Riding the Bus With My Notebook

Thoughts and feelings from my seat on the CTA. twitter.com/withmynotebook

[withmynotebook]

I’m walking into Target.

An 8-year-old is pulling her little sister, 6, by the hand. She is on a mission.

“Don’t run into anything.” Big Sister throws Little Sister a dark look. “You could get seriously injured.”

[withmynotebook]

I often dream of the house I grew up in. It’s a lovely building with large rooms, french doors, and so many windows, but in my dreams it’s usually a place where something - or someone - bad finds me. Usually, I need to escape.

Tonight I dreamed we had locked the doors. I think my dad had locked the doors. But where did he go, then? And we were listening. If I already knew someone was coming, why didn’t I leave right then? Why didn’t I grab my bag - or at least make sure my phone was in my pocket?

All I did was listen.

Standing in the front hall, where I could hear the back and the front door, I listened.

And then came the scraping, a key in the back lock.

I picked her up and I ran.

She was four years old, impatient with me as I shushed her, listening for that sound. And when I threw her on, piggy back, she demanded to know why and gave me a pout when I sharply told her to be quiet.

I opened the front door as the back door creaked, the screen door slamming behind me. 

I ran.

Across the alley, I crouched between two cars parked in a neighbor’s driveway. The neighbor was - I’m not sure - scattering mowed grass tidily across the pavement.

I asked him to help us, this child and me, and he said he was - doing whatever he was doing.

Does that mean you can’t help us? 

I asked.

The neighbor looked at me with distate. 

No.

He said. It was an obvious answer and I must be an idiot.

And he went back to scattering grass. 

Then the man’s voice came ringing across from the front porch of the house I grew up in. He was calling her name. Purposefully. Tauntingly.

Delilah.

And I ran.

I ran to the Gottschalk’s yard, which was not their yard, but a much larger field of dry grass with grey festival tents, their house standing on the northeast corner of the lot. I pushed my way inside one of the tents. It was empty. There was nowhere to hide. 

And he lifted the edge of the opposite side and called her name again.

Delilah.

I ran from there toward the second tent, and as I ducked under the vinyl into another empty expanse, I heard him calling.

She was heavy and awkward on my back and no matter how quickly I tried to move, he only had to walk, heavy footsteps leading toward us, keeping our pace.

And I forced myself awake.

[withmynotebook]

If they don't want to talk to you, they just fuckin' ignore you. And then they're like GIVE ME CUDDLES.

Not sure if this man was talking about women . . . or cats.

[withmynotebook]

The age question.

It is a beautiful day today. 60s, sunny, breezy but not windy - which is rare, the breezy-but-not-windy part. One of the many reasons I like this season is that I can dress in my gym clothes and walk to work out without dealing with lockers and layers of burdensome clothing.

I’m strolling home from the gym, wearing my train face and carrying my gloves and my water bottle, and wondering about Vitamin D addiction because the sun oh my god it feels so good to be out in the sun, and I’m a block from home.

There is a couple coming toward me down the sidewalk, but like I said, I have my train face on, which also means I’m not looking at the other people who are also out enjoying the sunshine. I know they’re there, and I’ll notice if they make any sudden moves or anything weird, but I’m not paying them any sort of close attention.

My ears perk up, though, when I realize that these two people are talking about me. It’s the woman’s words I catch onto first:

“Ain’t 18. Can’t be but --”

“Naw.” The man interrupts. “She a turn-on.”

From the corner of my eyes I see him look me up and down as they approach. The woman looks me up and down, too. It’s a badly written flashback scene from Law & Order: SVU.

“She 18,” The man says definitively.

“Nah-uh.”

“She a turn-on,” he insists.

“She ain’t 18.”

Apparently, this is a common argument in this relationship, because as they pass me I hear her go on:

“I told you. They gotta be 18.”

Umm.  For what? Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be a conversation.

For some reason, hearing this conversation, in which I was not included, bothered me more than the people who address me directly. It made me feel grimy, and powerless, and exposed.

I walk the rest of the block home and take a shower. And I feel better. Not great. But better.

[withmynotebook]

A hat like that.

March 2015.

On the platform at State and Lake. A glassy-eyed woman is seated on one of the benches, talking to a person who is not there. As I pass in front of her, she looks up at me, suddenly lucid.

“You’re ugly.” She says.

I keep walking, and stop at the next column, where I wait for my train.

The woman turns to her friend-who-is-not, and says, “It’s cold out today.”

“She’s got the right idea,” the woman continues, meaning me. “You need a hat like that.”

Well, I guess if she’s going to call me ugly, it’s nice that she likes my hat.

[withmynotebook]

Friday, May 16th, 2014 9:52 a.m.

It snows.

Like, big, holy-cats-it's-christmas snowflakes.

It's also super cold and windy.

Where'd I put my winter coat? Oh. Yeah. I put it away for the season A WEEK AGO.

[withmynotebook]

Thursday, May 8th, 11:11 a.m.

I put away my knee-length down winter coat.

[withmynotebook]

On Unnecessary Rudeness

Today on the street under the Thorndale platform, a man said to me, "Hey, baby. I want a sandwich."

I looked at him, shook my head, and said, "Sorry."

I kept walking.

He proceeded to spit at me and call me Fatass.

That's all.

[withmynotebook]

Overheard on the CTA

Two high school girls, freshmen or sophomores.

Girl A: I was almost a urkel for Halloween.

Girl B: What's a urkel?

Girl A: It's, like, a dorky, funny guy.

Girl B: I'm already a urkel.

[withmynotebook]

On my way down the steps of the Thorndale station, an earnest-looking man with the slightest of accents (I couldn't place it) asked me for directions to a building on the 6000 block of Winthrop.

I let him know that if he turned left out of the station, and then left at the corner, that he'd see the building soon.

"It is one block that way?" he asked, indicating turning left at the corner.

"Probably more like two - just a couple, I think," I agreed. "But don't quote me on that."

The man paused and stared at me, perplexed.  "Oh, but I'm not.  I'm not," he assured me.  Only then did I realize that maybe his accent was deceiving - maybe he wasn't as experienced an English speaker as I had assumed.

Luckily, I saw him make his turn and get going in the right direction.  So even if my figure of speech was lost on him, at least my directions weren't.

[withmynotebook]

On wildlife.

A few nights ago, we had a beautiful powdery snowfall. I woke up to an almost-undisturbed layer of white, sparkling in the dark of 5:45 a.m.

Ahhh, I thought as I walked along, focused on the snow under my feet. How lovely. Bunny tracks.

There used to be so many rabbits in the yard where I grew up, and our snowy lawn would be covered with their prints.

Just. Lovely.

But wait a minute.

Those tracks were skinny. They had bony little claws.

Those were no bunny tracks.

Rats.

[withmynotebook]

I stood on an unusually crowded afternoon 66, near the back door, holding onto one of the yellow poles.  The woman who was taking up two seats in front of where I stood tapped me on the arm.

"There's a seat back there," she said quietly, pointing to a bench that, due to the congestion in the bus, was unreachable from where I stood.

"Oh, I'm fine, thanks." I smiled the briefest of smiles and turned my attention back toward the marquis at the front of the bus.

We rode like that, from maybe Hudson to Dearborn.  A bus of strangers, public solitude, et cetera.

Until:

"She just called you a DYKE!"

This same woman hollered at full voice, encouraging someone to start something.

"A DYKE, did you hear, she called you a DYKE!" And suddenly, I'm being poked. Again. This woman is addressing me.

As I would if someone said, "You dropped your scarf," I instinctually turned my face toward where the woman was gesturing.  

Of course, no one had said anything of the sort. Everyone looked just as I expected them to: placid faces, determinedly ignoring the hollering woman toward the back of the bus - who just happened to have decided to be my protector.

"Now, THAT'S a dyke!" She said, as though someone had argued. "I know a dyke when I see one!  And that's a DYKE!" 

Who in the world was she talking about?

I glanced behind me. Was there a way to get out of this woman's line of attention? My quick investigation revealed nothing but a crowded sea of pea coats. No escape path.

The woman was not letting up.

"YEP. I know a dyke, mmmhm. But it ain't a dyke 'til it tries to get in your pockets."

What?

The bus came to a halt at Michigan - my stop - and I joined the flow of passengers exiting through the rear doors. As I walked to the corner, I glanced back at the woman. She was still hollering inside the bus.  I could see her mouth open wide as she spoke, presumably about the bully at the front of the bus, but her eyes never faltered; they had followed me all the way to the crosswalk.

The bus drove through the green light, and took this woman with it. I crossed toward Water Tower, where I would hop on the bus that would take me to my front door. Hopefully, without name-calling. And hopefully, without direct addresses from any characters on the seat next to me.

[withmynotebook]

If you're gonna call a girl a whore, you gotta put a smiley face.

Overheard on the Red Line

[withmynotebook]

On mountain climbing.

Today I crossed the street and turned the corner toward my building - and found myself face to face with a drift of snow which was, in most places, as high as I am tall.

Fortunately for me, other (clearly more adventurous) poor souls had traveled that way before I got there, and so I could see a path slightly carved across the top and around toward the side.

I began to climb.

And although I sunk in to my knees three times (twice on the left leg, once on the right), the snow did not collapse under me, and I did not suffocate slash freeze to death.

I made it home alive and now report back to you.

There is snow in Chicago today, people.

Mountains and mountains of snow.

[withmynotebook]

This is real life.

http://www.threadless.com/designs/talking-penguin

[withmynotebook]

On seasons changing. Or not changing.

You know what's easier in the summer than in the winter?

Dressing.

Deciding what to eat.

Walking down sidewalks.

Exercising.

Breathing.

Sleeping naked.

Keeping the closet organized.

Going grocery shopping.

Going clubbing.

Going out with your hair wet.

Going out of the house. At all.

Stepping out of the shower.

Finding socks to wear.

Beach swimming.

Window shopping.

Errands of any sort.

Avoiding being splashed by busses.

Going to the mailbox.

. . .

This is about the time of year when I start to count down to spring - which, in Chicago, is May. So here we are. February 2nd. Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow this morning and predicted six more weeks of winter.

Well, Phil, that may be the case in Punxsutawney, PA. But for me and Chicago, we're counting down 88 days until spring.

[withmynotebook]

Ice on the platform

Slip, slip, slip

Down goes the business man

Trip, trip, trip

CTA lady, she don't care

She ain't puttin no salt nowhere

Slip, slip, slip

Trip, trip, trip

Slip, slip, slip

Trip, trip, trip

Ice on the platform

Slip, slip, slip

Down goes the businessman

Trip, trip, trip