(December 2007)
Waiting to go north from the Chicago Red stop. Crowded trains. Many people on platform. Train arrives, two people get off, five more are cramming in. Man in pajama pants who has just exited the car turns, watching me, and yells “Woooowheeee, look at the A on that bitch!” I turn around to face the closing doors slowly, dreadfully. Humiliated that the entire car is now looking to see what all the big fuss is about regarding my ass.
(October 31, 2008)
Riding my bike from Argyle Red stop to home. Awkward right turn onto a street with an immediate left turn onto my own street. Douche bag 50 year-old Mark Wahlberg man won’t let me get over so I can turn left. I glare, speed up, but he speeds up with me. Pulls up right next to me. Rolls down window. Yells, “What are you, an asshole for Halloween?!”
(November 2008)
First week on the job at the library. I’m waiting on the platform to go south on the Red line to get to my apartment in Ravenswood. “Golly gee I love it here at the library! There are books! And people who aren’t crazy uptight lawyers! I don’t have to file papers! There’s a cafe!” I sit in the first car in the seat perpendicular to the conductor’s booth, lost in my thoughts about how much I dig my new job. A couple stops later I see the conductor is watching me. Oh. “Libraries sure are swell! We have parties? Maybe someday I’ll bring that boy I have a crush on up here and we’ll sit by the lake read books and eat ice cream! Hey my stop’s coming up!” I get up and go stand in the doorway. Conductor is looking at me again. “I’m going to make quinoa when I get home! Rachel loves that shit! So do I! Yay, here’s my stop!” I step out of the car, at Lawrence, and as I’m taking my second step, the loudspeaker crackles, and: “God bless you, white bitch.” I take another step as my brain catches this nugget, and then I’m turning to stare incredulously at the conductor to find out if he really just did that, over the loudspeaker, but he has done did it, and he has anticipated this confusion of mine, so he’s right there leaning out the window...he smiles, gives a wave, says “Buh bye!” and then drives the train away. I stay very still for a full two minutes and then text everyone I know.
(July 2009)
Westbound Chicago bus. Very big man, much like that guy on Death Row in The Green Mile lets me sneak past him and then turns to face me. I grab onto the handrail above the seats, exposing the bear paw prints I have tattooed on the inside of my bicep. He twirls a toothpick around his lips with his tongue, most lasciviously.
Man: “You got animals crawlin’ up ya arm in the night?”
Me: “Teehee. Yeah.”
Man: “You like that? At night?”
Me: Pause. “Uhhh. Sure.”
Man: “What they look like?”
Me: “What? I don’t know.”
Man: “You just gotta let ‘em be free.”
Me: “Okay.”
Ding! Stop Requested, bus driver pulls over. Man moves past me to exit doors. I step away and turn sideways in attempt to conscientiously flatten myself for those trying to get off the bus. He squeezes past, lingers a second too long, and says “Yeah girl. Up against the wall.” I go home to take a hot shower with bleach.
(August 2010)
Leaving work to go to my first-ever bikram yoga class. Nervous. I am blonde at this time. At crosswalk on Sheridan near campus, there is a man dressed all in green spandex wearing a fanny pack. He is sitting on his bike with the kickstand down. He has a thick German accent.
Man: “Jawohl! You are German! You be my partner!”
Me: “What? Oh haha, yes I am sort of German. Sort of.”
Man: “Jah! You are German! Like me! You came here from Germany! Where you come from in Germany?”
Me: “Oh no, I’m from here. I mean my family is German way back. I’m from here. Chicago.”
Man: “No! You are German! You came here last week. Like me! Look at your hair! We be bike partners!”
Me: “No man, I’m from the western suburbs. I’m not German. I actually have brown hair. I gotta go now. Bye!”
Man: “YOU ARE FROM GERMANY!!! YOU WILL BE MY PARTNER!!! YOU WILL HAVE BIKE. I GET YOU OUTFIT LIKE MINE. WE BE PARTNERS!!!!”
(May 2011)
Western Ave. Walking home from double scrimmage wearing sweaty purple stretch pants and a sweat-and-red-Gatorade-stained wifebeater. Hair also sweaty and matted to head with some bobby pins lost in the mess. Fucking exhausted. Shuffling past the Empty Bottle. Conscious of a car slowing down behind me. And then: “Eww!” I turn around to see who daresay it; the car speeds away. I give it the finger, then feebly cover my ass with my bag, then decide to fuck it, then smooth my hair, then realize there’s no use, then just sulk home and make a steak at 11:45 p.m. I’ll show you gross!!
(I have no idea when this happened, it’s my friend Paul’s story and it’s awesome)
Paul is well over 6 ft. with dashing all-American good looks and social graces to stun you. He’s on the el one day and a derelict woman approaches him and pulls a disgusting, melted chocolate bar out of her pants pocket. “You wanna buy this for a dollar?” she says.
“No thank you, I’m fine,” Paul declines politely.
“It’s only a dollar. Buy it.”
“I’m good, thank you though.”
“C’mon, it’s just a dollar.”
“Really, I’m just fine. Thanks.”
She puts the chocolate bar back into her pants pocket.
“Fuck you, you tall superior piece of shit.”
Ah, that was so much fun! Like The Canterbury Tales for assholes.
2 comments:
Haha! This is great! These would make great comics!
YES. Let us make this happen!
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