On my way downtown, I sat next to a girl who was busy writing. The lined pages of her notebook were filled with poetry, but the only title that I could make out was The Choice of a New Generation. She had a slight, disturbed grin on her face; every once in a while, she would look up and stare at the businessmen scattered throughout the train car. Then she'd turn back to her writing with renewed vigor. I hope her poem wasn't as obvious as the title would suggest. The sad thing is that she was missing all of these incredible sights along the way: a young girl in an empty school parking lot endlessly sweeping a clean patch of ground as a patrol car sat and watched; a tall older man trying to mask his excitement as he neared the end of a 700 page novel; a girl writing poetry with a slight, disturbed grin.
For thirty minutes straight, from the Loop to Rogers Park, a beefy police officer described in graphic detail the different ways of disabling an assailant. Most of his methods involved testicles. He had experiences some of them first-hand, so he was able to give dramatic perspective on their physical impact. The tiny woman in the next seat kept prompting him whenever he lost momentum. Outside of rush hour, people rarely talk on the CTA; they read or they stare out the window, mostly. There might be one pair who are talking, though, and if so, everyone else in the car can hear them in precise detail. (For no discernible reason, the models from 1976-on have very good acoustics in every respect except announcements made by the conductor's speaker.) I've always tried to be conscientous about the responsibility to be interesting during conversations on the train. Once, on the way home from high school, I told my friend that I was Jesus. I really believed it, too.
As a teenager, I rode the train a lot late at night on weekends. Nearly all of my friends lived in the suburbs, so we'd do whatever it was that we did and someone would drop me off at the train when the night was over. I was wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt. I was also wearing makeup because I'd been in a play and had forgotten to wash my face before I left. A barely coherent homeless man sat down across from me. "You like Pink Floyd?" I said that I did. "What's your favorite song?" I said that I didn't know. "I like 'Breathe'." I said that was a good one, although privately I thought it was a strange choice. It's a good song, the first on "Dark Side of the Moon", but it's notable more as a preface to the rest of the album than anything else. The man asked for five dollars. I said that I didn't have any money. He went on to the next car without another word.
I sincerely believe that I learned self-discipline from year after year of train rides next to people eating fried chicken.
Few spectres exist as vividly in my mind as that of the demonic 'third rail'. It's the metai railing along the tracks that powers the train, and to touch it means certain death. I was taught to fear the third rail, and I still do. I think about it like Lovecraft thought of Cthulu. The neurotic fascination that it holds over my psyche is matched only by the curiosity, also developed at an early age, of what would happen if I jumped while riding an elevator.
I was nine years old and riding the train with my mother, stepfather and little brother. I didn't want to go where we were going, so I was sitting away from the rest of them. A dirty man sat nearby, ogling my mother and rubbing his crotch. He looked at me and raised his eyebrows with a crooked grin. I didn't have much to say.
A few weeks later, on the way to the family Christmas gathering, I saw a man sell another man cocaine. I saw them make the exchange. I was sure that they'd seen me see them. I knew it was all over.
My mother told me that there were rats in the subway down there under the tracks. I couldn't believe that. Rats? Running around down there? Even with the third rail and all? Unbelievable!
Aside from my own couch and bed, there is no place in the world where I sleep more soundly than on CTA trains. I sleep like a baby.
I remember being four years old and wondering why train drivers never got lost. Well, this train's driver was clearly going the wrong way.
So there.
(photo: Chicago Tribune)
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