I moved here in the winter.
LOW, HIGH. The whistle was so loud that it startled me. The sound had come from the bushes in the corner of the terrace. I thought about jumping into them, but they are directly in front of a third floor room's patio, and I was already nervous enough about being mistaken for an intruder. This made close inspection difficult.
Ten minutes of loud whistling later, I had determined beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was awakened by nothing more than a bird outside my window.
At first it sounded like a bird call, but I ruled that out because no bird has the attention span for notes that long. Then the train passed my building, as it does every five or ten minutes, and made the usual metal-on-metal grinding sound as it rounded the curve. The whistle sounded a little like that, too, except that the train never makes the exact same grind noise twice. Nor does it ever hit two distinguishable notes.
Then I considered construction. As developed as downtown Chicago may be, they're always finding room for another building and they'll only work on it while you're trying to sleep. But the only whistle on a construction site is stereotypically the one that signals the lunch break or the end of the day (think of the Flintstones opening sequence). I don't even think those are used anymore, since all construction workers work at desktop computers now and computers have clocks on them.
I finished this list on the elevator. When I got to the lobby, I realized I had forgotten my camera.
I got back to my room a little frustrated. For some reason, I was hurrying. I was afraid the whistle would stop, stealing my reason to ignore my obligations and ruining my sense of adventure. And then, although it had read my mind, the whistle stopped.
I stood at my window, my nose mere inches from the screen, and waited for a full minute. I listening breathlessly in complete silence.
Fifty five seconds… sixty. Low, high.
I exhaled and turned to leave, nearly forgetting my camera for a second time.
State Street was surreal. A busy artery of downtown during the day, it is almost completely empty in the wee morning hours. You could stand in the center of its intersection with Congress if you wanted and live until at least six o'clock.
Low, high. Every time I heard it, I was more relieved to not have to give up the hunt. I headed for the parking lot behind my building. Facing east on Harrison, I heard it coming from the North. Then, on Wabash, standing under the train tracks, I heard it from the west. Two men passed me on the sidewalk while I was listening intently. I didn't notice until after they had given me strange looks that I had been standing on my toes.
The whistle sounded again and I turned to face the third floor terrace of my building. Of course, I couldn't see anything up there from the ground. But why hadn't I checked there first?
The terrace was empty, as usual. I think it's under-appreciated. Then again, I moved here in the winter.
LOW, HIGH. The whistle was so loud that it startled me. The sound had come from the bushes in the corner of the terrace. I thought about jumping into them, but they are directly in front of a third floor room's patio, and I was already nervous enough about being mistaken for an intruder. This made close inspection difficult.
Ten minutes of loud whistling later, I had determined beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was awakened by nothing more than a bird outside my window.