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.

Sleet Wheels

After making a quick stop at the bank this afternoon, I was crossing streets when I encountered a woman depending on a walker to get to the other side. Unfortunately, the city was smacked with sleet from all directions, enough to cause traffic to be more insane than usual. This increased the natural action of me walking beside her to lend a help even more, especially since the roads were toxic with slippery doom.
I was already on the other end for my destination until I decided to approach her.
"It's shitty out here. I'll help you cross the street," I told her, almost shouting to fight off the city sounds.
She didn't argue, for she probably figured that a hand would be most useful. She donned a humongous leather coat, with the top of her head shielded by a hat and her legs and feet by an oversized pair of pants and low-top shoes, a crime against the dangers of the winter season.
We didn't speak much. Our finals words were pleasant and she thanked me, but it was disheartening to witness a person, one in need of assistance, enduring so much by their own strength that it renders the journey of crossing a simple street to be impossible.
I named her Sleet Wheels, because it has a catchy ring to it.

The Woodman by Loyola

Shortly after a tense confrontation with a friend, I made my walk toward the Loyola Red Line stop to await for my ride. "I'll be there in six minutes," he had told me, so I took a seat right outside the train station and reflected back on the encounter with my friend.
Deep in thought and utterly distracted, I looked up and attempted to find something that would take my mind off things. An interesting character of the hipster trend soon walked out with his peculiar wooden bicycle. He was either an employee or the owner of a wood shop - an ad for one in particular was placed on the side of a wooden container behind him, atop of the bicycle's seat. And the bicycle itself was crafted almost primarily in wood, with metal components to hold the necessity wooden parts together. An innovative machine, the Woodman's choice of transportation had caught my eye, and I was finally intrigued by a hipster and not coated with annoyance and malicious thoughts. A full beard tied at the tip, buttoned-up patterned shirt tucked in underneath tight blue pants, and noticeable boots echoing the cliché hipster fad. My encounter was short-lived, but I was glad nonetheless to have witnessed this man.
I named him the Woodman for obvious reasons.