I spent the weekend bicycling around Chicago.  Threw the bike in the car and headed out.  Weather was sunny and in the 70s.  I exited Tower Road, pulling into a parking lot near a bike trail and with no particular plan I followed another biker named Don.   I was on his tail for a couple of miles before striking up a conversation.

"Nice trail," I said cheerfully.

"We're not on a trail," he says, obviously annoyed and rolling his eyes like he was forced to respond.  I tell him I'm stalking him, to try and put him at ease.   I feel like Don and I must have been separated at birth because we're wearing the exact same clothing; black spandex pants, orange jacket and we're both on bikes.   

We start to speed up.  In a subtle yet paranoid way, I feel like Don is trying to bike away from me.    

“I know a great trail along the lake,” yells Don as I follow like a little, orange duck.  We wind through a ton of great neighborhoods, fantastic houses and wonderful smells.  Chicago's flowers and leaves are brilliant and about two weeks ahead of Wisconsin.  We turn a couple of corners and end up in a pretty seedy part of town.  Lots of police in bullet proof vests, chain link fences protecting dirt lawns and porches in need of paint.   

Don takes me through the Loyola campus and Northwestern.  We arrive at the lake and Don announces, "There's the trail - - good bye."  And he ditches me.  I'm totally lost, but adventure awaits and I make a mental note to pay better attention to directions next time.

I take the lake trail south, down through Lincoln Park stopping at the free Lincoln Park Zoo.  It's kind of out of place when you think about it, live lions and gorillas in the heart of Chicago.   

I gravitate back to the trail, as it feels safe with a lot of bikers, runners and rollerbladers. 

While winding my way back to the car I leave the trail and jump on a side road stopping at a hole in the wall store that says '"Guitars and Movie Posters."   

Noel is just arriving to open the shop and invites me in.  The place looks like someone's basement with unfinished wood paneled walls and junk everywhere!   Rolls of movie posters are pitched in every corner and a juke box is shoved partially under the stairs.  There's a promotional picture of Steve Lawrence in the front corner of the jukebox.  A bust of Elvis sits on the glass atop the machine.  It’s Vegas Elvis, not fat, ready to explode Elvis.  

I bring my bike inside the shop and Noel closes the door.  I hear a click and look back,   noticing jail bars on the door.  There is also a shade that’s drawn covering the windows which are also supported, top to bottom, with metal bars.  I tell myself it’s Chicago-store- security.  I also think it'll be a challenging Houdini escape.

I'm down three steps to the basement floor and waiting for Noel to descend.  He already has.  He is just "that tall."  Giant tall.  I feel like I’m standing next to Abe Lincoln and his stove pipe hat.  “I’m 6 foot 4 but short a foot,” says Noel in a matter-of-fact tone.   "You look 6-4 to me,” I says with my head thrown back like I’m trying to fend off a nose bleed.  "No really, I'm a foot shorter then I look, I got hit by a car and I only have one foot."  

I drop my vision to the floor and eye up Noel’s right shoe.  The dusty, black, Chuck Taylor hightop is crushed like an aluminum soda can.  Noel stumps across the room and plops into a low back metal chair on wheels.  

Noel slides behind his desk, which is actually a section of a huge tree stump.  The desk is well varnished but hard to see as it’s buried under Star Wars videos and paperwork.  Another chair behind the desk is a high backed throne from the turn of the century.   Noel obviously prefers to scoot around the shop in his office chair.

Noel is 53-years-old and has a college degree from a school in Peoria, Illinois.  “Philosophy,” he tells me adding, “And I'm not married."  I fear I’m caught in an impromptu episode of The Bachelor.  "All the ladies have dumped me because of my hobby.  MOVIE POSTERS," he yells.  "I love um!"  Then he repeats himself, screaming.   "I don't just like um -- I LOVE UM!!!"  Noel says he could spend all day in his basement store just looking at the posters.  I'm thinking I’d have to be the breadwinner in the family.  I quickly erase that fierce thought from my memory and blame the underground atmosphere for my retarded vision.

Noel’s favorite posters are of Clint Eastwood and horror flicks.  He unrolls a large, linen poster from a 1930s movie.  Very colorful greens and yellows and wide eyed actors with looks of anticipation.  "I sold one of these with Frankenstein on it for $110,000," says Noel dejectedly shaking his head.   “It was either that or sleep in the street.”  To this day, Noel says he regrets the sale.

We spend about a half hour flipping through posters mounted on cardboard and wrapped in plastic. John Travolta and Olivia Newton John from Grease. "Now there's an attractive couple," says Noel moving his eyebrows up and down like a bad Groucho Marx impersonation. Noel has lots of Elvis posters. Young Elvis. "He was good looking back then, huh?" I nod in agreement.

With half a butt cheek in his chair on wheels, Noel leans on his stump and reaching over he digs through roll after poster roll, finally pulling out the one year anniversary poster of "Star Wars." All the toy characters marketed for the movie are positioned around a white birthday cake that carries one burning candle. "$20,000 a piece and only 100 were made," says Noel, estimating he has about 5000 copies of that particular poster.

"I have a computer in my brain" he says.  "That's how I know where everything is."  He'd have to, his cleaning lady hasn't shown up for weeks and I don't know how else he'd keep track.

Noel flips through another stack of posters and stops at one with Tracy Lords.  "You know who that is?" he asks, testing my knowledge of the adult movie industry.  "I had lunch with her.  Met her at a poster signing,” says Noel who must have been reading the ‘how-the-hell-did-YOU-meet-her’ look on my face. "She's married now with kids you know," he says of the former porn star.  "She wanted to buy a poster from me."   

Noel had curly hair that chased about like he just tried smoothing it down with a balloon.  He had square, brown eyeglasses with thick lenses and squinted when he talked to me.  The sharpest part of Noel’s wardrobe was his red satin jacket with boxing gloves embroidered on the back. "I'm a boxing official," he says.  "Sometimes I think it's me in the ring," he laughed throwing a couple jabs in the air.  A 6-4, near sighted, one-footed, 53-year-old boxer who LOVES movie posters. My luck, he'd be single.  But, he already beat me to that punch.  (pun intended)

Noel started peppering me with questions.  Age, job, and how did I manage not to get caught by a man yet.  I deflect his attempts to get to know me and steer him back to movie posters.  

"Is that what you ride?" says Noel, pointing to my bike.  I start explaining how I got to Chicago and Noel interrupts, "Me -- I drive a hearse."  Of course he does.  "You know why?  In case I meet a girl on a bicycle and she needs a lift, we can just throw it in the back!"

It's been a half hour, and NOW -- I'm starting to feel uncomfortable.  I tell him I should be going.  Noel gets out of his chair and stumps to the door to let me out.  As I pedal away I look back.  Sure enough, there's a hearse parked on the street.