Age nine, a little blonde, blue-eyed kid from Wilmette gets off the "L" at Van Buren with his transistor radio, ear phone plugged in his right ear...the one that later lost 50% of its ability to hear as result of a q-tip accident. He's grooving to AM Radio and as he rounds the end of the stairs leaving  the station, a tune he's been waiting on comes into the rotation.

"Mama, just killed a man, put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger now he's dead"

He decides to walk more slowly and lets the music become his personal soundtrack, treading happily around in front of The Chicago Board Of Trade Building where his Dad works. Somewhat oblivious to the dangers of the city, but following all his father's directions as to how to carry yourself and who not to talk to, he waits out the final refrains of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" and then saunters into the great front doors of what, in ages past, was the tallest building in the Midwest. He thinks of the Peoria Pig Report as he walks to the elevators. Well, that's what he calls it...whatever that thing is comes on at dawn on WGN where they ramble on about pig futures and corn and such. As far as he can figure, this is the stuff that his Dad the economist regurgitates at the dinner table.

The elevators are all marked for different sections of floors, so if you would rather get to the 40th more quickly, you can. Express, they call it. Instead, little Phil takes the long way up, the scenic route, as his Dad always calls it. This way, he can watch all the interesting, if uptight people on the trip to the top. But best of all is when the doors open, just a few floors up, to show a scene of what looks to be complete and utter chaos! Men are running around screaming at each other in these bright vests with funny ID tags that have one name followed by some numbers and letters or something. It's too hard for him to focus on unimportant details, it's all the noise and excitement that attracts him! Wide-eyed and smiling, then biting his lip, then giggling at how funny they act, he's always a bit let down when the two floors of traders have passed.

At the 38th floor, the wide-eyed one exits the elevator, turns left, and walks to end of the hall to a door marked "T. Robert Circle Economist." He walks in without hesitation, such a thing not yet occuring to him.

"Hi Mr. Bowles!"

"Hi Phillip! How are ya kid?"

"I'mokaywhere'smydad? "

(chuckling) "He's just finishing up with a client."

He bites his lip, then says, "Ok, um, tell him I'll be in my office, ok?"

Phillip spins around with great purpose and walks through a door with gold model paint somewhat sloppily spelling out "Phil Circle Auther." Amonsgt the walls of file cabinets and boxes of office supplies is a small desk where he sits down, pulls out a legal-sized yellow note pad and pen and begins writing.

If you ask him, he'll tell you he has 17 books written, mostly about dinosaurs as monsters come back to life, and well, yeah, there are lotsa illustrations. And they're on construction paper of various colors. He digs into a "more serious" book about monsters with a pile of written pages already done and he's waiting on the pictures this time. Someone, probably an older brother, said that real books lack pictures.

Losing track of time as he immerses himself in frenetic writing, he barely realizes it when his Dad enters.

"Are you enjoying your day off from school son?"

"Yep," he throws out, still trying to get his thoughts and ideas onto the page."

Bob Circle pulls a $20 bill from his worn black leather wallet, throws it on the desk in front of Phillip.

"Here ya go. Go to one of the museums and I'll meet you at Greek Islands for lunch. Be there at 12:30."

"OkayDadthanks."

His Dad leaves the file room, quietly closing the door behind him and smiling proudly. Here's a kid, who, oblivious or not, doesn't have the capacity to be afraid of finding his away around downtown Chicago at age nine; who will delve into anything that fascinates him with a tremendous energy. He only does well in school on things that interest him, or perhaps appropriately, when they interest him. He was a month behind on his math homework, but became suddenly inspired one day, grabbed his math worksheets, hid behind the couch and knocked out all the overdue work. He may have gotten a score as low as 90% on one of the pages, but his Dad saw only a driven boy who knew what mattered to him and seemed to seldom forget this quality in his youngest, adopted, son. And his son would never fail to recall the feeling of pride he felt from his Dad.