Old pal, new hero

They’re crazy with the skyscrapers here in downtown Chicago, where we’re visiting for a week. At least three are going up, including one shaped like a 2,000-foot corkscrew. In no time, the tour guides say, you’ll be able to see all the way to Indiana from these new monsters of the midway. They never say why anybody would really want to.

But it’s a glorious town, Chicago is. Chicago is about comfort food, soaring spires, Da Bears and constant repairs to the Dan Ryan Expressway. You’d think a town that could reverse the direction of its major river, or build some of the most interesting towers in all the world, could pour a road that would survive a Midwestern winter. Apparently not.

For the expressways here are in chronic turmoil. The Kennedy has had more work than Joan Rivers’ kisser. The Dan Ryan is like a Roman ruin. The bedrock of this fair city must be more bed than rock.

“Over here, where the Sun-Times used to be, is Donald Trump’s latest vision,” the tour guide says.

Meanwhile, down at the federal courthouse, an alleged mobster known as Joey “The Clown” Lombardo is on trial, accused of murder, entertaining the room with stories about shoeshine boys and cheap coppers. It’s like a scene out of a Cagney flick. At one point, the judge scolds the defendant and the attorneys for too much laughter. You can almost hear the ghost of Al Capone: “Go get ‘em, Joey boy.”

That’s Chicago. Texture. Humor. Frustration. History.

Back in the suburbs, I stand in the kitchen of the house where I grew up, staring at the biggest jar of mayonnaise you ever saw. It’s gotta be 60 ounces, this bottle -- the Hancock Center of mayonnaise. In the suburbs, they think big too.

“You could lube a bus with that thing,” my wife says.

“Did you see the way Nonnie salted her chicken?” the little girl whispers.

Yes, I did. The little girl’s grandmother likes a chicken salted just so. She likes her sandwiches with a nice smear of Hellmann’s and her burgers cherry pink. Nonnie is 84 years old. Nonnie doesn’t need our advice.

Besides, for five days I have eaten like Henry VIII too. One day, I had an Italian beef sandwich so peppery and thick that I’ve been having post-traumatic stress. On another day, I had the best slab of ribs since God invented pigs.

So, yeah, I’ve probably put on 10 pounds during my Chicago visit, most of it pork. At breakfast, we discuss lunch. At lunch, we dream of dinner. The Midwest is a Mardi Gras of hearty grub.

Each morning, I repent by jogging down the steamy streets, while the little guy explores every corner of my boyhood home, where fishing rods and hockey sticks still line the garage.

“He hit a home run today, he hit a home run,” he sings, a tune with only 10 words that he performs over and over and over and over.

The little guy is on a mission to reclaim the streets of America for urchins like him. It isn’t easy. Yet, he manages to coax some fine summer experiences from the soggy plains. He dances through spider webs. He digs for night crawlers. For him, it’s all about how you approach life. He counts among his friends all of the major superheroes. And every dog he’s ever met.

“He hit a home run today, he hit a home run. . . . “

“Hey, the Wagners are here,” someone shouts.

Talk about superheroes. The Wagner boys are a legend in these parts. Not so long ago (40 years) they had one of the best backyards of all time. They were always building go-karts or racing mini-bikes. Their dad could build an engine from a Popsicle stick.

The Wagners arrive just before sundown, the way old buddies should -- on motorcycles. We chat as if we’re in a tavern somewhere, reliving the old days. As you’ll recall, the late ‘60s were an American renaissance. Back then, childhood wasn’t just a career track.

It’s about then, I hear her yell.

“He’s choking!” my wife says from the kitchen.

The culprit: a grape. The victim: the little guy. In the kitchen, the 4-year-old looks at me with muddy eyes. For the first time in his life, he is unable to make a sound.

“Come here,” I say, and Heimlich him so hard that his feet lift 6 inches off the tile floor. Nothing.

“We’ll get it,” I assure him, and Heimlich him again, launching him even higher. Still nothing.

“Here, lemme have a look,” says my buddy Jim.

Jim peers into the little guy’s mouth, reaches in with an index finger and flicks a perfect grape from the front of his guppy throat.

“Cancel that,” my wife tells the 911 operator.

“Can you say thanks?” I tell the little guy.

“Thanks,” he says, extending the best handshake of his life. A home run handshake.

Thanks, old buddy. Can I breathe now?

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.