Twittering

Chaos at the Train Station

        In typical Metra fashion, there is a delay and their announcements only create further confusion. I just happened to notice when I checked my track -- because you may or may not know that I learned the hard way that you always check your track -- that the Union Pacific North Line 7:04 a.m. to Highland Park is delayed. But all other trains are running as scheduled.
        So at 7:21 a.m., when standing on a platform for tracks 9 and 10, an announcement is made: “The next North Line train will be departing from track number 14. The next North Line train will depart to Highland Park from track number 14.”
        What they didn’t say was that was the 7:04 that is departing from track 14. The 7:04, which makes different stops than the 7:25 (my train).
        I saw a fellow commuter stepping of the train, and I explained what I had derived from the information I gathered after the lack of clarity announcement.

The Car

        There has long been a mystery of “The Car” on the Union Pacific North Line that runs from Lake Forest to Chicago. It’s a private club car, and the people who ride it are often mum about its access, or privileges. But that’s how old money behaves -- they don’t talk the things their money buys that others don’t get to have.
        An article in the Lake Forester shed some light on the culture of the car, which dates back to 1929. Hmm, about the same year as the Lake Forest Caucus. The article, though, quotes some riders, and you can definitely tell the difference between old money and new money. Old Money:

"My father and other people's fathers were part of this thing when it started way back," said Kent Chandler, who road The Deerpath for nearly 30 years, from the 1950s to the 1970s.

"I enjoyed it. It was a lot of fun," said Chandler.

        New Money:

Jan Gibson of Lake Forest has been a member for the last few years. A long-time commuter, Gibson got fed up one day with the goings-on around her on a public car and decided enough was enough.

On Boy on Boystown

        Boy on Boystown, whatever his name is, implies that nicknames are primarily sexual in nature, and thus kept secret. But a nickname is a pet name, often a term of endearment, and thus, can be shared.
        What the Boy is really talking about are code names that allow friends to talk about regular charicters in one's life, secretly, but in a public sort of fashion.
        Riders of the Metra North Line out of Ogilvey might be familiar with Cute Book Publisher Guy, Sleeping Blonde Girl with Ugh Boots, Ticket Flirt Girl, or the Ravenswood Boys. And anyone riding a later train back into the city might have had a run-in with Foot Fetish Phil.

Starting the Day

        Just moments before I step on the train, I’m greeted by a man. He’s there every morning, wearing shorts and a polo shirt. This morning, he’s not shaved yet, and a heavy, masculine silver watch makes his bicep bulge, enhanced by his sleeve band.
        To say I’m in love with this man is an overstatement. But as I step on to the train, I look over my shoulder to see if anyone is looking. If anyone spotted me staring.
        His body is worth the risk, to stare at. To oggle and admire from afar. Every morning, he’s holds his shirt up, just a little, as if I’ve caught him putting it on from a twisted mess on the floor. Far from a washboard, it has a bit of heft, covered in a pleasantly thick fur--a belly that just begs to be rubbed. It’s a confident look that makes middle aged hotter than the svelte years that are now behind me.
        His blue eyes are electric and the pearly whites of his smile seem to convey, “Good morning, beautiful.” Hot and bothered, I blush as I walk past the billboard he’s pasted on, the backlighting only accentuating his eye-pleasing features.
        I suppose Joe Commuter has no idea the lust I feel for this bilboard man. I suppose, if Joe Commuter did catch me staring, he might simply think I’m reading this oversized advertisement for Nautica shirts at Macy’s.

Image of my Billboard Man via Nautica.com.

Track No. 9

        I got on the wrong train the other morning. Folks who don’t know the city have no idea how that is possible. Which direction could it go? they ask. Doesn’t it go one direction with no variation. That’s the case if you get on the train in any other spot than the originating station. Where I get on the train, I have to find my train amongst sixteen different tracks. Trains are coming and going every five minutes, with crowds of suburban people running every which direction, oblivious to people in their paths.
        My train leaves from Track 9. Every morning. Track 9.
        So I walk through the station. Go to track 9. Look at the board. First stop, Clybourn. Get on the train. Get out my laptop. Get comfortable. Start working. I’m 15 minutes early. All is well in the world.
        But my peeps are not here. In fact, other people are sitting in their spot.
        An announcement.
        “This train is departing to Crystal Lake... ”
        What?
        I gathered up my stuff and hopped off the train. Check the watch. 7:25. My train leaves at 7:25.
        I run downstairs and check the board. My train is no longer on it. It’s 7:26.
        I sit down, trying to figure out what to do. Trying to figure out what happened. That’s when it occurs to me that the Crystal Lake line stops at Clybourn as well. What went wrong? There were not announcements of a track change. No message scrolling across the message boards. Any time there is a change, it’s well publicized. But not this morning.
        There was another train leaving in 15 minutes, but it was only going to Highland Park. The next train to Lake Forest was an hour and ten minutes later. So I decided to get the train to Highland Park, and call someone for a ride. And by the time I got into the office, word had spread. Through the office, across campus, that Tim got on the wrong train.

An Object on the Tracks

        Scrolling announcement on the message board at the train station: “The North Line is currently not operating due to a trespasser at Wellington.”
        Ticket agent: “I don’t know when the North line will be operating again. Just as soon as they remove the body from the tracks.”
        The 7:04 had been cancelled, so I wondered if the 7:25 would leave or not. Since I had arrived in plenty time to purchase my ticket, I figured I should use the restroom and get some food -- just in case. I’m optimistic though, as we just pulled out of the station, only 4 minutes late.
        Update 7:37 a.m.: We’re stopped on the tracks. Not even at the Clybourn stop yet. Somewhere near the Miller Lite sign that can be seen from the Kennedy Expressway. No announcement. Thank goodness I grabbed some food before hopping on board.
        Update 7:43 a.m.: Apologies for the delay just announced over the public address system. Due to an earlier incident, they are running a single track. We’ve not seen a train come from the other direction, though.
        Update 7:51 a.m.: “Metra does apologize for the delay due to the single track operation because of the earlier incident.”
        Update 7:53 a.m.: A southbound train just passed. There are a number of express trains that still come into the city at this hour, so don’t know that we will be able to move forward just because one train has passed. Other passengers appear to be relatively calm. If this were taking place in the evening, people would be going crazy. Now, they are just going to sleep.
        Update 8:00 a.m.: More apologies. Waiting for an opening so that we can continue to go North. I just realized if they are running on one track, I’m sitting on the wrong side of the train to see the body.
        Update 8:02 a.m.: Second southbound train just went by.
        Update 8:07 a.m.: Third southbound train.
        Update 8:12 a.m.: I think a fourth train just went by. Not that I can’t count to four, but I wasn’t paying attention. Went off in la-la land.
        Update 8:19 a.m.: An announcement saying they will keep us informed.
        Update 8:26 a.m.: This is the time we normally pull into Lake Forest. Or at least are scheduled to pull into Lake Forest. Another train just passed. The fifth? The Chicago Tribune is reporting that a pedestrian was struck near the Clyborn station, and the vague closing statement, “Details to come.”
        Update 8:38 a.m.: We’ve been stopped for an hour now. What I think is the sixth inbound train just passed. The ladies on the lower level have turned the seats around to face each other. One has a laptop with a wireless card. She’s surfing the Internet for information. The others are on their blackberries. I’m surprised they haven’t pulled out their knitting needles, but then these women don’t have time to knit.
        Here on the upper level, we’re still isolationists. The Twins are at the end of the row. One is sleeping. The other just finished the Red Eye’s sudoko.
        Update 8:44 a.m.: We will not be moving until 9:10 a.m., they just announced. This train will stop at Clybourn, and then run express to Waukegan. Then the next train will go express to Highland Park. The train following that will make all stops. No one--not even the conductor--is clear if the Highland Park train will continue to make stops, or if it will stop. People are starting to get restless. I am reminded, at times like this, that social order balances on a razor’s edge.
        Update 8:57 a.m.: The seventh inbound train -- the train with the club car where they smoke and drink cocktails -- just went by us. A sixth train went by while I got up to use the restroom. An announcement just clarified the train behind this one will run express to Highland Park, and then stop. But there won’t be anyone on that train because most people get on at Ravenswood and Evanston.
        Update 9:05 a.m.: My friend Liz called after I sent her a text message. She normally gets on at Ravenswood. She said she finally had to take refuge in the Golden Nugget Diner. I could so use a BLT right now. If I survive this, please, somebody, let my mama know I loved her.
        Update 9:10 a.m.: The eighth train just passed. I’m growing a beard while I sit here and wait.
        Update 9:13 a.m.: Still not moving. They reminded us of the train logistics and apologized. They said it was due to a “fatality suicide.”
        Update 9:14 a.m. The ninth train just passed. I am thinking this is an April Fool’s joke, and any moment we’ll all be laughing.
        Update 9:15 a.m.: Oh, the humanity! We’re moving!
        Update 9:31 a.m.: I’m on a train that is moving north. We got off at Clybourn. Another train arrived--one we were told was going to Highland Park. The conductor said everyone was getting off this train.
        “There is a train directly behind us. It will be making all stops.”
        “We were told this train is going to Highland Park!” a woman yelled.
        “This train is not going to Highland Park. The next train will go to Highland Park.”
        “We were told this train is going to Highland Park. Where is this train going?”
        “This train is not going to Highland Park. The next train will go to Highland Park.”
        The wind was blowing. It’s only 39 degrees. I was only on the platform for 15 minutes, and I was feeling hypothermic. I don’t know how the people who stood there for ninety minutes could tolerate it.
        Total chaos was about to erupt.
        Update 9:45 a.m.: This train is full. There are people standing in the aisles. I don’t know how we’re going to pick up all the people we need to pick up. This train is filling the void of three trains. People are jockeying for seats.
        Update 10:45 a.m.: I just arrived at work.

Train Time

        It’s snowing outside. A heavy, dark cloud looms where the sunrise should be brining the light of day. My train leaves in four minutes. I’ve calculated the walk down to the minute; add three minutes in the case of heavy snowfall.
        Bells. The sound of a bell. Ringing, continuously. The red bell on the building. The fire alarm at the train station is sounding.
        The train is leaving in three minutes.
        What do I do?
        Walk into a potentially burning building to check to see if my train is on fire?

        Approaching the door, I was spared making a decision; the fire alarm silenced.
        I suspect it had something to do with the river of water running out the door. It was cascading down from above the doors to Track 1, rushing down the concourse and washing the snow away from the sidewalk.
        My train left on time.

Re-treading the Master Commuter

        I’ve graduated to the realm of master commuter. In the past few weeks, while shopping Macy’s sales, I’ve purchased new dress shoes. Both brown and black pairs.
        It wasn’t really time for the new shoes. The existing brown and black dress shoes just need a polish, and they’ll be good for a little while longer. But these newly acquired foot fashions are not just for everyday wear -- they’re for the office.
        Now, under my desk, I have a little shoe farm, where these new dress shoes live.
        So in addition to a cabinet of mid-afternoon snacks, cans of soup, protein bars, decaffeinated green tea, and bags of beef jerky, I now have a supply of shoes that I put on once I get to the office.
        Now I’m walking to and from work (almost four miles every day) in tennis shoes, rather than dress shoes. Which has been nice in this icy weather to have treads, rather than leather, on my souls.

Cast a Spell of Quiet

        With the exception of routine station announcements, the dull roar of the cars rolling along the tracks, or the conductor requesting tickets, it was unusually quiet on the train Monday morning. So much so, you could hear the turning pages of a book. Everyone on the train who was not reading the morning’s news, was reading Harry Potter.
        That is with one exception: me. I was gripped by Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. His metaphors hold my mind hostage, the story compelling me to the next passage.
        Harry Potter just never cast a spell on me. It was just before the fourth book of the series came out that I picked up the first book. Book critics were celebrating the series as one acknowledging young readers mature as they read, and the characters and plot developed as a child reading developed. Combined with a midnight release (Star Wars, maybe, but a children’s book?), I found these realities intriguing enough to sit on the porch one sunny afternoon with a tall glass of sweetened iced tea and crack open the spin of book one.
        Three glasses of tea and fifty pages later, I was as high as a kite – the sugar having a profound effect – and bored to no end. I closed the book and set it down. I saw no difference between Harry Potter and James and the Giant Peach. I felt I had read this before – an orphaned child goes to live with an under-appreciative family and gets lost in a world of fantasy. While it had been updated to meet the flashy expectations of today’s over-programmed children, it just wasn’t enough to hold my attention.
        I went along that year with Tony and friends to the midnight release party. Having read the first three, Tony bought the fourth book. (He usually eats lunch with a book, while I eat lunch with a conversation, and thus reads more books than I do.) We’ve gone to the movies. One movie, we saw twice – once when it was released, and again when it played on an IMAX screen – again, tagging along with friends. I found the movie so uninteresting the second time around, I left the theatre, and when I returned, I laid down on the floor, taking a nap.
        And now I witness the craze all over again. This time around, the madness comes with a bit of melancholy. It’s the last one. Although, who lives and who dies, I don’t really much care. But an entire family of four in a small, unsuspecting Kansas Town—they were killed in the middle of the night. And that story is true.

The Venti Conflict

        The entire barista force stood behind the pastry display. There was an unusually blank stare on each of their faces as I approached the counter. The timing was such that I entered Starbucks moments before the seven o’clock trains arrived, thus I was the only customer to be served by the morning team of seven.
        The black girl’s mouth hung open like an ear hole receiving my instruction.
        “I would like…”
        “…a large hot green tea, two bags of Zen?” Her words met mine.
        She said it. She said my order, “a large hot green tea, two bags of Zen.”
        After months of sporadically visiting the store and refusing to speak Starbuckese, I had won. I was not speaking their language, but they were speaking mine. It dampened their caffeinated morning spirits, so I mixed the mood up a bit.
        “I’d also like an apple fritter, please.”
        “Oh,” the look of surprise. “Okay.”
        I moved to the pretty boy cashier.
        “Let’s see, that was a…” awkward pause, “…two-bag tea.” He skirted the size issue completely.
        “Yes, and an apple fritter,” I added.
        “One apple fritter.”
        Victory coursed through my veins. I had accepted the fact long ago that I’d be looked at like an idiot any time I order in a Starbucks. Looked at like I don’t know how to order properly. Looked at like I’m some naive amateur, or even worse, a person with such awkward social skills, I can’t assimilate.
        I’ve become okay with that, because I think the secret language of Starbucks is just plain stupid. I think it represents a snobbery that separates the haves from the have-nots in our country. The blue from the red. And coffee, or tea, shouldn’t do that in a society. It should bring us together, and tear down those walls of ideology that divide us.
        What is, after all, wrong with just a plain “large?” Five letters, one economical syllable we all understand. “Large” is easily larger than “medium,” and nothing is larger than “large,” except for “extra-large.” And probably “gargantuan,” too, but we generally don’t have gargantuan-sized cups in our world. “Venti” is two syllables, and does anyone know what a “venti” is? And what does “venti” relate to? “Venti” is not even in the English dictionary.
        I reveled in the social tension, and because I was the only customer, it was amplified among the staff. I can only imagine the conflict that would follow once I left the store. The ongoing contradiction between meeting the costumer’s needs (“But he spoke English”) and conforming to a system designed for efficiency (“We don’t use that ‘large’ word here.”)
The pretty cashier tried to negotiate a peace accord, honing in on my earphones.
“What are you listening to?”
I should have said, “Self esteem tapes that help me accept conformity.” But I didn’t.
“East Village Opera Company.” I tossed my head, turning on the flirt.
“Oh, what opera?”
“It’s not one particular opera. They take opera and make it pop rock, ” I said, proving I can be hip and trendy, even if I don’t speak Starbuckese.
“Ooo, that sounds interesting. I’m going to write that down.” He picked up a pen and wrote on the back of a receipt.
“One large two-bag tea.” The barista handed me my tea.
“East Village Opera is interesting. It’s got a very venti sound.” I turned and walked out the store.

Catch-Up

        I find myself gravitating towards the more Playful Twin. The other is just too serious all the time. Besides the Playful Twin just got his hair cut, and it draws attention to his amazing blue eyes. Or maybe they’re just colored contacts. Either way, my heart skipped when we made eye contact this morning.
        Last night I sat next to him on the way home. Having not rained in days, the pollen was getting something fierce and I found myself in a bit of a sneezing fit.
        “Bless you,” he said, his smooth masculine voice wrapping around me.
        This morning, he was reaching for the Chicago Sun-Times scraps left behind by the suburban commuters. We made eye contact as I stored my backpack.
        “Good morning,” I said. I smiled. He smiled back, grabbed the paper, and turned away.
        He really is the most compassionate person on the train.
        It’s been a while since I’ve been able to post, but a lot has happened in the past two weeks. If found myself in New Orleans at the Saints & Sinners Festival. It’s the fourth time I’ve been to this convention, and it keeps getting better. I was able to hang out with some old friends while getting to know new. Like my morning commute, I’m no longer feeling like such and outsider.
        Maybe it’s a mindset.
        Then three days later, it was off to Atlanta for Dan’s 30th Birthday celebration. We chose to drive, so it was a brief visit – not much more than 24 hours – but we were able to connect with a few old friends and take in a fabulous Annie Liebowitz exhibit at the High Museum.


Atlanta Skyline
Originally uploaded by Timothy State.


Dan's Birthday
Originally uploaded by Timothy State.

        I’ve had three short weeks in a row now, and next week will be four. I’ve spent most of my commute trying to follow-up with all the business cards I picked up in New Orleans—nineteen in three days. Does that make me a conference whore?

Things Getting Back to Normal

        There’s been a total shake-up of the morning commute dynamics since the implementation of the new schedule in early April. For those traveling to Lake Forest out of the city, like me, there was no impact in the morning or afternoon commute. Now were I to travel from the city to Highland Park or places in between, I’d have several more options.
        The result for me, six weeks after the shake-up, is that there are fewer people on my train, and thus, I feel tighter, more connected with the people around me who I don’t speak with.
        Commuters to Evanston probably gained the most flexibility, and thus, I hardly see Cute Book Publisher Guy. Mornings, like this morning, when I sit down he looks at me like we hardly know each other. Which is fine with me because my lusts have turned elsewhere: the Twins.
        Yes, it’s twice the fun, these two tall, lean things, their short, dark curly hair that needs no styling. They have a freshness that looks like they just rolled out of bed and poured themselves into their shape-enhancing jeans. They wear jeans and tennis shoes to work every day. Sometimes even a t-shirt, so no idea what they do.
        They sit at the end of the car, my side, on the upper level. One is more serious, with his Bluetooth earpiece, although he never speaks on the phone. He always wears a polo shirt, and tucks it in. In the morning he reads the business section first, and then the front page news. He’s always there first.
        The other twin is more playful. His shirt is generally un-tucked, exposing his tight belly when he stretches and yawns. He arrives just moments before the train departs, and when he sits down, he first enjoys a cup of coffee and a donut. He reads the sports section first, and gets his news from the scraps of newspaper sections left behind by other commuters. He text messages like a social fiend.
        I saw the Twins in Market Square the other day. They were headed to the car, the Playful Twin tugging along a Boston Terrier. They were on their way to the car, otherwise I would have stopped to say hello to the dog.
        Sleeping Blonde Girl has changed out of her Ugg boots now that the weather is warmer. She’s usually got a black heel sticking out in the aisle, which generally catches someone’s pants, or impales one’s shin as they walk by. This wakes her up, just long enough to pull her foot out of the aisle and then pass out asleep against the window.
        I’ve also grown closer to Skinny Triple-Chined Guy with Goatee who looks like a Turkey. Skinny Tripple-Chinned guy is sitting the appropriate direction, only taking up one seat now, and I’ve even seen him turn seats around, discouraging commuters who arrive after him from sitting the wrong direction. He wore orange and maroon on the Friday following the Virginia Tech Tragedy, and he now has a VT Alumni button on his bag. I feel for him and his loss. But almost a month later, the commute goes on.

Upgrade

        Last Sunday, I picked up my new replacement laptop. One of the latest innovations that apple has come up with is a seamless transfer from once computer to the next. The geniuses at Apple took care of all the data transfers for me, so when I started up my new computer for the first time, everything was where I would normally find it.
        While this has saved me a great deal of time tweaking the settings to mirror my preferences, it also has one down side effect. One of the outcomes of poking around the settings is that you get to see what's different and what's new. So, a week later, I'm still discovering things I wasn't completely aware of.
        This computer comes with a built-in camera, and with it a software called "Photo Booth." It's more fun than functional, unless you're a sixteen-year-old girl. Which means I'll probably be finding all sorts of uses for it. Here's a photo I snapped while on the train yesterday morning headed to the office.

Commute
Originally uploaded by Timothy State.

Metra Foul

Metra Foul
Originally uploaded by Timothy State.

        While this woman is seated sitting forward, and not committing the egregious social foul others have been committing recently, she's committing two very clear Metra Fouls: 1) her shoes are on a seat, and 2) she's got a bag on a second seat during the rush hour. Where is the compassion?
        If she has to fall asleep, please place her bag on the rack, and set her feet on the floor. Drool if she has to, but don’t go putting her shoes up on a seat and taking up precious real estate with a handbag!
        People like this deserve to have their picture taken and posted on the Internet. The nerve.

Called Out

        Life has just not been normal in weeks. I pinpoint the paradigm shift to the time change a month ago. It was then that a skinny gentleman with triple chins and a goatee first appeared. He’s got the appearance of a turkey and was the first one to sit backwards. All it took was him to sheepishly sit backwards before someone more socially ignorant came along boldly sat the way no commuter had sat before.
        Earlier this week, we reached the breaking point. I had been displaced from my seat, as four people I had never seen before were sitting backwards. I sat on the lower level, right behind Red Eye Reader.
        “Tickets!” the conductor yelled as the train pulled from the station. He stopped in the middle of the aisle, looking to the upper level. He scanned both sides of the train.
        “Look at that. All these people on this side,” he said, pointing to the area where I normally sit, “they are all sitting backwards!”
        He turned to face the other side of the train.
        “And the people on this side are all sitting facing the correct direction.”
        There is nothing but silence the Metra is known for.
        “That’s curious.”
        Things have been normal since then, and I believe Turkey Guy – the instigator, has been properly socialized.

Big Boots Reclaim Territory

        I blame congress for the chaos that has ensued this week. Five commuting days after the time change everything is back in order. I can only surmise that my fellow commuters have also been so disoriented, and therefore Sleeping Blonde Girl in Ugh Boots is acting out – she’s wearing jet-black spiked-heel boots. She’s projecting a sassy attitude that reclaims her territory. That, and, as she sleeps, her boot is sticking out into the aisle, catching the pants of every man who walks by.
        It’s Friday.

What Is Going On?

        What is going on in this world? Just when I think things are getting back to normal, I get on the train to find not one, but three people sitting in the single anti-social seats on the upper deck, facing backwards! That means three people are taking the most valuable real estate on the train.
        As I situated my coat and backpack, clearly laying socially-appropriate claim to my one seat, Army Recruit Guy showed up. He surveyed the scene and determined his seat was taken. We made eye contact and I shrugged my shoulder.
        Now, I firmly believe that we urban pioneers who move into neighborhoods where grocery stores are scarce do deserve a break, but this is just ridiculous. I hope it’s not this unseasonably warm weather that is bringing about this craziness. Are the Republicans back in power? Who are these people? Did they just move from the suburbs?
        Wait. I just moved from the suburbs.

Morning Train Turns Upside-Down

        This time change earlier this week has totally rocked my world. Of course, I mean that in the sense that it’s now light when I come home at the end of the day sort of rock my world. But I also mean that in the sense that there has been a paradigm shift on the train that has me totally disoriented. I thought things would be normal this morning, but they weren’t. It all started yesterday with the morning commute.
        Now mind you, I sit in the anti-social seats on the upper level. The ten single-person seats that can either face forward or backward, depending on which way the train is going. Most people like to sit facing forward. On the lower level, where seats accommodate two, the Polish Housecleaning Ladies flip the seats to have a coffee klatch for four. No one turns the single seats to face each other, unless there are two lovebirds. There are no lovebirds on the morning commute, except for Ticket Flirt Girl.
        So yesterday morning, I get to the train at my usual time. No Cute Book Publisher Guy (I’m beginning to realize you just can’t rely on men), and everything is out of order. It’s like the train car has been turned upside down. Sitting where Ticket Flirt Girl normally sits is a man – Man in Beige with an Aging Computer – who has flipped the single seat and is facing backwards. He’s using the second seat as a desk, where he’s set up his archaic laptop on his briefcase. He’s probably doing something like, I don’t know – Excel Spreadsheets! Not only are his actions offensively rude, but he’s thrown off all social order. Sleeping Blonde Girl in Ugh Boots is in my seat. Ticket Flirt Girl is in the seat where Army Recruit Guy sits. Army Recruit Guy is M.I.A. Multi-Tasking IM-er is sitting downstairs where the Polish Housecleaning Ladies go. And there is not a single anti-social seat to be had! And we were at the beginning of the line!
        I nearly dropped my too-cheap-for-Starbucks homemade tea.
        For the first day in my nearly three months of commuting, I sat not only in a different seat, but an entirely different section of the train. I tell you, it smelled.
        So this morning, I thought all would be back in order. But no, Beige Man with an Aging Computer is again taking up two seats. Although he chose to sit on the other side of the train. Ticket Flirt Girl and Sleeping Blonde Girl in Ugh Boots and Army Recruit Guy are all in their normal place. It appears, for the most part, we’ve adapted to this man’s thoughtlessness. Just maybe, life will go on.

You Might Have Cheated on me Already

        Jewish Cell Phone Woman sat behind me on the train today. I could only hear one side of the conversation, but her side entertained me all the way to Lake Forest:
        “Are all men like this?”
        --
        “Yes, my brother cheated on his fiance.”
        --
        “He calls her every night and tells her that he loves her and he misses her. So full of bullshit.”
        --
        “I hope not. All men can't be like this. Otherwise I'll be alone forever.”
        --
        “But still, it's not like he's been without sex for one year -- it's been ten days.”
        --
        “It is a lot, but come on. It's a special situation. He's traveling.”
        --
        “I just think he tries to sleep with as many girls as he can.”
        --
        “I should not judge. But I just think it is wrong.”
        --
        “Maybe he does love her, but he shouldn't be calling her every night telling him that he misses her
when he's sleeping with another woman in his bed.”
        *heavy sigh*
        “So how are you? You're happy?”
        --
        “So when are you going to start your new job?”
        --
        “What?”
        --
        “Like in two weeks?”
        --
        “How is it? In Brazil you have to give like one month notice. What is it like, two weeks?”
        --
        “Two weeks?”
        --
        “One second, one second.”
        --
        “My bother is calling me. I have to call him back. Can I call you in a few minutes?”
        --
        “Do you still love me?”
        --
        “Thank you.”
        --
        “What?”
        --
        “About what?”
        --
        “You will fail? You will what?”
        --
        “Save me? Yes, Yes, I can hear you better now. Do tell.”
        --
        “Did you get my letter? Yes.”
        --
        “Oh, it's been a week now. I'm so upset. You should get it soon.”
        --
        “Anyway, I'll call my brother even though I'm so mad at him. Such the nerve. Such the nerve.”
        --
        “I believe you. I believe you.”
        --
        “Not today, right?”
        --
        “I'll try to call you later. I love you.” *Smooch sound* *Smooch sound* “I love you.”
        --
        “Hey hey. Hello?”

        From the reflection in the window, I could see that she hung up the phone and was staring out the window. After a few minutes, she dialed the phone.

        “Hi, Mazeltof.”
        --
        What followed were the hushed towns of melancholy. I couldn’t make out the beginning of the conversation, which is lost forever.
        --
        “When I scream at you, it doesn't make a difference? What should I do? We cannot throw money away.”
        --
        “It's not because I'm making money back in Texas.”
        --
        “So we're not going to go camping anymore? Or make pictures?”
        --
        “We need so many things.”
        --
        “But I asked you, ‘Did you buy anything?’ And you said, ‘No.’ But you did.”
        --
        “You think it's all a joke.”
        --
        “Please stop screaming at me. I cannot scream at you on the bus.”
        --
        “I just want you to know that if you can't be honest, you can't be in a relationship.”
        --
        “It doesn't matter. You liked. The fact that you lied. There is no price tag.”
        --
        “It's a lie. What a lie.”
        --
        “Yes?”
        --
        “Why shouldn't I know that? Should I not know?”
        --
        “So does he still work for NPR?”
        --
        “Should I just let you do whatever you want?”
        --
        “It's a joint decision. Everything. Everything.”
        --
        “You need to lie to me? About everything?”
        --
        “It's not through. It is not through.”
        --
        “It's so unfair. It's so unfair. You're screaming at me. You're so horrible.”
        --
        “You talk to everyone.”
        --
        “Talk to me later.”

        She slammed the phone shut. A few minutes later, she started again.

        “Just answer me one thing. Did you develop the film in the camera?”
        --
        “If the bike is in the basement, then it's not in the garage, and we can't live like that. It will change our lifestyle.”
        --
        “I don't lie to you when I buy stuff. I don't buy stuff behind your back.”
        --
        “That's just an example to me. If you lie to me about that you might cheat on me. You might have cheated on me already. I don't know. Where's the proof? I read your e-mails. I know. You lied to me. Where's the proof? How do I know you're not cheating on me?”
        --
        “Read my letters.”
        She slammed the phone shut, followed by a heavy sigh.

Your Tickets, Please!

        This morning, there is peace and order. The punk with Johnny Rocket Sunglasses is nowhere to be seen and Cute Book Publisher guy is back in his seat. He’s got a new coat, is reading the Chicago Tribune instead of the Sun-Times, and the butt-brush on his lower lip has been clean-shaved. Maybe he’s been on a colonic cleansing vacation in Thailand? He does have a healthy glow.
        The Polish Housecleaning Ladies are in their spot on the lower level, where they have turned seats so they can face each other and gossip in Polish. I wonder if they are talking about the Academy Awards.
        Sitting directly in front of them is RedEye Sports Gadget Guy with spiky blond hair. He never takes off his black coat, the collar turned up, hipster. He listens to his iPod as he reads every word of the sports section in the RedEye while sipping his Starbucks. When he finishes, he texts people on his Trio. He gets off at Evanston—Davis Street.
        Sleeping Blonde Girl in Ugh Boots is sitting in front of me. I sometimes wonder if she just sleeps overnight on the train. And directly across from me sits Multi-Tasking IM-er, who rides with his laptop balancing on one knee. He wears headphones as he listens to internet radio and sends instant messages the entire ride, I imagine setting up an internet date for the night. Over the past couple of weeks, he’s transitioned from a bade wedge haircut to a more subtle wedge. Probably the most striking and disturbing aspect is his choice of combining a wrinkled chambray shirt with nice wool dress slacks.
        Ticket Flirt Girl is back to her routine. The conductor checks the tickets on the lower lever, and then as we’re leaving the station, he spins around to work backwards in the car.
        “Tickets up top, please!”
        Ticket Flirt Girl immediately rests her head against the window as if she’s passed out asleep. The conductor looks to the upper level, scanning monthly passes, and punching daily tickets. The two of them, the Conductor and Ticket Flirt Girl are the only two black people on the train in this car at this hour.
        “Your ticket, please, ma’am,” the conductor says, pausing at Ticket Flirt Girl. “Woman, could I please see your ticket?” He looks around the car as if to build support by saying, this woman is at it again.
        “Ma’am, your ticket!”
        She opens her eyes and raises her head, looking around as if she’s been awaken from a winter hibernation. “What? What? Ticket? Oh, oh, my ticket. You want my ticket.”
        “Woman, do we have to go through this every single day?”
        She grabs her ten-ride pass and holds it between her middle and index fingers, gingerly extending it. The conductor reaches for the tickets, standing on his tiptoes. She flicks the ticket lightly on his fingers.
        “Woman, I can’t reach your ticket. You need to give me your ticket!”
        “Woops!” Her fingers burst open, the ticket falls to the floor, and she collapses against the window in exhaustion. “I dropped it.”
        The conductor shakes his head in disgust and checks my ticket as well as those of my fellow riders.
        He leaps up the stairs and approaches the woman.
        “Listen here, woman, I’m gonna have to throw you off this train. Every day I I ask about your ticket and you refuse to show it to me. That’s against regulation.”
        He bends over, picking up the ticket and waves it in her face before handing it back to her, unpunched. He plops down in the seat in front of her, turning around to face her.
        “So did you go to your mama’s this weekend?”
        For the next six minutes, until we get to the Clybourn stop, they swap the stories of their daily lives.
        We are back to normal on the train, as we approach March, which has me wondering, how long must I ride the train before I’m viewed by Ticket Flirt Girl, Cute Book Publisher Guy, the Polish Housecleaning Ladies, RedEye Sports Gadget Guy, Sleeping Blonde Girl in Ugh         Boots, or Multi-Tasking IM-er as a regular? One of them, Gay Boy Always On His Laptop, a daily commuter?

Own The Seat You Sit In