Beards
Context: Northbound Brown Line usually between Chicago and Damen.
Brown beards, red beards, black beards, white beards, bouncing back and forth to the rhythm of the train.
Brown Beard casts a sideways glance at Red Beard, secretly admiring the pruning skills. Not a single hair is out of place. Each ginger strand is combed perfectly in place almost effortlessly. Brown Beard gently scratches at his own garden. It's decent but lacks the carefree I-came-out-the-womb-this-way look. He has some work to do. This is a man’s game and Red is in the lead.
Black Beard strokes his creation. Dark, shiny, geometrical neatly-trimmed grass sprawling across a white plain joined by clean sideburns and a delicate goatee. Immaculate. His eyes are downcast to his iPhone where he shuffles through Spotify’s heavy metal station. There’s no reason to look around because there is no competition. Simple.
Blond beard joins the crew at Belmont. He glances around as he takes hold of a pole near the door. Hmm. Not bad Brown Beard. Not the neatest but a cute nose and nice eyes make up for it. Blond Beard is a new beard. The saplings are still making their way to the surface and have yet to reach maturity but they're strong and ripe with promise. Hello Red Beard! Way to work it, baby. Natural, just a few strays along the cheeks but almost intentionally like each was told exactly where to stand. Red freckles compliment their skinny counterparts flawlessly. True art. Black Beard would have been in the running if he didn't insist on torturing the chin hairs into a sharp point at the end.
Red Beard sips his Starbucks Espresso Macchiato, bobbing his head slowly to Phoenix making an effort not move as much as he truly wants to. He brushes his red fringe back from his eyes, stuffing the edges inside his fedora as he reads a text from his girlfriend.
"Pls shave that shit off b4 you meet my family tonite. K thx"
White Beard scratches his immense backside before brushing bits of crackers out the white mass that pours from under his face. If Blond Beard had saplings, White Beard had redwoods with roots that went deep, the tips of which had once felt the whiz of a stray bullet in Vietnam. It was wild, thick, strong; holding on relentlessly as the soldiers above receded gracefully into oblivion. White Beard watches all the young Beards with pity. This was a man's game and he was in the lead. The secret? Just don't give a damn.