Inception

This was an assignment for a writing course that my instructor, Don, wanted to see. Just a little heads up; extra context.

Throughout my lifetime, I’ve had a strange inclination to look at strangers a certain way: give them a name I’ve known before and fix up a little tale to go with them. This started when I was merely a child who would be playing Star Wars at the shopping mall or flipping off a fellow student just for the hell of it. “Never talk to strangers,” dear old Mommy used to tell me. In lieu of going against this, I decided to somewhat mock these strangers as characters I’ll just read about but never have the chance to interact with them., almost like a character you see on-screen or in a book. Obi-Wan, Neo, Santa Claus, Limp Bizkit, Jay-Z, Mr. Rogers, it goes on and on forever until I need to discover more characters for my mental arsenal.

Some years later I discovered Bob Dylan, and with this discovery came the song Desolation Row, a rather underappreciated song on his Highway 61 Revisited album that runs for eleven minutes containing poetry based on folks he sees at this particular place and tells us about their stories, while giving them well-known names to replace the real ones, such as Cinderella, Ezra Pound, Robin Hood, Joan of Arc, etc. The song had clung onto me like a sticker you didn’t want to take off. The lyrics, guitar, harmonica, and the length were what turned me on, but I really went for that orgasm when I paid attention to the surrealistic words that Bob sang aloud. This song was beginning to ring memories from weird experiences I encountered on the train.


One day going home, some jerk-off in casual clothing and shitty facial hair got my attention and gestured for me to take my earbuds off. I did so, and he said, almost calmly with a little hesitation but with much confidence behind the voice, “I gotta lay this on someone, and I can’t keep this bottled up.”

     “Uh, okay?” I replied, trying not to sound like a dick to this turdbag.

     “I’m headed to the casino right now to do something illegal, but it kind of isn’t really illegal; I’ve done it before and nothing has happened.”

     “Okay.” I tried to put my earbuds back in, but he stopped me with a hand gesture as if I was slave and him my master.

     “I just needed to tell someone that, because I’m gonna kill myself if I don’t tell anyone. Okay?”

     “Okay?”

     “Thank you. Don’t tell anyone. Thank you.” He retreated into a sleep-like position, taking up the two seats to occupy his lousy soul.

I didn’t know what the hell to do. What was I to tell the pigs about my occurrence? Would they arrest me, too? I didn’t like to think about the pigs, so I thought about writing about it. Only back then, I was scared to, like what if this lonely bastard had read this and went on a manhunt for me?

Now I simply couldn’t give a damn. Let the sucker try to track me down, that loser.

But I combined the love of the song with the confusion of the situation to form a little bubble of inspiration that grew and grew until I finally had the drive to put up a blog. I had started it last year around summertime, and the idea was simple: recount experiences with strange people or strange situations, perhaps with a slight Gonzo twist to it. I wrote my past encounters with crying girls, weridoes and dopers on the seats, stenches and sights too horrendous for the naked eye, and narratives. At this point, I have almost 50 posts on the blog, and I’m shocked to see that people are still reading it. Or it’s probably bots – if that’s the case, say goodbye to my confidence.

But with the blog I always managed to be as honest as possible, even sometimes giving names to these encounters with someone from my past or a well-known figure to attach the memory with.

That was how the blog had come into fruition, a simple love for a song that was mixed yet another awkward time whilst riding the CTA. And the shit continues till this day, for I still ride the public trans to get to where I need to go. My encounters still exist nowadays, and there’s always room for more entries.

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.