That roughly translates to punctuality outage for everyone, and also, common courtesy and normal behavior outage for CTA-riders at the same time, as I discovered yesterday morning. With a single running track, half the amount of trains come to pick people up, and naturally their patience begins to wear thin. Still, even in my compassion for others as I shared their plight, I found myself agape with wonder by the things that people let themselves do, even in the face of such an annoyance.
After waiting for 3 jam-packed trains to pass me by I was set to be 15 minutes late for work. As the 4th train pulls up, I steel myself and jackhammer down into the tiniest of cart spaces, like Kirstie Allie at Great America on the Demon. The huge backpack in front of me is resisting my entrance, I can tell. As I force myself further still (literally centimeters at a time), the doors threaten to shut and precisely bisect off the left half of my body. I perform a quick ”Twista.” That is to say, I contort my body and dive, imagining myself in an Olympic luge on the superspiral toilet flush chute. It works, and I successfully become wedged between the smeared glass wall and backpack boy. An angry, so angry, midgetesque curly haired girl is in front of me, glaring holes into my abdominal region. Approximately 3 random arms criss cross my field of vision.
My phone vibrates in my bag. Curly Furious Sue’s eyes become slits as she manages to singe my bag with her eyes, the rage of 1000 suns firing out of control at the nerve of the audacious vibration. We stop at Damen. I twist my head, resembling the Exorcist, to see who else thinks they can get on. A large, flowered, and certainly purposeful woman makes a meaningful lean. There is no way.
“There is NO – – WAY!” shrieks Red, the one who owns the freckled arm that is under my chin.
“There ees… No way…” states nearby Mercedes gravely, shaking her head as slow as a slow clap.
Mercedes has nice glasses and more space than any of us on the other side of the wall. If her and Midget Fury could shift a bit, the Backpack would probably be inducing far less pressure onto my rib cage. But no one cares about that, as I had the nerve to shove my way on like I did. I had the unauthorized balls to get on the train for work like everyone else this fateful morning, Jeez forbid!
Flowered Giant speaks, in response to the conductor’s repeated explanation announcement: “Yeah, tell that to my boss. Hmmph.”
Flowered Giant suddenly becomes Flowered Oprah. Damn straight Flowered Oprah, we have to get to work just like Midget Fury and Backpack Boy and Mercedes! What makes them so elite! Thank god you said something because I have not your collossal fortitude and so may well have been Backpacked right out, or burned to a cinder had I uttered my same feelings!
My phone vibrates again. MF glares again, with even more hatred than before. But I am bolstered by Flowered Oprah’s statement of rightousness, so I do not look at Fury in fear this time. Instead I check my watch with insolence, and see her jet of murderous flames only through my peripheral vision.
A man wedges on at Division. The doors close on him once, twice, thrice. He is tall. He is unfazed. He shrugs nonchalantly at me over the heads of Red and Midget Fury and everyone else as he’s finally on safely, and having delayed our journey a full 30 seconds by his bravely endured thomping.
When we finally all exit at the Clark/Lake mecca, I lose all control and sprint ahead of everyone to the escalator, swerving rudely between the unsympathetic and irritated crowd, though they like me are only concerned with their own inherent tardiness and recently violated personal space. Although I am now sweating, and the people behind me’s loud foot stomps tell me I could move aside and let the speedier pass me by, I intend to get to the revolving doors first and I will.
And I did.
Then I took a cab to work from there saving myself 7 minutes and arriving only 18 minutes late instead of 25, which would have been far, far worse.
So damn you Midget Fury and your Satanic glare, and damn you Backpack Boy and your razor sharp baggage, and damn you Mercedes and your stately dictatorship! And damn you Red and your shrill annoyingness! Flowered Oprah, you’re cool.
This has been a wildly un-PC depiction of just one of my many astounding trips on the El, where people continue to shock yet amuse me each and every day. Brought to you by the Kron herself.
Tags: crowded, crushing masses, despair, late, Oprah, politically incorrect, work
September 19, 2008 at 6:10 pm |
You know I would love to say that I share in your hatred for this situation. However, I have yet to experience it. In fact, most mornings, just for fun, I sit on the bench and willingly allow at least one or two trains to pass me by. Surprisingly, I”m still always early for work. Oh well, some aren’t as lucky as others.
October 30, 2008 at 4:39 pm |
We don’t all have the winning quality of punctuality so easily come to us, ms. skoberg.
October 31, 2008 at 5:00 pm |
even though i do not spend much time in the city – i too have experienced a similar (although im sure not nearly as packed) city train adventure such as the one described here. due to my own personal experience, i commend and look up to those who take on the trials and tribulations of riding the “L” (as i believe it’s called) to and from work. these people posses a level of patience that escapes me. god bless the train travelers and their virtuous ways and may satan himself come and take those like Midget Fury and Backpack Boy down to hell where they belong.