hktraindiaries

[hktraindiaries]

The Clipper

Context: Brown Line 7:00 Saturday morning. --- Click. Click. Click. Dirty tips of fingernails land daintily on top of the black coat like snow on Tarmac. Swish! And with one forceful blow they're off, flying on the wings of the forced air through the train, up and down pass coffee cups and unconscious open mouths, on seats, on laps, in hair. Far from their source to foreign lands. Apparently hygiene is relative.

[hktraindiaries]

Public

Context: Southbound Brown Line.

Cue the music.

Bitches, bitches, nigga, nigga. 3:30 p.m. pre-rush hour concert for everyone. Standing. Swaying. Hands cut through the air on invisible turntables, head bobbing, tiny dreads bouncing, eyes closed because the music is that fucking intense. For real. It is that fucking intense. Doors open. Take a step back from the dance floor. Let the audience in. Huddle around ladies, enjoy the show. Heh. See-thru plastic backpack; a handful of LifeStyles Ultra Sensitive THYN dancing back and forth in sync to the music. One for you. And you. You too, baby girl. Bouncing, rapping, in the zone. Music envelopes the train car more thickly than the cold blasts of air from the vents on this hot summer day. Throbbing. Pulsing. Getting louder and louder. Headphones on the brink of a cosmic explosion of mad beats. This. Is. My. Jam.

Now, it's yours. Enjoy.

Eyes roll, bags are clutched closely, blond hair nervously tucked behind ears, minds judging, "Shouldn't he be on the Red Line?" Nah. Public transportation is public. Don't like it? Ride a bike, bitch.

[hktraindiaries]

Next

Context: Northbound Red Line after P.M. rush hour.

Next. Next. Next. Kinda cute but, next.

Adam swiped through so many profiles his thumb was sore. Duck face here, cleavage overload there, why was it so damn difficult? As the train stops at Fullerton, a woman takes the open seat next to Adam. He tilts his Galaxy S5 slightly to the left in an effort to hide his online quest for a girlfriend. Allie likes hiking. Gina likes movies. Elizabeth likes fucking. Why couldn't one woman like all three? Adam pauses on the profile of local cute brunette; so cute it makes him smile. Caroline from Rogers Park. Books, movies, kayaking, and romantic nights in. Ah, the soon to be Mrs. Adam Pulanski. She's perfect. And currently online. Come on, send a message, do it. Adam bites his lip as his tired thumb hovers over the keyboard. > ur hot. wanna hook up? ;) Adam taps his foot nervously. That was good, right? To the point, honest. Maybe too honest. His smile falters. That was a douche bag message. Time for damage control. An icon shows she's writing a reply. Gotta hurry. > Sorry my asshole friend wrote that. Tell me more about yourself. :) The replying notification stops. Safe. Adam sighs then smiles anxiously as the reply starts up again. >> You're pathetic. Adam's smile dies, along with his pride. "Pull your shit together, Adam," he mutters aloud to himself. He sighs, thinking of what to say as he thumbs the worn page edges of the closed library book on his lap. Finally, he digs deep to find the motivation to continue.

> Let's start over. I think we have a lot in common. It's kinda embarrassing but I'm reading The Fault in Our Stars too. I'm already crying and I haven't finished yet.

>> lol. It made me cry too. Did you see the movie?

> Not yet. No one to go with...

>> OK second chance. :)  Wanna meet for coffee?

A grin spreads across Adam's face as he blushes like a kid. 

> Sure. When?

"How about the next station? There's a cafe right off Granville."

Adam turns to his right where Caroline is sitting next to him, smiling the cute smile that even a Galaxy S5 couldn't give justice too. His blush returns and he scoffs.

"Yeah sure, I know just the one you're talking about."

[hktraindiaries]

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.

[hktraindiaries]

The Tourists

Context: Every day of the summer.

"For being the Windy City it sure is hot!" Granny wipes the sweat from her glistening forehead, pressing her big body against the air vent next to her seat.

Bobby looks up, leaning so far back his Cubs cap falls off his head. He points to the train map above the doors. “Addison! That’s where we’re going, right? Right dad? We’re going to Addison right? That’s where we get off.”

Nelson nods, massaging his temples in a slow circular motion. “Yes, Bobby. Yes, we get off at Addison.”

"Three more stops!" Bobby calls out. "Three more to Addison!"

"This train is hot. How long are we staying on?" Caitlyn asks.

"I don’t know, sweetie," Nelson replies and Caitlyn pouts, resembling her mother too much.

"Two more!"

"Deep dish probably has gluten, right, Nel?"

Nelson sighs and glances up at his wife. “I’m pretty sure it’s made entirely of gluten.”

"One more!"

Cathy pouts, resembling her daughter too much. She flips through the guidebook for less gastrointestinal-ly dangerous dinner options until she’s distracted. “Caitlyn!�� She whispers harshly. “Get away from him!”

Caitlyn steps back from the sleeping black man on the seat across from them. She just wanted to make sure he was alive.

"One stop to Addison!"

"Is that the Sears Tower?" Granny asks, squinting her eyes. "They’ve gone and made it silver and blue now."

"That’s the Trump Tower, mom." Cathy rolls her eyes. "And they don’t call it Sears Tower anymore. It’s Willis Tower now."

"Who’s Willis?"

"How should I know?"

"Addison!! This is Addison! This is Addison!" Bobby’s eyes are wild as he jumps off the train onto the platform.

Nelson picks up the $25 Cubs cap before joining his family on the platform.

"Where’s the stadium?" Caitlyn asks, looking around. Bobby spins in circles. "Is it small? Is that why we can’t see it?"

Cathy grabs the unopened map from Nelson’s hand, flips it right side up. “Nel!” she yells. “The stadium is at Addison Red! This is the brown line. Are you colorblind or what?”

Nelson sighs. “Yeah. I am. We go over this all the time.”

"Oh right, sorry sweetie," Cathy says with a pout that is short lived. "Ok so I think we need cross to the other side and backtrack," she says and heads down the stairs behind Bobby, followed by Caitlyn and Granny.

Nelson watches them descend as another brown line train stops at the platform. The train doors open like arms open for a hug. He accepts the hug, stepping into the train, sighing in relief as it pulls out the station.

[hktraindiaries]

The Call

Context: girl in a corner seat on the brown line downtown.

Waiting. Waiting. Phone clenched in a sweaty palm. Waiting.

Maybe if you expect bad news strongly enough it will happen by some force of nature or unkind supernatural power. If people believe that positive thoughts can manifest into positive events, was not the opposite true?

Clark/Lake. What if there was no call? What if they forgot to call, instead calling parents, family, people who they thought loved her more.

Merchandise Mart. What were the last words? Forget it. That’s what they were. Now “it” seemed so vague. What once applied to revealing their love, now applied to life itself.

Chicago. Should she go back to the hospital? No. Impossible. She needed to be home when her little brother finished school.

Time. Time. Time.

Sedgwick. Ring! Hello? Feet tap the hard metal floor in sync with the clanks of the emergency exit door. Listening. Listening. Get to the point. She’s dead.

A cry, short but vast, springing forth from the cage of her heart, turning heads. A sob, choking on the remnants of that cry. Eyes looking, then looking away as the sobs continue, enveloped in a mass of long, thick, black hair.
Sobs continue. Eyes stop watching. Nothing can be done.

Armitage. Uncomfortable, the man beside her leaves, standing, glancing once, then looking away. The sobbing mass of black hair turns, feet pulled up in the newly freed space.

Fullerton. She’s dead. Nothing can be done.

[hktraindiaries]

"She's Crazy, Yo"

Context: 2 middle schoolers on the Brown Line heading North from Downtown. 

"Yeah, seriously man, that girl is a crazy-ass bitch!” Damien says loud enough for the whole train car to hear. An overweight woman with an ill-fitting blouse peaks up from her James Patterson novel, shakes her head, and continues reading.

"For real!" Clark exclaims, glad Damien picked up on his conversation starter with enthusiasm. "She told me she was gonna stab me, and I was like ‘What the fuck?’ that bitch be crazy."

Damien laughs, picturing Yessica wielding a machete over Clark’s head, swinging, and chopping off the top of his afro; balls of black puffs bouncing on the cafeteria floor. 

"Yo, yo, next time you talk to her you should be all decked out in a full coat of armor with your helmet down and all like ‘Bitch, I’m ready.’" Damien says, pulling down an invisible visor. This warrants a round of laughing from Clark and Damien smiles, feeling accomplished. A tall girl standing near them scoffs, apparently her iPod isn’t turned up loud enough to drown out all the noise on the train. Clark catches this thinks of his next joke. Got it.

"Yeah, like you know, I’d be like Darth Vader and shit." 

It’s not funny but Damien laughs. The girl rolls her eyes and steps off the train. Clark notices he’s losing the audience.

"She’s crazy, yo. But man, she’s hot, right? All the crazy ones be sexy as fuck."

Damien nods. “Hell yeah.” Who says that anymore? He does. Clark doesn’t care and initiates a fist bump. Damien wants to explode it but realizes Clark wasn’t going there so he keeps his hand shut.

There’s a lull. Damien has nothing to say.

The train rolls to a stop at Belmont. The overweight woman pushes herself pass the boys. Clark imitates smacking her ass as she leaves before standing up and looking back at Damien. 

"Later, man," Clark says with characteristic parting indifference as he steps out the train.

Damien nods his head to Clark as he crosses the platform.

"Later."

Damien wipes the lens of his glasses with his shirt and repositions them on his nose before opening his bag and taking out his library copy of Game of Thrones.

--- Note: all the dialog is true, as I heard it. Seriously, how do you make something like that up?

[hktraindiaries]

An Intro

Train Diaries will be a continuation (if not manifestation) of something I’ve done in my head while commuting since I first lived in Japan in 2008. Coming from a place where the main form of transportation was a car taking you from Point A to Point B; I became in love with public transportation when I studied abroad in Japan— particularly trains. 

There’s something about the motion and the sounds of being on a train that makes me comfortable but even more than that, I’d get wrapped up in people-watching. In Japan I’d watch my fellow commuters and wonder where they were coming from, where they were going, and what they’d be doing if no one was watching. If my Sherlock clue-gathering failed me I’d make up something and my friend and I would share stories about the sleeping salaryman sitting in front of us. 

Now that I live in Chicago, I commute again. A year has passed and I’ve just recently started to conjure stories about those sitting or irritably standing around me on the train.

This blog will allow me to write creatively and work on short (very short) stories— a thing I’m not quite good at. I’ll use observations from riding as fodder for my stories then let my imagination run wild. Please, sit back and enjoy the ride.