CTA

This morning was, to be esoteric, McAwful. I woke up, amidst a tangle of bed sheets and comforter, on my floor, in a pile of clean clothes that I had folded but not put away. Stumbled to the show, hitting my shin on the rim of the tub, then stubbing my toe on the sliding door track of the shower. Then , with Noxema in my eyes, a knock on the door from my roommate scared the shit out of me.
“Could you lock the door? I am leaving and I left my keys with Ryan?”
Ow, ow, ow, ow. “Kay…will do!”
“See you tonight.”
“I’ll be there.”
And I thought, Why don’t you just make him a set of damn-dammit keys.

Ten minutes later I was out the door and rushing towards public transportation. Yet again, I was going for broke at being nearly twenty minutes late to work. I can only sneak in for so long before they fire me. Which in one is bad, but in another way…I get out…and unemployment…and a day or two off…and I digress.
On the bus Inconceivably-Tiny-Korean woman was in front of me. Normally, I must admit, she brings me joy in the morning, with the way she wraps her scarves around her head in imitation of no real fashion icon except for the one in her head and the way she hums fairly loudly until she hears herself and then blushes. But today, she wasn’t wearing a scarf or humming and when she got off the bus to head towards the brown line she dropped her fare card, causing me to almost run into her and then scuttlebutted around trying to get into the fare reader. I moaned loudly and tried to run past her but, mostly likely because of her inconceivably short legs, the swagger of her waddle made her almost impassible. Finally with a move akin to a professional basketball player (or as what I could assume is one because I really don’t understand the mechanics of…well…human motion) I slid around and bounded to the top of the stairs just in time to slide in between the train doors.
I blasted my headphones, allowing myself to washed adrift in a sea of Indie-Pop. The album was called “Set Yourself on Fire” which I felt was appropriate because I felt as if I could…or rather set someone else on fire and I neither cared about thinking psychotically or being overdramatic.
Lounging across from me on the brown line was an impossibly cute man. His dark brunette hair, and yes light GREY eyes, struck me from the distance between his single seat to my single seat. I had found him. The man that I would fall in love with on the train this morning. He was rubbing his temples and staring out of the window.
Secret pain?
Hangover?
Life changing-decision?
An itch?

And then he looked. This is the difficult part of CTA courtship. If one is caught gazing, one must take quick analysis of the situation. How is their gaze? Direct? Wandering? Sly? Misanthropic? Vaguely interested?
Then you react accordingly. Most often, when I make eye contact with someone I either appear lost in though so that it appears that my eyes just happen to be looking at the point where their eyes would be looking. Or if I am quick enough, and usually I am not, I do the oh so-patented I-Was-Just-People-Gazing-Around-My-Train-Car-And-For-A-Brief-Moment-Our-Eyes-Met-in-transit look.
His eyes scanned past me and suddenly came back to me. I had no choice but to avert my glance. This could have been an invitation to duel. Yet his gaze held. Steadfast. The little prickling of exciting began to wake me up in the loinal area.
I braved the glance back and he smiled…sort of…rather the corner of his mouth came up as the sun hit his eyes and he winced, but for all intents and purposes it was a smile. It was then that his cell phone rang and he spoke of a doctor, prescriptions and how wonderful “last night” was. At the end of his conversation he said, “Goodbye Melanie” and I decided to fake an aneurism so as to disassociate myself from him. This time my mouth turned up into a corner. In disgust I believe.
Of course. He is not only heterosexual with grey eyes and perfect complexion but he has a great phone voice and a female lover named Melanie.
When the aneurism failed I switched to narcolepsy, so I could seethe in embarrassment alone and in quiet.
I hastily made my switch to the Red Line and was relieved that he did not follow me. I couldn’t bear to avoid him for an entire trip downtown.
On the Red Line I could not finagle a seat, but had prime corner pole position. Which is preferably to back of the seat pole. Immediately my eyes were drawn to my left where, in an outward facing seat an earth-motherish-smiling-curly headed girl sat. Her eyebrow was pierced with indifference and her glasses rivaled mine in form and function. She was making a face…a googly face. As I looked to my left to see what kind of urban creature she would make that kind of face to, I saw him.
The ultimate…impossibly cute indie-boy, listening to loud music, with matching glasses, taller hair-a lip ring, a tuft of grey hair and an amazing cargo-sweater-faded-tee-vintage blazer ensemble. I was in love.
From my right I heard a giggle and turned to see the pierced-earth-mother holding up a Ziploc bag of granola as an offer. I turned just in time to see impossible-indie-boy roll his eyes and return to his music.
Another giggle and earth mother was pulling out a pack of gum and waving it in the air. Impossible-indie-boy’s sigh let me know that he was declining. Then earth-mother leaned to her right to peak around the heavy-set lawyer in between her and indie-boy. I turned to see indie boy craning his head and my heart sank. I heard yet another, slight more annoying this time around, earth-mother giggle and turned to see her beaming and sticking out her tongue.
What are you? I thought…a thirty year old or an infant with bells palsy?
Now it was my turn to roll my eyes in disgust. I decided to avert my eyes and occupy my time. My gaze landed on a pair of monochromatic green chucks. These chucks matched some nice off-color cords. Next to the indie-boy was a very cute and pleasant looking multi-ethnic-hipster-woman.
Green Chucks. Matching Hoodie. Look at those little barrettes in her hair. Ooh…don’t stare…don’t stare.
Then a giggle from behind.
Jesus-fucking-tits-on-a-stick!!! Just because indie boy and girl are on their way to lifelong servitude does not mean that they have to ruin my morning. I should have never “quit smoking.”
In the midst of my mental diatribe I caught multi-hipster’s eyes. They were rolling, with a sardonic wry smile upon her face.
Thank god, I thought, I am not the only reasonable cynic on this train.
As we neared Fullerton and the giggling continued and the sighing and the eye rolling I assumed that I would vomit. I gave myself until Clark/Division before making a mess.
At Fullerton the heavy-set business man turned to leave and as I moved aside for him I caught earth-mother shooting indie boy a wink, followed by the most uproarious laugh yet.
Something has to be done. Something has to be done to stop this torture and raping of non-idealistic relationships.

-There comes a point when you realize you have pushed a limit, only because you are already farther than you intended to be. You don’t remember going there or when you arrived, but you know you have crossed the line. And you would feel guilty if it weren’t for the fact that your stomach is surging from the sensation of having just done something, no matter how cruel or mean, atypical.-

Without a moment of thought I took the place of the heavy-set business man. I took the awkward crotch-in-face-of-sitting-passenger-pole position. I spread my legs into a perfect triangle for stability, puffed up my winter coat and slung my messenger bag out and to the side.
Other passengers filled into either side of me but I remained resolute. As the train began to move I realized what I had willfully done.

Earth-Mother’s line of sight was blocked by me. Indie-boy had no choice but to stare at my scarf. No more giggles. Rolled eyes. Offerings of sweets. I had stopped it. I had killed the love. And try as I might I couldn’t muster a single bad feeling for it.
From behind me I heard the earth-mother shifting left and right trying to see around me, but like General Lee…stonewall.
I turned my gaze to find Indie-Boy looking at me. Trying to look through me.
Our eyes caught and I took another step too far. I shot him possibly the nastiest look I have ever given a stranger in my life.
Seeping from my eyes was pure vitriol and invisible electric anti-love beams struck him in his face.
He began to give a complimentary smile but caught my gaze and fell back.
I am not one of those people, I thought.

And I knew he heard me.

Multi-Hipster girl looked at me with yet another wry grin. She understood my success, but probably assumed me to be an asshole. Which I could not refute.

At Clark & Division the train lurched to a stop and patrons shifted back and forth. Indie boy stood up, looked me directly in the eyes, placed one hand on my should and turned me gently to the side.

“Excuse me, bro.”
“Uh…sure…yeah.” I replied.
He pushed past me, eyes still locked on mine as multi-hipster girl stood up as well. She crossed behind me as I prepared to return my stern gaze to the indie boy.
Behind his eyes I saw a glint and then he smiled. Then, he mouth with barely a whisper:

“You are adorable.”

He was gone. Left me sputtering with two empty seats in front of me. Quickly they filled as I turned to see Multi-hipster sitting next to Earth-Mother hand in hand, head on shoulder.

The corduroys. The monochromatic chucks. The granola. The obligatory tank tops in winter.

How could I have been so stupid. Lesbians. Cunning, cunning lesbians.

I stared, agog, probably longer than I should have at the sight in front of me. At Chicago, Earth-Mother stood up, shooting me a reproachable glance as she kissed her love goodbye.

I got off at Grand.

-

Why is it? I cannot be happy for those who are in love? Or rather…why can I not express it. I am positively beaming over the fact that my roommate is dating a charming cute man who, aside from his bad taste in movies, is amazingly sweet.
Yet every word out of my mouth is sarcasm.

I swoon every time I hear of my college pal falling in love yet again with another mysterious man. Yet all I can voice is cynicism.

Am I a hidden romantic?

I hate flowers, gushy notes, gifts, the color pink, and baby voices. I despise anniversaries, special attention, and formal dates. I don’t believe in love at first sight…second sight…farsighted….what is love? What is love? Baby don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me. No more.

No. I can’t be a romantic.

But I do like Love Actually?
But Reese Witherspoon needs to die in my opinion.

Am I jealous? Jealous that pretentious hipsters can find nerve-wracking/fear-inducing anxiety/related commitment and I cannot?
What will happen…will I be alone…I mean what if…and then…if I was…


AND THAT BOY! OH MY GOD! WAIT A MINUTE! THE INDIE BOY JUST SAID I WAS FUCKING ADORABLE!
Well not fucking adorable but…and I shot him the nasties? What the fuck am I?

I am some sort of vitriolic-male-spinster-incarnate.

From now on…the train is for transport and the riders are not friends or potential lovers.
They are passengers.

By my second cup of coffee that morning I had calmed down. My mind had settled on the fact that maybe…while I don’t feel alone…I can’t be with certain people right now. And I am surprisingly ….okay/notokay with that. Finally I could begin to think about other, more important things.

Does’ impossibly cute indie-boy, listening to loud music, with matching glasses, tall hair with -a lip ring, and a tuft of grey-wearing an amazing cargo-sweater-faded-tee-vintage blazer ensemble’ read ‘Missed Connections’?