I took the L downtown this morning and when you haven’t ridden the L for a long time, you notice things you used to take for granted.
There weren't many people on the train, and today was a perfect summer day. I almost missed the old commute. A little voice reminded me of the early 80s when I did it daily, through the winter, and at both rush hours, dogged tired. It’s when you learn to sleep standing up.
I think the Lord painted pigeons into the urban landscape when He created it. Ever wonder what pigeons know? Or if they know anything? Pigeons probably covered the dinosaurs. But they have red eyes. OK, blue blocker sunglasses are red. That’s why. Pigeons must be able to see like crazy. You drop a peanut or a piece of popcorn, blam, that pigeon gets it. You don’t give up a morsel, you become a target. Life’s balance.
There are always a few spectacular girls with spectacular figures riding the L. They watch to see if you notice. And it’s cool if you do. But there’s an entire L unspoken, non-verbal communication etiquette. Basically, you DON’T start conversations. “Nice day, isn’t it?” That’s taboo. Read your newspaper or look around, focused, and yet removed. “Thank you,” “Excuse me.” That’s about it.
Everyone observes. There isn’t a soul who doesn’t. Riding the L in the 80s, even before that, is how I learned to create characters. I listened to the conversations, watched what people wore, how they carried themselves, how they looked around, all the while observing L etiquette - be there and at the same time, pretend not to be there.
My business downtown only took a short time, so I walked around and noticed how spruced up the theater district is now, then went back to the subway to catch the train home.
There was a Spanish kid driving his mom crazy because he kept putting his toes over the edge of the platform and leaned over to see if the train was coming. I broke the rule and smiled at her, thinking of stunts my own son has pulled.
It was awhile before the train came. A black guy who I thought was waiting for the eastbound train – he had been there almost as long as us – suddenly broke into song.
He was a busker – you have to have a license for it and I’ve been thinking of doing it. But this guy had a sweet voice like an angel. “Cupid, draw back your bow, oh-ee-oh-oh. And let your arrow go. Straight to my lover’s heart for me.”
I walked over and put a buck in his little bag. He looked me in the eye, nodded, and kept singing. By now (I’m writing this a couple hours later) I bet his bag is filled. The Spanish kid walked over and gave him some change.
The train came and I sat next to a young lady. The seat faced backwards to the direction of the train. I don’t have a preference. Either way, the vibration of the ride felt good on my back and legs.
L etiquette: you sit still for the first few minutes. Otherwise, you’re typed. I’ve seen it. After a stop or two you relax and break out the paper or take a drink from your water bottle. You’ve assimilated and are now a rider. You weren’t before. The first two stops are like probation. Now you’re fine and can look around.
Three years I’ve been working out with weights. Dumbbells. I’m not what they call “cut” (I don’t like that term) but my upper bod is getting toned and I’m more bulky now. Enough to think about wearing muscle shirts or tank tops again. Still have to lose a little more around the middle. Three inches and 7 lbs. in 3 months. No beer and no potato chips!
A guy my age got on. He was lanky rather than thin, but he had great arms. I see why guys wear cut-off shirts, etc. We like to show off, too.
There were plenty of girls with all different figures on the train. It’s summer and tank tops rule. For a straight guy, if you don’t think the female breast is comforting and wonderful (and leave it at that), any other thought is perved.
A guy got on in the middle of the ride and sat in the sideways seat next to where I was sitting. He looked liked Santana, or at least a Santana fan, from Woodstock. Black permed hair, curly, not a fro, he was white, thick beard. He was much too young to have been born during Woodstock, but he looked like he was. He wore dark, wrap around shades and had his ipod or whatever plugged in. He moved around right away, didn’t observe L etiquette.
He popped his legs up, crossed them. There was a ways to go before my stop, so I watched this young man, grooving or whatever it’s called now, to the tune he was hearing. A thin, gorgeous black girl got on with an infant in tow. The tyke was as cute as his mom and already had a pretty good fro going. The lady and her girlfriend (or sister) stood in the right side door with the stroller. That was ok because the doors would open on the left for the rest of the stops.
I wondered how the guy singing “Cupid” was doing.
The Santana guy jerked his leg and three quarters tumbled out of his shorts. One stayed on the empty seat next to him, one went on the floor, and the other rolled past me and stopped a seat or two down.
I tapped him on the shoulder and showed him. He didn’t care. “That’s OK.” Another guy told him his quarters were all over the floor, so he went to get them. L etiquette – the guy sitting across from him – tank top, short hair, toned, middle aged, looked at me and grinned. See what I mean? It doesn’t matter what you look like, race or gender, L etiquette is L etiquette.
Another guy got up, went to the door, and put an unlit cigarette in his mouth. I can’t imagine or remember if they ever let people smoke on the CTA. Not when I drove a bus in ’73-’74.
I got up too and stood next to him. He pulled the cig out of his mouth. L etiquette. We all got off. Most people were polite, except for those fighting for seats to O’Hare, the end of the line.
Pigeons have iridescent feathers and bright red eyes. They act like our cat, getting in and out of your way to let you know they need to be fed. Or else.
(photo by Graham Garfield)
