Anything Helps

The el seats are uncomfortable. They make my back hurt and my butt numb and, after two or three stops, I start to smell. Not because I get sweaty or anything. It's because I'm enveloped in the stench of the train.

Each line has its own particular aroma. The red line is the worst. Ammonia-rich urine mixed with a garlic aficionado's BO. The brown line, despite its name, isn't as bad. It's more of a burnt hair smell with just the hint of stale Dunkin Donuts. On this particular night, I was riding the orange line back from the airport.

As the train left Midway, I pinched my nose and stared out the window. The shaking of the train made me bump elbows with the old man next to me.

Each time the train doors opened, a blast of crisp, fall air entered the car. I pulled my cap down and zipped up my hoodie. I love autumn in Chicago, but the onset of winter is always in the back of my mind. It's like trying to enjoy a Sunday night party knowing you have an 8AM client meeting. All the pumpkin spice lattes and apple ciders are less enjoyable knowing that, in a few weeks, I could potentially get frostbite just by taking out the trash barefoot.

We passed Pulaski. Then Kedzie. Then Western. At 35th and Archer, a man pushing a stroller came on board. He stood in the center of the car and removed his Chicago Bulls hat. Swaying along with the train, the man cleared his throat.

"Hello. I apologize for having to do this."

Pause. No one looked up.

"I have a child."

Pause.

"He is hungry. We were asking for money outside of McDonald's. The manager told us we couldn't be there any more."

As if on cue, the baby laughed loudly. He had curly brown hair and was missing one of his front teeth.

The train continued along the rickety tracks, moving all of us every few seconds.

"I have asthma."

Pause.

I looked down and pretended to be fascinated by a piece of gum stuck to the seat in front of me.

"I have debilitating conditions that prevent me from working, otherwise I would be out there trying to support my baby."

Another pause. We reached the Ashland stop. A few people got on. No one left.

"All I am asking for is a little bit of help to feed my son. I fed him this morning. But I'm worried he won't eat tonight.

He paused again, whipped out an inhaler and took a deep puff.

"Please."

Pause.

"PLEASE." A little more desperate. A little more frantic.

At this point, four people got up from their seats and gave him money. A man wearing a suit gave him $20. The old man next to me handed him a crumpled up fiver.

"Thank you, everyone. Thank you and God Bless."

As the train continued along the tracks, I stared out the window and thought Man, this guy is good.

Perfectly timed pauses, the inhaler, the kid. He knew what he was doing. In that short time, he had easily earned close to $50.

It wasn't until I transferred at Roosevelt and hopped on the red line that it hit me.

What if he wasn't faking it?

At some point while living here, I became cynical. Jaded. Indifferent. You have to be a little callous towards the homeless to get by in a city like Chicago, but I'm more than just a little callous. At some point, I just stopped giving a fuck. I haven't given anyone a dollar in months. The last time I bought an issue of Streetwise was three years ago. The cold, cold winter has frozen my heart, turned my blood to ice, created a polar vortex in my soul. A soul-ar vortex.

You can't help everyone. There's so many people that need help in this city that you start to feel overwhelmed by it. And then, if you try to help, you can't shake the feeling that your generosity is being taken advantage of.

A man stopped me on Dearborn and Hubbard a few years ago. He was sweating, out of breath and seemed genuinely distressed.

"Man, I'm sorry to have to ask you for this, but I really need help."

Pause.

"I am a diabetic. I just got out of the hospital. And I need to buy insulin."

He held up his right arm to show off a hospital wristband.

"See? That's my name right there. I just need a few dollars to get my prescription from CVS."

Another pause.

"Please, man. Please. Anything helps."

I fished out two crumpled up dollars from my jeans and handed them to him.

"Thank you, man. God Bless."

Then he ran off, presumably to CVS.

I was talking about that encounter with some friends a few weeks later.

"Oh, yeah, I know that guy!" one of them said.

"Me too," said the other. "I gave him a few dollars once, then he gave me the exact same spiel a couple days later."

Since then, I've just assumed the worst about everyone. Everything is a scam. That guy's probably not blind. That lady doesn't have to catch a bus to Danville. That baby probably isn't even real.

It's kind of a shitty way to live, to be honest. You start being disappointed with everything. Even yourself.

Seeing the guy with the inhaler made me question that mentality. What if his circumstances were legit? What if he really had asthma? I just sat there on the train, ignoring him. Because I didn't want to feel like a sap.

My buddy, Matt, is the opposite. I mean, he doesn't give a fuck either, but in a different way. He doesn't give a fuck about feeling dumb or potentially being taken advantage of. No matter who it is, if we pass by someone who is asking for help, Matt will stop and give whatever he can.

We passed by a guy once who said he needed money for food. Matt and I were coming back from lunch and we had leftovers. Matt handed the guy a box of half-eaten deep dish pizza. The guy looked at us and said "I don't want your food, man." Sighing, Matt gave him a few bucks and we walked back to the office.

I asked him about it on the way back.

"My thing is, I just try to do what I can. And if they're lying, that's on them. I did my part."

Pause. He took a drag of his cigarette, and exhaled, the smoke mingling with the cold, Chicago air.

"The way I look at it, if you're forced to lie to get money, you probably need it more than I do."

That stuck with me.

You can't help everyone. You can't. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't help anyone.

/drəNGk/

Wine is delicious. Wine is... All of the positive adjectives. I can't think of them right now. I'm typing coherently, but if you asked me to spell it out for you, I'd say "Wineisdelishur." Because it's true. And because I'm drunk.

Yes. I am drunk. Yes, I had half a I had 3/4ths a bottle of wine with my salmon and tuna sushi rolls. I filled my glass to the brim because I thought one glass meant one full glass and I was all like "If most wine bottles contain 4-5 glasses of wine, why is this bottle nearly empty after one?"

This is probably a bad idea. Blogging while drunk, I mean. But so far, hey, zero typos!

I once did drunk improv. In college. It was one of the most fun improv experiences I've ever had, but apparently, it wasn't as much fun for the audience. My pants came off. My boxers did not. But they almost did. Had I had one more Jagerbomb, they most certainly would have. Delma was in the front row and she freaked out.

I don't drink Jager anymore because I once finished an entire handle of Jager by myself while playing Pokémon cards withs my cousins. I played Mewtwo and then woke up curled around the toilet with the wastebasket filled with vomit.

I want more of that malbec I bought. Is malbec a type of wine? I don't know. It says malbec on the bottle. It's red.

I'm not much for wine tasting. Or palettes in general. People will be all like "I taste hints of earthy cinnamon and singed oak with just a hint of truffle oil smothered with vanilla" and I'll be all like "I TASTE RED."

I just laughed for a minute straight at "I TASTE RED." I hope you did too.

Guys. Guys guys guys. These are the drunks ramblings of Alfonso Zapata. Alf Zap.

I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art today and I thought WHat is this shit? Honestly, I don't "get" it. But when I go to the art institute, I can appreciate the art, you know? I like it. Most of the stuff that's contemporary kinda sucks.

Except for this film of a dude riding the railroad through Alaska. That was sick. I wish I could travel likethat, but I'd freak out too much about my morning anxiety.

Morning anxiety? More like MOURNING anxiety, am I right, ladies?

ALSO, if it's CONTEMPORARY, why is it DONE?

I was thinking of using that as a stand-up joke, but it's kinda stupid. So I won't. But I wanted to share it. So I'm sharing it with you. Boom.

I don't know how long I'm going to make this post. I think I've been writing for half an hour. The laundry is being done. I put my boxers in there. I never realized how many boxers I got, but I gots lots.

I hope this is as enjoyable to read as it is to write.

Who was is that said "Write drunk, edit sober?" Was it Hemingway? Maybe. Maybe not. I DON'T KNOW, STOP PESTERING ME, JESUS.

I think about Delma a lot. I love her. A lot. This isn't just the malbec talking (seriously, is malbec a type of wine? I need to know). These past few months have been rough. I've been keeping myself super busy with work and reading and writing and stand-up, but it's not the same. Every night, when I go to bed, I think about her. I miss holding her. Every night, when she was here, I'd wrap my arms around her and kiss her neck. Then we'd just lay there until we fall asleep. And, every night, without fail, I'd have to wake up and move my arms because they'd be numb, but it was ok.

I know what you're thinking.

But whatever. I'm drunk off that malbec. Purple drank. Cus a malbec is a wine made frim purple grapes. Am I right, ladies?

ANYWAYS, I miss her. And I want to be with her.

But things (that originally said "butt things") are going great here in Chi-town. The job is better than I could have imagined. We're already pitching TV spots! What the hell?! We're in a great position to make shit happen. You know? In fact, we've already sold some radio. Here. Check it.

The stuff I do now will help me in the future. Also, I never thought I'd enjoy a job this much. It's ridiculous. We get paid to make people laugh. Seriously. It's awesome.

So there's that.

I will porbably be hungover tomorrow. But tonight, I am fine. I am more than fine.

I don't know. I'm tired of blogging. I just want to play Zelda while drinking more wine. It's Saturday night and I am already too much.

Airing out dirty laundry while doing real laundry. Blogging about shit I shouldn't be blogging about. I might regret this tomorrow.

Have a good Saturday night. Read this wile you can cus I'll probably take it down tommorrow morning.