I wrote something!This will be part of a story, eventually. No, it's not true. I’m on the brown line, trying to look business casual. In my pinstripe pants and smart gray shirt with buttons down the front and long sleeves to hide my tattoos. Ears garnished with bright white earphones, like at least a third of my fellow el riders. Did not take a taxi today, no. Not after my encounter yesterday with that bearded man, his butternut squash in the back seat, the ominous truck-shaped dents on either door. Ugghh! I will fear yellow checkers. At least for a couple of weeks. It is rush hour on the train. I am standing, clinging to a greasy pole like some kind of 9am stripper on rails. I am a little late and though I’ve been working on cultivating calmness in situations like this and will not burst into tears or bite my fingers in rage or try to trip a stranger on his way to the door, I can still tell that I’m nervous. The way I’m chewing on my lips, the way niggling, insignificant things are causing me to well up with righteous indignation. Like this guy across from me, eating a god damn Big Mac for breakfast. Lettuce tumbling from the sides, landing on the wrapper in his lap with a plop, plop, plop each time he bites the horrible, floppy thing. I can smell the ketchup and mustard, sour like feet, fighting to overpower the fresh and pleasant orange juice/tooth paste taste in my mouth. It’s not the burger itself. Were it noon, I wouldn’t give it a second of thought. But this is breakfast time. Show the morning its proper honor and order an Egg McMuffin, at least. And for fucksake, why’d they give the damn thing a last name? An Egg McMuffin, as if it were Irish or something… Ooh! Lookie there! An empty seat. Next to this blonde frog of a woman on her cell phone. Her lips too wide for her customary Atkins diet/Pilates over-thin yuppie mug. Her mouth extends to Pac Man proportions with every word: “My fiancé doesn’t like the new condo. Says his old place was bigger, but that neighborhood was so… icky… I told him we had to…” My ass feels incredibly cold. And wet. “Oh yeah, honey, don’t sit there. It’s wet,” Froglady says. Honey. You’re are a bit too late. I get up without even a glance in her direction. I just sat in something wet. On the el. A dark spot on the ass of my pinstripe pants. A dark spot I will wear to work. My second day of work. A dark spot of fuck knows what. Coca-cola? Battery acid? Pee? Yeah, it’s pee alright.
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