Take a Day Trip

Day Trip

         The map at each station is a mesmerizing zigzag through neighborhoods. From the north to the south, east to west; the web of arteries forms the framework of a city occupied by all facets of people, living in harmonious indifference to the a rail system that provides more than just a convenient way of getting from point A to point B; in what hopefully works out to be an appropriate amount of time. I see it differently. The trains provide an ongoing education in the nuances of the human race, how to be self sufficient, how to be proactive in one’s own mission, and practiced patience for the world around me. My train rides have become a great time for people watching, of quiet self reflection, and of letting go of some control in my life, thus alleviating and exacerbating my fears at the same time. I am empowered by my ability to negotiate the lines. I often feel braver on the train than I do in other areas of my adult life. I have free reign over a city that has served me with an enormous amount of fodder and enlightenment for years to come.

         I remember the very first time I took a ride on the Chicago Transit Authority or CTA for short. It was over 14 years ago. I was with my brother (who had already been living in the city), his friend, and my best friend. It was my very first night in the big scary city. With my brother as our drunken tour guide, we headed out. My best friend (not being from the city) was apprehensive about the train, but my brother assured her that all would be fine. I stood in front of the giant box that spits out train passes and was so delighted in my ability to figure out such a complex piece of machinery—money goes in ticket comes out! Next I was greeted by the turn style and stood helplessly with my train pass in hand trying to put it in the little slot every which way but the correct way, like a baby trying to place a square block in a triangle shaped hole. Meanwhile, a horde of annoyed people tapped their feet impatiently behind me. My brother swooped in next to me; I took note as he effortlessly made his way through. I watched as the card was swallowed and then regurgitated back into my brother’s waiting fingers, allowing the turnstile to magically rotate. For my diligence and determination I was granted access to the other side of the turnstile. I offered a polite swagger to the people behind me and headed up the stairs.

         Once on the train, my nostrils were greeted by the invigorating smell of fresh urine and I was blinded by the fluorescent glow of light suited best for the changing room at a Sears department store. The train was not overly crowded that evening but we did have the pleasure of striking up a conversation with a lovely young man that claimed to be “packing heat.” I guess we were impressed. He wasn’t threatening, just talking about his life and how he survives. I suppose a very odd exchange in retrospect but certainly not the weirdest thing that has happened to me on the train. He also had a video camera and was filming the whole conversation for whatever reason. All I could think about was, WOW— it’s just like in the movies! I looked over at my friend who was sitting there with a look on her face that said: “God, if you let me make it through this night, I promise I will never do anything bad again.” I, on the other hand, was falling in love. Not with the kid with the gun but with the subversive quality of the train itself. For the first time I felt very free, in that very clichéd kind of way when you realize, this is where your life finally begins!

         In the years since that day I became a student of the rail system; absorbing as much as I could with each trip. I began to realize that different times of the day invoke a different group or class of people. Its like, at 7:30 a.m. all the 9-5’ers got up and called each other and said, “Okay, today I’m wearing my overpriced black boots, my pea coat, and my Coach shoulder bag. Now, don’t forget to charge your phone/e-reader/tablet/laptop, grab a fancy coffee, avoid eye contact at all costs, and feign interest in a crossword puzzle.” Then at about 10 a.m. all the various restaurant staff call each other and say, “Okay, I’m still a little drunk from last night, and I haven’t washed my uniform in 3 days. Let’s all wear the same black pants, and button down shirt, grab a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, and stare moodily out the window while clutching a notebook or a script.” In the early to mid-afternoon all the moms probably had a conversation about who had the best mega-stroller and most obnoxious child. Seeing as how they had to compare notes, they decided to meet up on the train for a battle royale, of sorts. Somewhere around lunchtime, the elderly, jobless, and escaped mental patients realize they are out of 2% milk, white bread, and bologna and have to make a trip to Walgreens for such provisions. Then there is the man with no time frame. You will most often find him when your day has already gotten to the point of un-bearableness, for he is there to make you as uncomfortable as possible. May I introduce to you, the ambassador of the rails: the homeless man. He waves and jingles his cup of change, sings a song of poverty, and dances to the shameful tune of his empty grumbling stomach. I know it is wrong but I judge, and also know that I am being judged. I am eyed up and down for what I do or don’t have in my hand, or what I may or may not be wearing. It is the microcosm of high school all over again and I’m the weird kid that writes poetry in the corner and shoots death glares at anyone who looks my way.

         Color-coded trains guide me. On any given day, depending on my destination, I can be found navigating through shades of red, green, blue, orange, brown, purple and pink. I travel through the city at a pace that is, at times, so slow, it has been known to insight murderous rage in even the most kind-hearted of old ladies. Each stop on the train becomes its own mini-culture. If you look close enough you will be privy to the abundance of different riders on display. I scurry pass the calamity of Cubs fans at the Addison red line stop. I shimmy through the wall of well-dressed business people at Washington and wells brown line. I collide with a skeleton-looking man (wearing jeans 2 sizes smaller than my own), and his unwelcomed bike at the Western blue line stop. At the Grand red line stop, the confused faces of summer tourists greet me. At the Davis purple line stop, the doors open on a town emblazoned in purple in honor of the collegiate student body. When I step off the train at the Damen pink line stop, my ears are treated to the familiar tunes of mariachi music from a weekend block party.

         I am warned of impending doom from the advertisements on the train, that my bag should not be left unattended. The train tells me about restaurants in the city and places I should be visiting outside of Chicago, for example: Montana. There are opportunities for higher education, and exciting new careers to be had. I’m bombarded with signs that tell me to buy a new phone, and that I should be eating peanuts. I look up to see that if I qualify, I could be part of a study on the effects of drug X on disease Y; I write down the number just in case. There is a new play opening up at The Goodman Theater; apparently I should see it, because some critic says it’s good. I am offered opportunities every day to explore a world, all from the comfort of my seat on the train. From this vantage point I begin to wonder about the kinds of people who might want to visit Montana.

         A wall of preoccupied dreamers greets me in the morning. Heavy eyes glazed with thoughts of last night’s slumber. They are absorbed in papers and lingering on cups of java. No one notices, but I do. I see them: satisfying their tech withdrawal with the lightest tap or wave of a delicate finger on the phone. They are drowning under the wave of conversations on a Saturday afternoon, or clouded under a fog of hushed silence on a Monday morning. Woeful glances are cut short in an instant by the salute of open doors. The electronic voice urgently reminds me of its impending closure, if I am not through the door in time. I have seen this folly in all forms, that being even one second too late can cause. The worst of which was the woman that ran feverishly up the stairs taking 2 at a time, only to trip at the last moment on the platform. The face-plant that followed was as epic as they come. Needless to say the doors were not forgiving that day. I’m not sure what was worse: the fall, or the fact that the doors opened immediately after her disgrace, presenting a crumpled heap of a woman at the feet of her fellow passengers. You see, it’s times like these that make the train so wonderful. I enjoy each ride and savor each morsel of spontaneity that comes from a daily trip around the city.

         I don’t see the train as some scary place where I will be raped, murdered, or kidnapped. I don’t fear impending doom each time the train rattles or jerks. I do however, vent frustration if I have to wait to long, and kick the wall when I miss my train. I curse under my breath (and sometimes out loud) at the woman who puts her bag on the seat next to her, knowing full well it is the last empty seat. I have cried openly and laughed loudly in the confines of a rail car. I am free to listen to music, or read a book, or just take a moment and enjoy the city as it rushes by. I have been lost, offered drugs in the middle of the night, fallen asleep, missed my stop, and been late more times than I can count because of the ever dreaded standstill. My heart always does a little flip, and I squelch the inevitable rage boiling when I hear the familiar tone of the announcement: “Attention passengers, we are standing momentarily, waiting for signal clearance” or “because crews are working on the tracks ahead” or “some idiot is making a scene and ruining it for the rest of us” followed by “we expect to be moving shortly.” Yet, all of this does not deter me. For I know that—yes, we will be moving shortly, and I will get to my destination, and I will live to ride another day.