For ages eternal, the sign in the window of the Montrose Avenue Culver’s read “Coming Soon.” Every time I got off at that Brown Line stop, the false promise taunted me. Time must move differently for frozen custard magnates than it does for mere mortals.
Until now, there were only two Culver’s locations in the city limits. From my north side apartment, both required CTA transfers. Over the years, I’ve grown skilled at tagging along on suburban car rides and cajoling my way into a Culver’s drive thru. A highlight of any road trip became scanning the exits for that blessed blue oval—a dangerous gamble for a 31-year-old who refuses to take a Lactaid.
In my alarm, I shot an inquiry out to the Culver’s corporate e-mail: “Will Scoopie attend the opening of the new Chicago location?” No response arrived.
But I felt the truth spread through me, as warm and viscous as butter spreading over a burger bun. Scoopie can never die. Because he lives forever in my heart. v
