“Meet me on the corner of Rush and Walton” he said. So his friend turned to the left as he exited the parking structure and focused on the corner ahead. Sure enough, he was there waiting, on the corner, as promised. Strangers passing by heard a strange declaration, especially for the time; a time of uncertainty, and of plague. “Let’s go buy a restaurant” he said with a smirk. It was an odd thing to say in front of the building where they stood, where the eatery within had been boarded up and closed, but it was not a whim. They were going to buy a restaurant, that very day. As they walked past the barricades and plywood encasements brought on by the summer’s unrest, they retraced their steps in friendship, from raw adolescents to adult roommates, to now, business partners, trolling this same avenue for fun in the wee hours of countless nights. Two neighborhood kids trying to make something from this morass, this near nothingness, that presented itself, suddenly, awfully, this last summer of the regime.

Hope is often found in what is brand new, but sometimes the old and familiar, the dusty and worn can produce something similar. The world around them seemed wounded but somehow newly awake. The resilience of the distressed can be an inspiration.

–Danny Grosso

When I’m pulling around slow it actually feels like I’m on water, which I am, of course – these streets are always wet this time of year. More than that, the suspension and the springy seats in these old cars provide a certain feeling of buoyancy. This classic barely fits in the garage, and is too big for the ride share triple parking on the streets now, but there is a certain majesty to its long, slow turns onto Walton Place. Drifting in under the moon and neon mix of light, top open to the elements; the lake is just a block away but it feels like we are already on it.

–Danny Grosso