Transition

Not too long ago, I had the grand perk of living five minutes away from the Cumberland Blue Line station - legit, five minutes. At nights where I was too hammered, sorely weary, or just annoyed with the world, the idea of having to walk such a short distance from the station invigorated me with grand relief. It saved me many times.
As life moved on, so did I: I moved to a suburb (I don't like to personally brag, but I need them views, mate). Five minutes from the HIP, I had settled in Norridge where the action is quiet, the pigs are bored, and diversity seems to be lacking. Outside my window I see the alley, where nothing amazing transpires compared to my former window by the Cumberland station where shitheads and maniacs would be absurd in the alley.
In addition to moving, as did my commute to school and whatnot. In order to get to the South Loop, the trip is almost two hours long, depending on how the bus driver is. Netflix and Daft Punk have proudly occupied me, but this damn trip isn't worth the time.
I call it a bad transition because I am less inclined to write about strange encounters due to the trip's length and my annoyance; I just want to get to where I need to get to and that's it. At moments I do see some weird scenes, but my mind is still dead by the notion that I have to ride two fucking hours to get to an academic course. Bless books and pocket screens for saving the day.
In conclusion, this sucks. But I'll live with it, I guess. Because you gotta be an adult and all that shit and not whine about it. Whatever.

Night Flashes By

Night flashes by, in twirls and swirls that swooped with the late evening wind
As if the pleasures and pains have finally settled as though I had skinned
More sapped I became as my footsteps stomped onto the concrete
Not knowing where it should land in order to avoid collapsing defeat
Automobiles sped by, honks and vrooms that echoed down the avenue
"Gee, what else is new?"
Sudden memories invaded, the tunes of synthesizers and euphoric jazz-like rhythms
Reworking the calm clouds in my head like a retro grid algorithm
They stood by my side, through the good and ill of the night
Wondrous and fearful simultaneously, which is quite all right
As it adds excitement and anxiety into the mix
A fix like no other without the use of a needle's trick
And it is ever so present amongst the tracks
That roar day and night, transporting folks across the cracks
Invented by men from before and today
Cranking up steam before the heats of May

I sat alone, head against the metallic covering within the car
With my only focus on my memories and not of those from afar
But tonight I felt like shutting off my eyes, and let the ride roll
For some reason I knew no one would bother my soul
The car was filled with napping family-less gents
Lost in their own world as they remained motionless and bent
They numbered before reaching two digits, but their presence was omnipresent
Their peculiar smells and outbreaks of uttered rants are rarely pleasant
Yet I did not change, eyes still closed
"Trash bitch, didn't want anymore hoes!"
This didn't agitate me, nor did it fret my strange peace
My head no longer resembled a scrambled curly feast
Maybe it was my breathing, or strength to ignore what was around me
Fully cognizant I was even though I did not want to see
This is all too familiar, the late-night routine aboard the train
And when I opened my eyes, it started to rain

Instances of Inadvertent Naps, Entry 91216

Disclaimer: The following post was transcribed from mad thoughts and small notes based on unintentional KOs aboard the CTA. It doesn't follow the usual format of the blog you see before you.

There have been a huge array of circumstances where I found myself being suddenly awoken whilst riding the CTA. Not in the sense of mysteriously finding myself there out of nowhere, but rather times when I fell asleep on a book, from drunkenness, out-of-the-blue, or the instantaneous KO that occurs when you drift away and close your eyes for merely a few seconds. It wouldn't matter if it was sunny or absolute darkness, the KO would still occur.

One night: After a lengthy shift at the airport as a PSA, I was ready to hop on the train and head the fuck home. My crib is only two stops away from the O'Hare airport, so naturally I would be awake for the short trip. But not this night, ooooo weeee! Once the weariness fully crept in, I took a seat and fell asleep, all the way passed downtown and onto the west side: this is basically an hour-long train ride, more or less. My unexpected nap had come to an end once I heard Racine being called on the PA. I knew I fucked up, especially after seeing 20+ missed calls from my mother and peers and several unread texts filled with grand anxiety.
"Hello?!" my mother opened, after I placed the call.
"Heeeeeeey Mommy..." I nervously replied.
"CRIS! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!"
I give her the rundown. Tears soon followed and my guilt was heightened.
Guys, give yo mama a call. She popped you out, she could probably pop you out.
I finally got home after being stuck on that filthy train for a little under two hours. My mother was sure as shit pissed, but one long hug between us seemed to do the trick.
Note to self: Don't sit if sleepy.

Another night: Crazy shit. Utter disappointment. A mess in and out. Today was just another one of those promising-looking days where many things could be accomplished around others at a huge get-together, but it all ends in failed expectations and pure inner rage.
It was simple, really: meet up with a few mates beforehand and pregame, enter the premises of the party and get stupid, meet up with a potential partner for the night (or text one of the familiar side chicks for a previous experience to repeat), or find a way home.
Indeed, the opening hours were magical. We found ourselves mixed with a diverse crowd of art students, clinging drinks and sharing tales like a merry reunion of relatives. Some did their nasty business in the bathroom or the balcony, others were more in the present and alive, talking consistently with one another as their livers were being damaged.
Time had passed, and my inebriation was reaching its purgatory state, where I can't decide if another drink is due or God is telling me to ease my pace. The party was still in progress, but the night was getting old. I had lost interest in sleeping with someone tonight, for my bed was now I could think about. But it wasn't quite time: the alcohol was still wet, the smoke still burning, the music remaining harsh and playful.
My mate JT was ready to make his move and call it a night, but he was hell-bent on getting me laid tonight. "Come on, nigga! Just go talk to her, she wants it. Believe me and just fucking roll with it!" He was referring to the host of the party, Leah, whom I've known from a previous class, but she hasn't recalled remembering me at all.
"No. No. Fuck it, Jay, I'll just jerk off and cry myself to sleep." This was me joking; JT didn't catch on.
"My dude, I swear. I think I'm about to bust your shit up if you don't get your dick rolling into a sprinkler!"
Once a few more shots entered his system, he shifted his attention solely to his girlfriend - at least I think they are together.
Around three o'clock, the attendees were beginning to make their exodus from the get-together. Essentially every individual I knew had a definite way home, some with strangers and others with impromptu plans for a slumber party. For me, I just wanted my TV and my bed and no one else. So I left without saying farewell - hell, these fuckers were too trashed to probably recall any final moments the next morning.
The next O'Hare-bound train arrived after a 20 minute wait time, which honestly felt like an eternity when the mind has had too much. Of course, I knocked the fuck out with my phone in my lap, freaks all around, napping and hogging up entire seats for their dirty asses. I woke up at O'Hare, not my stop, and my phone still intact. Me as well. It was like I was never bothered, but everything felt like a slow-moving scene from a film's climatic event, where the hero saunters toward his love or home with a face of torment and mild satisfaction - epic music in the background as well. From the moment I woke up on the train, I felt powerless and depressed. This happens sometimes when the mindset isn't healthy enough for vices. It's happened when I got too attached to a TV show after killing a 24-case of Coors.
I got home a little after five, to PJs set on the bed and our little fan that was set to medium speed. Catching sleep that night never felt so special, so ideal. All I did was the standard routine for going to bed, except brushing my teeth: blankets over the body, one pillow for the head and another for the legs, and stripping away the scent of that fucking party by changing into the PJs. My head was a hot mess that night, nothing that I had anticipated came to light. Which is probably due to my mind's habit on changing plans back and forth within a short period. Things could've changed with Leah, or I could've partied more and expected a little spice for the night. But slumber's importance came to me in a nice fashion this night: when none else fails, just fucking go to sleep and stop whining.

Return of the Odor Stroller

Not too long ago I used to be employed at O'Hare airport as a passenger service assistant, where I would normally push wheelchairs for the elderly and the lazy, bound to receive tips on a $5 salary and working extensive and unfair hours to help those in need and those who were too goddamn lethargic to move themselves from one gate to another. While training, our master (who was using a power chair) pointed out a distinctive large black woman, who was way out of shape to the point where her only walking pace was approximately half-of-one-miles-per-hour and her raggedy clothing revealed spots of the human body that shouldn't be enlarged, like her stomach and her feet. She was seen laying down in the lower levels of the terminal, basically the floor for arrivals at the airport, on the benches where passengers would normally sit to wait for their ride or baggage.
Our master pointed out that she is here frequently, but I know her for being the Odor Stroller, for I used to always catch her on the Blue Line asking for cancer sticks, stinking up the place with a stench so strong even the complete strangers sitting near me were wielding the face of pure agony; a face so universal that even the "stench" itself sketches the reaction as you read it. I wish I had nothing against this woman, but for someone to constantly ask for cigarettes with a odor so intense it makes you'll be keeping your actual shit as a piece of furniture to remember the good ol' days of your dung's stench is kind of difficult to uphold.
Our group was proceeding forward with the job's training, but my whole attention was stolen by the Odor Stroller. It just shocked me to see her achieving slumber by means of public rest, but the effect became long-lasting when I would see her on the train and eventually in the Loop, maintaining her prevalent usage of cussing and ranting, like some other crackhead you spot on the train: "Wan't my folt, mang. Nah, dat is booshit," one would yap about, to no one, at a loud volume. Fortunately for me I was on the other side of the street, safe and away from a human so peculiar you can't miss her once you spot her on the street, slowly sauntering one foot at a time while she blathers on.
September 19th, 2016.

Instances of Annoyance, Entry 8116

Disclaimer: This entry is merely a written compilation of second-sized scenes that triggered agitation or aggravation whilst riding the CTA. It doesn't follow the usual format of the blog you see before you.

I've developed an addiction to a certain seat on the CTA: the driver's cockpit. This seating is made available only if it is unoccupied by any CTA employee, or if it is in the middle of the train in whole. It adds a little bit extra space, and it also adds the grand portal for transfers during an emergency. Yet instead it acts as an optional doorway for passengers to proceed onto the next car, without having to exit the current one at a station. It may be a test of irritableness since all sorts of strange beings seem to do this: pairs of paper-wielding seekers of funds for fictional basketball teams with forged scribbles, raggedy loners begging for that extra silver coin, and callous fuckfaces thirsty for the dark side of this world. The majority of these scenes take place when I'm at that special seat, for its privacy and space spread this comfort of mental relaxation - probably due to the fact that everyone else is behind me and not in my eyesight. I either read something or I play a game on my phone, all before reaching my destination, but the serenity of the atmosphere is immediately demolished by the intrusion of these freaks, who half the time will ask for extra fares or despicably pull on the emergency handle to transfer over to the next car. Why not wait for the next station to transfer cars? What's so special in the next car for you that you gotta impatiently transfer over instead of awaiting for the next stop? No doubt this is pure agitation, and no doubt that this borderline phenomenon will halt anytime in the future.
I can still hear that echo from the emergency handle, still haunting me after some dirty geek eyes me and proceeds with his worthless little trip.

Bernie and The Twisted Addict

My body felt like it was in a wavy stream of dopiness after I had just gotten off my shift and was followed by a local bum in a chair toward the LaSalle Blue Line stop. All I could think about was my bed and the fear that this wheeling shadow would run over me before I even hit the stairs. Hence, I was tired as all hell.
I got to the train just on time, and I took my seat next to a napping worker of sorts and across from an aging black man that looked oddly familiar; couldn't pinpoint who exactly he was, though. Due to my fatigue, I wasn't in any mood to pull out the book I was slowly perusing, and I wasn't interested in kicking pixelated ass in Contest of Champions to keep myself awake. Instead, wandering my eyesight off in any direction was the only solution, with the exception of Snapchatting a few mates.
Yet this entire time I was distracted by the worker a seat away from me, taking my whole attention throughout the trip back home. This motherfucker continuously scratched his torso whilst his eyes were closed, all noise blocked off by his metal-coated headphones; perhaps fully immersed in some wacky tune of demonic possession or hardcore addiction that are provided by hopeless vocals of a depressed garage kid. He also exposed his skin while doing it, but I didn't note down any distinctive marks since he starting coughing like he was bound to perform the Big Spit. Nothing erupted, just more weird gestures that included twisting his shirt like trying to drain all the water from a towel and giving his smelly ol' balls a nice check with the nails.
This is no exaggeration. This twisted addict did all of this, right before my eyes - and clearly not his. The aging black man kept on eyeing him as well, peering through his chiefly lids. Then it all came back to me: Bernie, my former manager from the airport legwork, was him, and he was en route to work. Not too long ago I used to get up at insane hours of the day to get to work, running into Bernie and apologizing for being so damn late, yet he would let me off the hook since he was aware of my retarded scheduling. Plus he was always kind to me, such an understanding bloke of adequate wisdom - not like my candy-faced supervisor who looked like a Trump offspring with herpes.
I got to my stop and acknowledged Bernie, telling him I used to be an employee under his management. I thanked him for being a great manager and shook his hand. "Thank you, thank you. I really appreciate that," he said, after showing a little glow.
"I hope to see you sometime in the future," I said, which was followed by another "I appreciate that" by him with gentle harmony of sincerity. I took one last glimpse at the help-needed passenger who adores self-scratch massages, now napping with his head hunkered over to the point where his forehead hits the head of his groin, if excited.
I then walked out, on the way home and not anymore worried by any strange encounters of the filth kind.
June 30th, 2016

World of Pocket Worlds

I stared out through the train car's window to mentally prepare myself for the weather heating up in the Windy City. I chose the wrong outfit for the day: plaid shirt, dark jeans, and shoes, when I should be bare fucking naked on a field of grass, taking in the rays from the sky. When my thoughts became boring, I switched my attention to the company in the car. All complete strangers with different agendas, but they are all conducting the same activity. Hunched over, lazily sat, or absurdly prepping up for a Snapchat shot, their minds were fully immersed by the worlds they held in their hands: the beautiful and torturous pocket screen. The world used to be a simpler place when tech was basic enough to keep up with life at a steady pace. Nowadays we can have our work, entertainment, social life, and hidden secrets all on one device. As convenient as it may sound, it also brings forth a new chapter in the lives of humans in pertains to being occupied. The outside world becomes so familiar and unwanted, that we resort back to that $700 plus slab of hardware, and we continue to ignore all else. But this argument has rooted since the flip phone came out, when bratty little shits would focus on tapping the right key and not the food in front of them, when class proceeded but instead wanted to see if Jessica was available to fuck them later in the evening, or when they're snapping a Cheeto-sized dick pick to their romantic interest in lieu of actually getting down to the real deal.
Literally everyone was doing the same thing (including me, I won't be a hypocrite this time) and no one even spoke or uttered a single character. I wonder if, back in the day, strangers would normally strike up a conversation with another unknown being just for the sake of avoiding boredom. That or they would flip through the daily newspaper or simply keep to themselves. No doubt that hatchlings still conduct the same thing, but they didn't have Facebook back in the 60s.
This could be a gentle rant, yet I fancy myself a phone as well. I just used the virtual reality set with a scene of visual synchronizations in tune with Lazerhawk's Electric Groove. It's quite the treat, just like the phone itself, and it'll stick to you like gorilla glue; but the terror of a roller coaster ride going straight down is the same feeling when you lose it, only it'll be one bitch of a drop. Imagine it, your whole world gone, snatched up by some bug-eyed freak with a tendency to scratch his neck, left behind by you because that shot of tequila forced you to break into bachata and leave your device behind on the open table, or obliterated by your psycho former girlfriend that you promised a marvelous future with.
What would you do if your phone was simply gone, broken, stolen, no mas?
What would these people do on the train if they weren't so attached? As each day passes, the dream of having everyone socializing without the assistance of an alter-ego behind the screen sinks lower and lower - it creates a much darker dream, one where we don't talk at all.
Imagine that shit.

Ominous Rails, The Unnerving and Omnipresent Fear Aboard the CTA

There is no lie when I say that I'm slightly frightened to ride the CTA, especially the "L". It's been a boundless fear ever since I started taking the train back in the inception of my former high school days. For years I've been asked for help when a man couldn't stand on both legs properly, insisted on signing up for some unknown basketball program with possibly forged signatures and rehearsed speeches, offered marijuana through an apple (which isn't all that bad), been a pillar for a couple of bloodied-up and loose-minded fools from Wicker Park, and have sat close to a number of colorful and unusual characters - mine still being a bloke disguised as a holy man replicating Jesus. No doubt I've succumbed to their worthless requests and obvious false tales, but it's something every commuter is faced with when uncharted encounters occur.
The story of Jessica Hughes was the one that topped it, albeit behind a machete-wielding incident on the Brown not that long ago that shocked Chicago for a day when everyone seemed to forget, comes as a close second. 19-year-old Jessica Hughes, a student from DePaul, was attacked by a black couple who initially fronted up a damning request for her iPhone. They then proceeded to manhandling her by busting up her nose and leaving the victim bruised and traumatized on the train, until the train conductor found her later on. What hurts the most was the lack of assistance from the other riders. No one helped. No one did anything. They probably just watched it unfold like a grade-A dramatic scene where the hero gets his ass handed to him by two unexplored and shady motherfuckers with the intention on leaving the car with one of two things: Jessica's iPhone or her life.
It's instances such as these that make the cheapest mode of transport in Chicago ever more baleful. How come no one jumped in to help her? Two walking mistakes [the suspects] would have no match against a horde of Chicago-ready warriors, extempore justice seekers at the playground of society's sinister sorority of cheap film knockoffs and neglected individuals who believe that the world isn't fair to them. The world isn't fair in general, yet their conclusion begins with a taste for vengeance but the end is always the same: six feet under, ashes to ashes, gone without a trace, or at the hands of other humans who use a Book to justify their actions.
But just imagine that, a group of helpful passengers up against two - ONLY TWO - pea-brained assholes on top of a shocked 19-year-old future nurse.
The news would go crazy! Chicago would blow up the video all over the area on all media platforms, but the helpful band of riders would never meet such attention, such fame. Their futile efforts and pussy-filled inclination to Stand Down and Do Nothing proved once again that humans will never see the light of life, for the continuous waves of dark magic prevail the spark of humbleness. Jessica didn't deserve to be attacked. What was meant to be another simple ride on the Blue Line turned out to be another chapter in the CTA archives of nasty snippets featuring humans at their lowest points, minus the heroin freaks and tatted greaseballs, who show up like a family member you haven't seen in "How long has it fucking been?!"
No doubt will people resume to ride the CTA, but will they stand up the next time someone is being kicked in, or will they retreat back to their safety bubbles while someone's life is on the line, less than a few seats away?

May 1st, 2016.

Funky Asscrack, A Rather Forgotten Passenger

I had finished a forced read from a class and was now free to roam through new synth tunes I discovered. Comfortableness was the name of the game, much needed before heading off to another class, until a crop-top donning man sat beside me, reeking of expired cheese and a regrettable mannerism of smacking his lips like a bad blowjob. I was taken aback, this abnormal sex machine was popping his head to nothingness, casually looking up ahead at his ride while I stared at him with wide eyes. Not only was the bad side effect of lacking sleep getting to me, but goddammit his smell was of shitty cheese! I envisioned a flaming slab of cheese melting away on the concrete, oddly enough a naked man in glitter is slowly crawling toward it, fully enticed by the horrendous streams of green emitting from the food. Perhaps this gent would fit right in, yet this man beside me was black; the envisioned creep was pink and peeling.
I tapped him on the shoulder signifying that I needed to get up to exit the train when it got close to Western; verily I switched train cars after I noticed his freckled ass cheeks and mid-ocean ridge of an asscrack being shown to me unintentionally, but I looked at the wrong timing - I spun my head around when he turned his body to the right almost noticeably, only to be distracted by the openness of this creature. A seat had my name on it once I transferred cars, picturing the man popping like a broken bobble head and me wondering what the hell his story was about. I couldn't get a clear look at his special features, but the stubborn fuck within me told to go. Nonetheless, this was one funky asscrack.

April 21st, 2016

A Dull Fiend

After I had noticed a woman, roughly about my age, staring at me with interest, our minimal connection was short-lived once a bald fiend took a seat in front of her, climbing onboard from the Clark/Lake stop. I was ultimately distracted from this man, coated in facial artwork and a packing mean fucker of a face. At several instances, him and I would make eye contact, but I would fashionably look away as if I was merely surveying the area. But I wasn't. I wanted to study this man even further, but really all he did was sat there with a hand resting on his mouth, sort of like the pose certain chicks and amateur fuckboys do with their "strong hand" when taking a selfie.
I wish something had happened, non-violent-wise. Talk on the phone, look down and reflect on your possible slimy life. Look in the mirror and realize how ridiculous you look with those tattoos around your eyes. If only I had known what they meant or stood for, and taking a seat closer to him was out of the question since the remaining seats by this time were now occupied by other train riders.
Lost Years was blasting through eardrums when I started to question the small encounter. Perhaps it was a kind reminder to not get artwork done on your face, or avoid going bald. But then the darker reflections were pouring in: Stay away from the muck, and you won't end up like him; don't stroll along life on a solitary route, and eventually the good of things will be seen more clearly; talking to him would change everything, but I'm no journalist, even though I have to tendency to palaver with strangers - it really all depends on how the mood sets in.
Once the train got to Damen, the dull fiend had gotten up and went through the doors. That was it. Nothing special had happened, but it's hard to forget a face that was laced with poorly chosen art on the way home.

April 9th, 2016

Moronic Care For A Piece of Hardware

One of the brothers I was mentally portraying was getting heated during an argument with his younger sibling, who slept with the former's wife while being stationed in "Vit Nam". As soon as I got to the physical actions, a black man in stylishly ripped jeans and a fluffy coat dropped his pocket screen onto the train's floor level. I was ultimately distracted, but I quickly retreated back onto the one-scene packet, something for my Scene Study course at school.
After a third read-through, the bloke in front of me dropped his device once again, this time looking back toward me to see if anyone was witnessing his embarrassment, which I certainly was. He revealed to me inadvertently that he was trashed in piercings, a shredded beard, and a small rasta hat - completely justified along with his shitty light-colored jeans. He then picked up his phone and proceeded to listen to music using oversized headphones.
Usually as humans who don't possess some aspect of physical disability are shock prone to dropping their devices, that is if they're not clumsy. After it happens a couple of times we tend to concentrate on its safety a bit more, but not for the case of Reg E., derived from a television character due to his similar facial features that resemble Reg E. Cathey. In Reg. E's case, the abundantly-owned piece of hardware met the ground several times rather than a couple. And once he got up for the stop on California, I noticed that he intricately entangled the headphones' wire in-and-out of his shirt and coat's collar and his neck, leaving the male tip (the jack itself) to hang loose like an article of clothing swung over a chair. No wonder he dropped the damn thing! Perhaps he was trying to be different, a problem many humans seem to face.
There is no lesson to be taught here, only shown: Don't wear your headphones' wire like a spaghetti-stringed accessory.
I named him Reg E. for reasons mentioned above.

April 5th, 2016

A Known Brat From Before

She used to be a partner with one of my close friends, back when we all went to the same high school. I had seen them together in the hallway many times, fingers interlocked and pleasantries given to all passing mates, including myself. Soon enough I knew it wouldn't work, so they ended up breaking it off; last I heard of her was when she decided to be called by another name - a male one in fact.
We had boarded the same train due northwest, toward the O'Hare airport. I paid zero attention to her, for I was focused on my world since the absence of earphones brought boredom to my journey home. After a few minutes had rolled by, the train finally came to my (our) stop, and we stepped out through the doors, up the escalator, into and out of the turnstile, and began to play the finishing touches on reaching home. She walked ahead of me, constantly looking back as if someone was observing her with bad attention - then again there was a small circle of teenage rejects that were filled with blabber that might've been harassing her. Or mayhap she recognized me, and didn't wish to communicate (thank god for that).
The declining staircase lead to the parking lot outside of the station, where she then angrily threw her pink lighter to the edge of the curb, a staging that I found hilarious and started to giggle a bit. I ignored her thus after. I was in no mood to trigger the brat's lividness anymore than what was being done. Thankfully she went into a different direction, relieving me from the quiet tension shared between me and her.
I'm not sure what sort of conclusion I can take away from this. All I know is that they're [teenagers] are still brats and they're easily agitated by anything, even if it's within their own minds.
As people have said before, time and time again, "Those damn kids!"
I called her brat, because she tossed her pretty lighter to the ground without any known reason. "Don't judge a book by its cover," but I always do.

March 18th, 2016

Infectious and Open, The Leg of A Zombie

During one of the colder days of the late-winter season, I had witnessed a battered and infectious homeless man amid the Blue Line train, sauntering in-between the seats with a noticeable limb that contained a filthy cast, now rendered useless due an open wound that surpassed the surface of his skin, and thus sinking deeper through muscles and inevitably bone, but not yet. It was about the same size as a softball, only now coated in puss spots, thin veins of dry blood, shiny patches of fresh bleeding, and the rim of the wound now clothed in dirty debris from the outside. It was an engrossing and upsetting scene. Another broken denizen, working mildly at his best to get what he can from the rest of the traveling commuters.
I pretended to be asleep when he came close to me. I was disgusted when I saw the wound up close. From all the inexhaustible snaps and films filled with gore, I was surprised to find myself wincing at the sight. I grinded my teeth like biting into a tough, kinghell of a steak; he was now walking passed me and ended up repeating on the same monologue he gave beforehand: "I am at risk for hypothermia...I am also at risk for amputation...God bless you, and have a wonderful day." His tiring journey then transferred over to the other car via the emergency door, a habit that many disturbing wrongdoers, miasma-infested roamers, and splintered rolling stones have become accustomed to in lieu of patiently waiting for the train to stop very shortly.
Some time into the future I saw him enter the same train car I was in, once again repeating the same process from before - I pretended to play dead once more.
This man had the leg of a zombie, a namesake completely inspired from obvious sources.

Supposed Harassment From A Lonely Beast

Upon a vital and calming revisit to Old Frank after failing to find a mate to chill with, I decided to walk amid Michigan Avenue to visualize the lyrics into scenery within rooms of the hotels, with some windows being half-closed, completely in secrecy from the outside, wide open for the sunshine to peek through, and other various styles of curtain adjustment. I then transferred over to State Street, where I ditched Frank and found a playlist of Nat King Cole to keep me company until I got through the Blue Line turnstile on Washington.
What occurred next was an absurd mixture of drama and romance. When a woman with short hair, thick glasses, and an admirable winter coat was walking approximately three to four feet to my left behind me, she was approached by a shelter-less man with upfront requests, possibly for money - it was difficult to decipher since Cole was still playing. However, after a few short seconds, I heard her exclaim, "I don't need you fucking harassing me!" which followed a transpire action of turning around and spilling her rage toward him, like a guard dog barking intensely at a nearby pedestrian.
I turned around and witnessed only her back to me as she verbally fought with the supposed harasser.
I stood before the blue line with her presence lurking behind me, for I sensed her eyes were fixed on me for a bit.
Four minutes later, the train had arrived. We went into different train cars, concluding our ghost acquaintance and away from the lonely beast of unknown intentions.
I named her Jane, an associated name I overheard from a group of LGBT enthusiasts at the Gay Parade, where one woman, named Jane, told a man to "Back off, you fuck!" after he apparently grasped her ass.

March 3rd, 2016

Bug Eyes and Tightness

In yet another instance of me attempting to read on the CTA once again, I glared up to quickly glance and study my fellow public transit goers. Many of the characters were mundane to the bone - the predominance was focused nearly entirely on their pocket screens, a handful with engaged in palaver, and very few stared out either into open air for contemplation or some woman's voluptuous figure.
One woman caught my attention almost immediately due to her bug eyes and fear-induced disposition: huddled up like a freezing denizen with one arm firmly attached to a pole. It could have been due to the fact that she was literally crowded in with an influx of goers arriving from the Grand Blue Line stop. But I placed the blame on the tall and bearded bloke in grey right behind her who got a little too familiarly close to her and had one hand above her on the window's zenith edge to support him in case the train conductor's morals became too unconventional or some worthless seeker attempting suicide.
As the train cleared more and more by the time it arrived at Logan Square, she was now huddled into a corner with now only a few bystanders standing idly by, awaiting for their stop. She still had the bug eyes, but they weren't as appealing as they were before, as terrible as that may sound; perhaps the tightness had scarred her permanently and this was her cherry-popping experience among the machine on rails.
After pausing on a page from a book that I loathed reading, I noticed that she was gone. It wasn't like I was going express a pleasantry - one towering figure already had her gears grinding.
I named her Serena, because her atavistic eyes reminded me of a friend from school.

Antonio: Sobs of a Tensed Up Bloke

Around 9:07 in the evening yesterday night, I was waiting for the O'Hare outbound train amid the winter air when I witnessed a tensed up man down the station's corridor with a friend, who was attending to his troubled stance of sorrow, angst, and, at least from my perspective, a little lost. My train would be arriving in a few minutes, so now my entire focus was on the Rolling Stones in my ears and on this man, now with a hand to his left cheek to shadow any emotion from afar. At one moment he turned toward the station's window panels and punched the air a few times, a mannerism I've seen only in ghetto fiends who get upset over the most frivolous of matters. His companion merely stood by with a hand on one shoulder in order to at least try to calm the poor fool down. Unfortunately I have no clue as to what he was sobbing about, for only his actions spoke dialogue like a silent film where we just have to assume without the assistance of subtitles in-between scenes. The pair remained dormant in their little secured area of emotionality - that's when my train arrived, taking one final look at the tensed up bloke down at the station and wishing that I knew just what the hell the world has done to this perturbed denizen.
I named him Antonio, because he reminds me of someone from my past.

When Eyebrows Aren't "On Fleek"

A child tears away his frustration toward his incompetent mother, sitting beside him while he rests in his stroller. Clicking away on her smart phone, the mother deliberately worked a few techniques to shut her child's frustration out. The most particular route was placing his blanket over his mouth but not his nose, allowing him to simultaneously shut up and continue a somewhat consistent flow of air to come through. My only issue, aside from worrying about the child, was the mother's disgusting pair of fake eyelashes, which were very distinguishable in comparison to her authentic thick hairs. Cringe-worthy at best, I decided to deviate away from the journalistic observations based on people in a state of melancholy, desolation, forlornness, etc., to head to a different approach that's based on wacky and bizarre characters seen on the train. This case being one them, specifically toward Fleek's eyebrows and negligence toward her child.
I've had my fair share of enjoyable humans that I've remotely encountered on the CTA, but there are a few that fuel my angst in a irrational way, i.e. failing to shut your child's mouth up.
I named her Fleek for obvious reasons. This lady's sense of grooming is more off the rails than a rogue Red Line heading north.

Misses Gump and the Train Car's Vicious Doors

While perusing a book by Hunter S. Thompson, I looked up, after the train stopped on the blue line stop at Grand, and watched as an elderly lady with a walker take her seat in close proximity to the train car's doors, next to a young lady in blue, texting away whatever important business that is of hers. The two had managed to talk for a bit, with some idle talk being exchanged to other passengers that were near them. Except me since my head was hunkered over the book nearly the whole time.
She seemed kind and meant well. There was an obvious issue with her back, which explains the involvement of the walker. And such a sweet and soft voice that it ringed like Misses Gump.
When her stop arrived, her slow venture from the seat to the metal doors was met with trouble: the train's operator was apparently blind to her condition (we were in the last train car) and continued to seal the doors off while she was in the middle of making her exit. She got caught in-between them. In the spurt of the moment, my instincts to help her were cut short when two men caught quick notice to Misses Gump and pulled the doors apart. It was a success. One of the Good People looked out from the car and toward the conductor with such contempt that a high school bully would have his dreams crushed if the attacked victim were to return the favor.
Misses Gump turned out to be okay in the end, seeing as it were a minor accident altogether. I watched her walk away before I returned to Thompson's world.
I named her Misses Gump because her voice emulated the softness that is Sally Field's.

Snow Wheels

In addition to witnessing those in trouble, despair, or angst, I once helped a woman with a walker through the tough sleet that crashed into Chicago not too long ago. The predominance of the accounts shown on this blog are merely journalistic entries set forth from a single individual seen in public, albeit most are drawn from experiences on the CTA. That being said, an occurrence sprung into play not on the CTA but on the street: a beggar who has lost the ability in his legs was strolling in his wheelchair up next to the vehicle lanes, parallel to the recently installed bicycle pathways along the municipal road. Hunkered down by heavy winter clothing and a small blanket on his lap, the failed human placed all of his strength into the wheels and with enough endurance to also smoke a cigarette while doing so. He soon stopped a few pedestrians here and there for possible inquiries on loose currency or any show of a Good Samaritan to walk into a sandwich shop and purchase a cold cut for Snow Wheels. While I didn't necessarily hear the conversations on the street, it felt justifiable to assume the mundane: "'scuse me, but would ya happen to have any spare change for the homeless?"
I named him Snow Wheels because fuck it, I don't know his name. Perhaps Bruce, another beggar I've acquainted myself with in the downtown area. But it probably wasn't Bruce. Bruce didn't have wheels.