The Last One Standing

The daylight was bleeding out fast into a deep, hazy blue as the clock hit 8:40 PM on a warm May evening in Chicago. The city hummed with its usual distant roar, but down on the South Side, tucked deep into the quiet acres of Bronzeville, the world completely slowed down.

My friend Juan and I were standing right at the base of Michael Reese Hospital at the the historic, battle-scarred Singer Pavilion. It was a massive, imposing monument of mid-century concrete, the lone survivor of a demolished hospital complex that used to stretch across 48 acres of prime lakefront land.

We claimed a perfect, secret pocket of concrete right outside the building, directly hugging its heavy foundation wall. Rising directly above our heads were the iconic, cantilevered concrete overhangs designed by Walter Gropius back in 1948. Decades of abandonment had transformed the underside of the concrete into a sprawling, vein-like web of dead creeping ivy vines. Right next to us, a massive exterior street art mural covered the old concrete in sharp, vibrant geometric blocks of pink, blue, and yellow, acting as a loud, colorful canvas against the historic decay.

The ground-level foliage grew thick and wild, wrapping entirely around the building's edge. Tucked deep into this natural, overgrown trench, we were entirely invisible to the outside world, completely fenced off.

Juan dropped down onto both knees on the rough concrete surface, fully in his element. He pulled out the custom, clear water bottle bong—the modified special edition rig we brought along for the trek. He unsealed a bright green container and went to work, his attention locked downward as he carefully packed a heavy glass bowl. His t-shirt, stamped in bold white letters with the phrase "Life Is A Journey," felt like a literal badge for the exact kind of mission we were on.

Once the bowl was packed, I stepped out into the thick of it. Standing knee-deep in the wild summer brush directly in front of the monolithic pavilion, the sheer scale of the building felt surreal. The concrete structure loomed high above me, choked out by a massive, vibrant blanket of living green ivy that climbed all the way to the roof line.

I raised the rig to my mouth, bending down to spark the lighter against the heavy glass bowl. I pulled hard, watching the clear plastic chamber fill thick with white smoke as I lit it up and inhaled.

A second later, I pulled the bottle away. Standing perfectly still with the rig hanging in my left hand, I looked off into the distance, completely zoning out into the twilight as I let out a massive exhale. The thick cloud of smoke drifted slowly up past my face, mixing with the damp, earthy scent of wild summer brush and old concrete.

Being that intensely high made the massive scale of the Singer Pavilion feel like a cinematic monolith holding down the block just for us. We just sat there in the heavy, peaceful quiet of the property, watching the sky fade to pitch black while the city vibrated a few blocks away. It was an unfiltered, legendary summer night memory locked in with the crew—completely hidden at ground level, right in the thick of Chicago history.

“Leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but photos, burn nothing but bowls.” - Niko 05/25/2026