The El has not been a whole lot of fun lately. The CTA is doing a huge city-wide renovation on the Brown Line, and it's making trains extra crowded, extra slow and extra unpleasant. This is especially the case on the commute home. We all stand on the narrow wooden platform, squinting into the early evening sun, praying that a train will arrive that doesn't have people's sweaty backs already pressed against the glass doors. The only way to get on those trains is to back up, run, and fling yourself against the wall of people just as the doors are closing. It's a tricky maneuver, and not one to be tried while intoxicated or blindfolded.
Anyway. The trains suck. We just want to get home.
But this is exactly why I recommend that everyone have a Bill to ride home with. If you can find one, definitely pick one up! It's really a great way to go, and can make your ride home downright enjoyable, even in the worst conditions.
Bill, in my case, is my cheery coworker of many years, and we ride the train to the near north side together many evenings. We sometimes tell stories of our children and talk about the day at work. Mostly, though, we resort to being ridiculous. We quietly take note of those around us ("Hey! There's that woman with the Joker mouth again!" "Look at that guy's man-bag!"). We ask each other deeply philosophical questions ("How many people on this train know who Carter Beauford is?" "How many pounds of manure are they using to build that new park?" "Does everyone on this train hate us right now?").
Despite having been in the same office all day, we never are short on conversation matter - especially the kind that is meaningless. (Come to think of it, Bill did ask me once to diagram a conversation for us in advance for fear we'd have nothing to say.)
We ride home. We decompress. We pass the time. We are juvenile.
On some occasions, if the mood is just so, we will challenge each other to do absurd and wonderful things:
So, we're standing on a very crowded car at the back of a Brown Line train. The doors fight their way closed as the last few people catapult themselves into the mass of riders (see above), and the train lurches forward. As we curve our way out of the Chicago Station, Bill and I both notice a distinct human aroma. We do what we always do in such situations: push our top lips up with our lower lips in a meager attempt to block off our nostrils. This, of course, does not help.
We look around. Bill, who has just gotten himself new contact lenses earlier on this day, darts his eyes around more than usual, blinking widely as he tries to determine the source of the smell. I see him see something behind me and know that he has located the culprit. I turn a little, and see that directly behind me, facing in the other direction, is a large beachball of a man. He's scruffy, sweaty and stinky. He is wearing a white baseball style shirt with green sleeves. He is listening to a personal music device with white earbuds.
I turn back to face Bill. Without hesitation he says to me, "I will give you a dollar if you stick your nose where the green meets the white," indicating the man's shirt. I look again. The seam in question runs right across the back of the guy's armpit. Perfect.
I have no intention of doing any such thing. But, in the interest of fun, I clarify, "A whole dollar, right?"
There must be a gleam of something in my eye, or Bill must hallucinate one with his new contacts, because for some reason he thinks I'm serious. Instantly, he backpedals.
"No. No, no. I take it back."
"You said a dollar. A whole dollar," I challenge.
"No. Do not do that." He laughs a tiny, worried laugh and looks away.
Silence. He turns back to me, ready to move on to some other fascinating topic. Perhaps he will impress me with his ability to remember my extended family members' email addresses. Perhaps we will gripe about the proposed El fare hikes. Maybe he thinks we'll talk about American Idol. No such luck. I'm not done.
"All right, look," I say, "I'm going to do this now, and when I do, I expect my dollar. Okay?"
"No, not okay!" He's a little more frantic now. "I take it back before you accept. No dollar. Don't do it. I will not give you a dollar."
It's really unlike Bill to guide me away from foolishness. Usually he thrusts me toward it with wild abandon. I'm unsure if he thinks I'll get beaten up, or if he fears he'll vomit upon witnessing such an act. But, let's face it, it was his idea to begin with, and his idea to offer compensation. Not to mention the fact that I'm only taunting him, and have no plans to touch that guy at all with anything.
The argument goes on like this for another minute. I even tease him by leaning over, closer to the guy in question. It freaks Bill out, which gives me great pleasure. (See! Good times! Everyone needs a Bill!)
Then it happens. Yep. You've been waiting for it, you knew it was coming. The train hits a small jog in the track and rocks hard from side to side. We all shift suddenly. It's in that instant, that millisecond, that a decision is made. A ridiculous, ridiculous decision.
With the same kind of instinctive choice one makes when, say, dodging traffic or fighting a dragon, I use the bouncing train to feign a slight misstep. I lean down and over and let the momentum of the rocking train throw the guy's armpit into my face. It's all so fast. And so slow. The green and white shirt is coming at me with great force and impressive speed. I keep my eyes open so I can aim my nose for the exact spot where the colors meet. It takes up my entire field of vision.
I will spare you the details of the quarter-second that my nose disappeared into that man's body. I will not bore you with how surprisingly soft it was - plush, even. I will skip the part about the shirt clinging for an instant to the bridge of my nose where my glasses sit, making me fear for a moment that I may not detach from this guy. I'll leave all of those details out. You have an imagination. You can take it from here.
Needless to say, once is enough.
The train regains its stability, as do all of the passengers. Because everyone on the train had been flopping around, my act went unnoticed. I succeeded! I survived! I look back to Bill with a wide smile. He turns to me and opens his eyes.
"Wait," I say, "You did SEE that, right??"
"I couldn't watch. I saw it coming. I couldn't watch."
"But I did it!" I whisper angrily. "I risked everything! I manned up!! And you closed your fucking eyes???"
"Sorry."
"I want my dollar."
"No."
"I want my dollar."
"No."
"I want my dollar."
We arrive at Bill's stop, and he makes his way through the packed car to the doors. He blinks his glasses-free eyes and smiles a goodbye. I meekly wave and rub my nose.
"See you tomorrow."
