An excerpt from Fall 2013 issue by Dmitry Samarov
I’ve never lived in a place where you couldn’t hear the neighbors moving around above your head or under your feet.
I’ve never lived in a place with a lawn, nor understood why anyone would want a lawn, not to even mention ever having to actually mow one.
I never thought I’d end up living here.
In the nine years I drove a cab in Chicago, aside from Hegewisch and Edgebrook, Beverly was probably the neighborhood I took the fewest fares to. My one memorable fare to Beverly was a very drunk city attorney coming from a North Side dance club, where—to hear him tell it–the ladies couldn’t keep their hands off him. He was on his way to meet up with his good South Side girlfriend and her friends—all of whom hated his guts.