High Society

As snobbish New Yorkers have known for decades, it is easy enough to look down upon Chicago. Long before the late A.J. Liebling permanently dubbed the place "Second City," outsiders laughed at Chicago's pretensions. Not until last year, however, did Chicagoans themselves have the spectacular opportunity to overlook their town that is now offered by the 100-story John Hancock Building. "Big John," as Chicago wits affectionately call the thing, is the world's tallest apartment building: no apartment is less than 45 stories off the ground, and the highest are on the 92nd floor. Tenants often find themselves above cloud level, and they are permanently remote from the city's urban blight. Living in the Hancock, says John McElhatton, 36, of the 47th floor, "makes Chicago a beautiful city."

Forever Insiders. McElhatton runs a rapid-copying business on the building's concourse; an estimated 14 other residents also work in the building. Theoretically, there is no need for them ever to leave, nor should leaving be necessary for the building's many widows, spinsters and retired couples. Everything required for day-to-day life is contained within Big John's walls: grocery, five restaurants (one for residents only), a department store, a bank, two cocktail lounges, coin washers and dryers, and even a branch of Cartier's in which to browse. Floors No. 13 to 41 house 141 office tenants, and there are 24 more commercial tenants divided between the topmost floors (public restaurant and bar, television-transmitter technicians) and the lower (garage space and shops).

It is easy enough in these depression days to find space in the building; at last count, 98 flats were vacant. High rents ($190 for a studio apartment, $750 for one with four bedrooms) exclude many would-be Hancockers. So does the sway factor. Big John is jacketed by steel girders that form a series of five giant Xs on each side. This is intended to provide extra support against the chilling winds that boom in from Lake Michigan. Despite the Xs, however, Big John swings: McElhatton claims that during one recent windstorm, with gusts of up to 75 m.p.h., there were whitecaps in his toilet. The girders creaked and groaned all night.

Chicago's changeable weather poses other problems. Mrs. Terri D'Ancone, for example, lounges abed mornings until Husband Alfie returns from walking the family poodle and brings a firsthand, down-to-earth weather report. Other tenants rely on radio weathermen or phone for a taped rundown. The height itself worries few tenants; no acrophobe would ever think of moving in. Curtains are not really necessary, although residents use them simply to produce a sense of intimacy or to screen out the early-morning sun. One female tenant, flinging open her curtains one morning before donning a robe, confronted a window washer dangling outside the pane. He was almost as startled as she was.

Great Lake. Reminders of these and other routine urban predicaments are rare. Those who both reside and work in the building are well on the way toward developing a new style of life. Lapsed Suburbanite Hal Farris, a 44-year-old advertising vice president, lives in a two-bedroom, 69th-floor flat with wife and daughter and works on the 27th floor. His commute is about 90 seconds if he hits the elevators properly. Farris makes a point of getting out daily unless the weather is bad. But he and his family are also fascinated by Big John. "It's a new way of life for us," he says. "It's absolutely gorgeous in the spring and summer when the boats are out on the lake. In the winter, the lake gets ice patterns that actually change. Then we've watched clouds form around the building in almost psychedelic patterns. There's an absolute fascination about looking out on the city."

Another resident agrees. Says Broker Edward A. Hurd Jr.: "If you come home full of problems--and I guess we all have this year with the stock market--it's like flying. When you get up there, everything seems sort of small, and the problems of the day disappear."

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