Today was supposed to be my car day. (I get Mondays and Fridays, LJ gets Tuesdays and Thursdays, we alternate Wednesdays, and weekends go to whoever needs it more or is awake earlier.) Anyway, at 2 AM, I am prodded awake by LJ, who informs me "You need to call dude tomorrow about that van, because I was tryin' to park it just now and it died. I can't get it started and it's parked all bogus and shit...I think it's the alternator or the battery or somethin'." (This is the loaner, a 1993 Chevy Astro with all the horsepower of a sick mealworm. The 'Ho is in the shop, apparently getting its wires pulled.)
Well, I reset my alarm to compensate for the twenty minutes' sleep I was going to lose by taking the train; then this morning I got up and left at my usual public-transportation-day time.
"Parked all bogus and shit" was actually a bit of an understatement--the van was not only askew as though it was in the process of being parked, but the windows on both sides were also open. Not a cool thing, in my neighborhood; I mean, I don't subscribe to the media illusion of the "murder capital of Chicago", but there's some shit you just don't do here--and on that list, if you plan to keep your radio, is "leave your car windows open."
Anyway, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it at 6:30 AM, so I left for work.
And once again, the Train Gods came out with the Wacky Stick.
I am sitting, as this scene opens, on a bench at the Quincy stop. The Quincy stop is at the southwest corner of the Loop, and serves the Brown line from one platform, the Purple and Orange lines from the other. I am waiting for the 7:18 Purple Line train.
At about 7:12, as I am sitting there trying to stay awake, I become aware that One Of Those Things You Really Don't Expect To See is occurring across the platform.
An African-American man, about 5'7" or 5'8", is on the opposite platform. Two things about this gentleman make him stand out from the crowd, however:
1) He is not standing on the platform, but sitting on the edge, lowering himself down onto the tracks; and
2) He is wearing a ski mask.
Casually, he high-steps over the rails, making his way across both sets of tracks, and arrives at the other side safely. He boosts himself up and commences to pacing the platform, mumbling to himself. Meanwhile, I'm looking towards the station itself, wondering if any CTA staff had seen what happened, or whether they were going to do anything about it if they had.
They hadn't, or weren't, and didn't. The next train--an Orange line--pulled in, and Ski-Mask Man got on and sat down, still wearing his mask. I was glad it was the Purple Line I was waiting for.
"And that's the end, right?"
Yeah, right.
I'm on the train, finally, with no ski-maskers in sight, so I do what I normally do on trains: put in my earplugs and go to sleep. Around Loyola, however, I am awakened by a familiar, distinctive, and much-despised sound: the "BLIRRRP!" of a Nextel walkie-talkie phone.
Immediately following the "BLIRRRP!", a static-clotted voice is heard, and then the response of the phone-owner. He's a young, professionally-dressed African-American male, and it is SO OBVIOUS that he wants us all to be impressed by the importance of his position. After all, if he wasn't important, no one would be "BLIRRRP!"-ing him at such an early hour. I mean, no one is "BLIRRRRP!"-ing anyone ELSE on that train car; so CLEARLY that makes him the most important guy there.
Now, mind you, I still have my earplugs in. And these are pretty solid earplugs; they silence the noise in the street below my window at night, and they once blocked out Jay-my-plumber's-kid's "so-loud-your-ears-will-bleed" whistle. But apparently, one thing they will NOT block out is high-pitched phone chirping and low-pitched Extremely Important Conversations.
The next fifteen minutes of my life:
"BLIRRRRRP!"
" :::static static, barely audible word, static::::"
"mumble mumble, audible word or phrase, mumble mumble"
"BLIRRRRP!"
I open one eye and look at the guy sitting sideways nearest me; he is watching Walkie-Talkie guy with a palpable loathing. He glanced at me, commiserating, with a look that says some people!.
My sleepy euphoria, inspired by having found an ally in this situation, was short-lived.
No sooner had Walkie J. Talkie gotten off the train at Howard, than my supposed ally's left hip started ringing. "Hello?" he said, again loudly enough to overwhelm the capabilities of earplugs or the mind of mortal woman.
Mr. With-Friends-Like-These continued his conversation for the rest of my ride, and probably beyond. And all I have to say, to those who feel that the world is their phone-booth:
"BLIRRRRP" you.
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