Jake, 18

The routine of asking for spare change is a common sight and commitment made famous by the beggars of the world. But what the world seems to ignore is that fact that anyone can be a beggar, any age. Today I encountered my youngest beggar, en route to my class downtown. Age 18 and clearly in a rut, Jake was walking up the aisle asking for a spare dollar to get on the next bus to continue his day. I thought of giving him the spare dollar, but having no job lowers my moral values in sympathy and sharing for the other humans. And I could think to myself was "Damn" at the sight of Jake, someone who was younger than me and heading down a nasty path in life. What was more bizarre was the chuckling from his fiend of a friend, who sat and witnessed Jake's struggle for obtaining a single dollar. This friend was light years into the life of a wandering beggar, with frequent infatuations with the darker sides of life on earth: his clothes possessed that aging green only street beggars can create, had tattoos on his face, and wielded a charismatic smirk, knowing that life is a bitch and there's not much else to do but to smile and keep going.
Jake switched over the other train car after failing to get one dollar from our current car; it didn't take him long to return, retreating to his lowlife of a mate. Maybe this was a foreshadow to how his life would function, by asking for money until he's reached the point where his friends are his final resort, where there's no where else to turn, even the trains themselves.
I named him Jake because that's what the friend had called him.

Ashley and Bean Flicking

It all had happened so awkwardly and yet unforeseen, thinking that she was merely another homeless passenger on the CTA. She was of middle age - close to 55 I would assume - with dark complexity and soiled clothing with stains and tears beginning to appear at the bottom of her jeans. A blanket gave her warm, settling nicely upon the two seats she took for herself. To me, this was typical homelessness aboard the public transit, so I paid zero attention to her.
That was when I had gotten up to get off at my stop, and I noticed movement beneath her blanket. This movement occurred around her beaver, and this assumption of mine was confirmed by her facial reactions to the tending of her axe wound. How could I not look away? It's not everyday you get to see someone pleasure themselves in public. So I stared with a frown, curious as to what compelled or motivated her to get to work. Her eyes were shut tight, lips trembling with passion. Then she opened up and immediately laid her vision on me, halting her bean flicking process with a face of wonder and contempt, as if I had just interrupted her. I chuckled and dipped, attempting to avoid any further contact with Ashley and her bean flicking activities.
I named her Ashley because she reminds me of a one-night-stand I had some time ago.

Piss

It's widespread, it's noticeable, it's loud, and it's nasty. It's on the bus and train, almost anywhere you go, at least in my experience. On the seats, on the train car's ground, and, oddly enough, in the air where our nostrils are triggered by the overwhelming scent of piss.
I'm not one to point fingers (which is such bullshit), but the scent is delivered, predominantly, from homeless wanderers to drunken fiends too twisted to walk in a straight line. Some stumble upon the moving CTA property and fire away, while others lay almost unconsciously and bring their dream-like phenomenon of peeing into a reality, drenching their clothes and the space around them. However, it seems oblivious to them when it occurs; but not for the other riders, expressing grand frowns and contempt as they were forced to go with their business, no inclination to inform any of the employees.
Could you imagine the horror the employees must endure when it comes to this? High maintenance and lividness would be the primary factors, but one can't help but wonder on who may have done this, and what was the background tale to support it? I could imagine them exclaiming expletives as they cleaned the muck up, not as curious investigators who inspect up close and personal. "Hey Jimmy, what kind of geek do ya think might've laid some waste here?" and to which the other would potentially reply with, "Who friggin' knows, Scooter! Probably another wasted mutt from Wrigleyville!"
There's not much else to be said here, other than the fact that it strangely seems normal and pretty common to once-and-a-while encounter this fucked phenomenon. There's no escaping it. Expect it. And as a resident from Desolation Row, I say bring some Febreze and don't hesitate on using it. Come on, it'll help everybody.

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.