"And now," said the guide, herding his clanging, jangling tour group onto the lean metal walkway of the bridge, "we're coming up on the Chicago River. This, as many of you know thanks to movies and other entries in our pop culture dialogue, is the waterway that's dyed green every year as part of the city's Saint Patrick's Day celebration."
"Green river," said an elderly woman in the middle of the pack. "Like the soda."
The tour guide turned and broadcast his approval with a high-beam smile. "Yes, for those of you who remember it, Green River soda is a classic that's actually still served in some of the hot dog and hamburger shops you'll see throughout Chicagoland."
The elderly woman wrinkled her nose as she glanced over the bridge's railing at the dark, colorless water churning underneath. "Is it still polluted?" she asked. "The river, not the drink. I used to have a a girlfriend who lived up here. Every March she'd tell me about the green river." The woman leaned close to a younger man next to her. "Used to make jokes about what you'd be drinking if you ordered a green river float," she said.
"Okay, let's move on!" the tour guide called with a blink of his eyes and a widening of his smile. Their footsteps echoed like hammers on anvils as they crossed the bridge--at least, thought the guide as he pinched the skin between his brows, that's how it seemed.
