I Paid for Doubting the Bean
This morning, my wife, Lisa, did not forget I promised to go with her to see The Bean while we were in downtown Chicago. The large, mirror-surface, popular work of public art watches the entrance of Millennium Park, a few blocks from our hotel. I wasn’t stoked about seeing it; I could have skipped the “must see” attraction and headed straight to the Art Institute, but my subtle yet obvious efforts to so adjust our itinerary failed. I had made a promise; I would honor it with joy, more or less, in my heart. Rain had fallen and more was forecast. I had slipped out earlier and bought umbrellas and donuts. We we prepared. What could go wrong?
I made it about 20 steps down Michigan Avenue before something went wrong. While sharing some intensely interesting thought with Lisa and paying no attention to where I was going, I placed my forward foot down and found no friction. Apparently, my new athletic shoes were incompatible with wet surfaces.
My foot slid forward and I could do nothing but take a giant, awkward step followed by three giant, awkward, out-of-control steps and, for the grand finale, execute a magnificently awkward, Old Hollywood silent picture comedy-worthy, 10-foot-long wipeout in broad daylight. Steven Spielberg would not have wanted a second take. Jim Carrey would have been jealous of the stunt.
At least 20 pedestrians walked past this scene and beheld my awesome faceplant. Not one of them broke their stride or said a word. A few looked. Lisa had visions of an ambulance and her spending the rest of our vacation nursing my wounds. I popped up and pretended my scraped shoulder didn’t sting a little. I had no visible signs of violence by cement. Onward we ventured, Lisa asking if I was sure I could continue. We walked six miles that day and I played my ruggedness for all it was worth.
I know what that was. That was karma for all of the snark I had handed down about that giant stainless steel kidney, which I expected to be lame.
Actually, the bean is fun. It reflects everything, judges nothing. In its simplicity, it makes people happy.
Guy D. Johnson is a writer and marketing communications professional. Previously an animation studio owner, daily newspaper editor, reporter and photographer, volunteer fireman, railroad bridge gang helper, FM radio station underling and cave guide. He has lived on farmland trusted to the sun and rain; atop a wooded hill; beside great rivers; upon an arid, high plateau; and at the subtropical coast of the Gulf of Mexico. For 20 years, he worked and wrote in New Orleans.