The booted feet of the author and her father feigning bravery on The Ledge of the Sears Tower: photo: katharine morales
Straining to see further, vying for a vantage point with stubborn strangers and hyper children of knee height always in the way, the crowd gathered in the observation deck at the Sears Tower in Chicago is getting restive. Manners and feigned patience are the only factors stopping a riot thousands of feet above street level. My father and I sat through an educational film about the rivalry between New York City and Chicago, we stood up against cardboard cutouts of Michael Jordan and Barak Obama, with graphs detailing how many presidents tall is the building in which we stand (283), we paid more money than these things are worth, and now we are pushing our way to the windows for the real attraction — the heart fluttering, knee-weakening, stomach-churning, mind-reeling “Ledge.” These four glass capsules jut 4-1/2 feet from the tower’s 103rd floor, allowing for unprecedented views. Lake Michigan is a vast turquoise backdrop outlined by Indiana’s hills, and the ball park the White Sox call home is dotted with pinpricks of stadium light. But it’s hard to look out when we are trying so hard to not look down — down past our shoes, down a vertical quarter mile to the ants walking by on Wacker Drive. The sensation brings you to your knees, if only at a desperately vain attempt to get that much closer to the blessed floor, and the words plunge, plummet, and smash come dauntingly to mind.
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