Random Thoughts on the CTA

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

The CTA trains have a very distinct sound to them. Not only when you’re riding them, but also as you watch them woosh by. Onboard, you hear the rapid-fire click-clack-click-clack of the wheels going over the tracks. When combined with the gradual rocking and swaying of the train car, it’s usually enough to lull people to sleep. In fact, there’s a guy passed out on the train right now, his red Chicago Bulls cap pulled down over his eyes.

The sound of a train passing by varies depending on how close you are to the train itself. If you’re standing underneath the train tracks as it rushes past, you’re engulfed in a mouth of sound, unable to hear anything as the train vigorously roars it’s way past you. Although an intense experience, it never lasts for more than a few seconds, dispersing into the air as quickly as it came. If you live a mile away from the red line, like I do, you’ll hear the train sporadically throughout the night. Lying in my bed, the train is more like a curious tabby cat staring at me through the window, purring for a few seconds before dashing off into the alley behind my apartment.

Although the interior of the train is illuminated at all times by florescent lights louder than the train itself, outside it is glum. Raindrops are lightly pelting the city, covering it with a fine mist. Lightning pierces the darkness intermittently, allowing me to catch an occasional glimpse of Chicago as we race by. Wrigleyfield. Graceland Cemetery. The 7-11 on Belmont.

It’s been raining all week.

The bitter weather isn’t the worst part about living in Chicago. In fact, I actually like the cold. It’s a welcome change from the oppressive Houston heat and humidity. Going out when it’s five below isn’t exactly a picnic as your snot begins to crystalize inside your nostrils the moment you step out the door and each time you inhale, you can feel the cold stabbing your lungs, but those days are rare. Most of the winter has been like today where all you need is a parka and a hat to keep the wind from slicing into you.

It’s the duration of winter that gets to you. I was fortunate enough to head back home for nearly three weeks in the middle of December so I didn’t have to deal with winter for six months straight, but it’s still rough. The snow stops being charming once it turns into slush. When that happens, you have to stomp around sidewalks crowded with grey snow and, occasionally, brown snow as dog owners no longer bother picking up their dog’s waste. In addition, sunlight is scarce. I have gone several days without seeing the sun while in Chicago. This city has taught me to appreciate the warmth of the sun, especially now that it doesn’t set at 4:26 p.m. Thanks, Daylight Saving Time.

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

Inside the train, I try to force myself to trudge through Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses, but I’m not having much luck. I don’t like it. I’m sure it’s a wonderful book that will reveal some universal truth about humanity and religion at the end, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I try to jump into the forest of words enthusiastically, cutting through the pages as fast as I can, but, inevitably, I get lost. I start daydreaming before realizing that I did not process the last four pages, so I go back and try to read some more, a little slower this time. Then before I know it, I am lost again. I just don’t get it.

On the other side of the train car, just past the sleeping Bulls fan, are two men having an intense conversation. One of them is wearing a black jacket with the face of Benjamin Franklin printed on the back. The other is wearing a faded blue hoodie.

“They all bitches.” says the one with the Franklin jacket.
“Man, you can’t say that.” responds Blue Hoodie.
“All of them. All women bitches. Yo’ momma’s a bitch, yo’s sister’s a bitch, and yo’ daughter’s a bitch too!” Franklin shouts.

I put Rushdie away into my messenger bag.

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

“Man, don’t say that, man.” says Blue Hoodie.
“Look, I ain’t got nothin’ against yo’ momma, but it is what it is. My momma’s a bitch. All women. All of them bitches.”
“That ain’t right, man.” protests Blue Hoodie.
“You a son of a bitch.” Franklin whispers dangerously.

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

Blue Hoodie holds up his hands.
“Hey, man, that’s fine if you think women bitches, but don’t take it out on me, man. I ain’t done nothin’, man.”

“Nah, see, you got it all wrong. When I say you a son of a bitch, I ain’t disrespecting you. I’m sayin’ yo’ momma’s a bitch.” Franklin leans back into his seat, crosses his arms, and smiles.
“Man, shit ain’t right, man. Gotta have respect, man.” Blue Hoodie warns him.
“Shiiiiiiit.”

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

Blue Hoodie leans back into his seat and, just like that, the conversation is over. I pull out my iPhone to check the scores for the night’s playoff games. The Celtics beat the Knicks, the Magic beat the Hawks, and the Mavericks are currently beating the TrailBlazers, 73 to 72. Every team I was rooting for has lost or is losing. The Houston Rockets didn’t make the playoffs this season, the Houston Texans have never made the playoffs, and the Houston Astros are currently last in their division.

I feel like I should have switched allegiances once I moved here. The Bulls have the best record in the NBA, the Bears were one win short of a trip to the Super Bowl, and the Cubs are currently leading their division (the very same division that the Astros are in). The Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup last year and the city went crazy. The White Sox won the World Series in 2005. Sadly, it was against Houston.

Houston's last championships were in 1994 and 1995 when the Rockets won back-to-back NBA championships. Unfortunately, those two championships were overshadowed by Chicago as the Bulls sandwiched those two seasons with back-to-back-to-back championships from 1990-1992 and 1996-1998. If I started supporting Chicago teams, though, I would feel dirty. I’d be a traitor. And then all of the Chicago teams would start losing.

Ding.

“Next stop, Fullerton. Thank you for riding the CTA.” a cheerful voice shouts over the intercom.

I put my phone into my messenger bag and put on my hat. It has ear flaps, which may seem tacky, but are absolutely necessary when navigating your bike through the harsh, Chicago streets. If I don’t wear my flappy hat, I get earaches within seconds of riding in the cold.

The train doors open and I rush out into the rain. I pull out a portable umbrella from my jacket pocket and open it up. Sometimes I feel like there’s no point in having an umbrella in Chicago, The wind’s only going to turn it inside out and then slam you with sideways rain. Before Chicago, I had never seen rain fall horizontally.

As I tighten my jacket around me, there’s a brief flash of lightning and I can see Blue Hoodie and Franklin continue the conversation. I turn around and head towards the exit. The train takes off. It starts off roaring, but soon it fades into the night, leaving only the sound of raindrops lightly tapping my umbrella.