The CTA Romantic

I barely made the bus to work this morning. I got on just as the light turned green and the doors were closing.

I made my way to the back as there were no seats in front. When I got to the steps that lead to the very ass of the bus I looked and saw there were only two seats still available. They were both sandwiched in between two large people so I decided just to stand and let them enjoy the extra room. I am a fairly large individual and when I sit down next to you, you are going to know it, either by my manly cologne, or the elbow that I crack you in the chops with when changing the page of my newspaper.

I would hope that someone would extend the same courtesy to me. That's never the case though. And of course, as the bus picked up more people, they all made their way back the same way I did and took up the empty seats in no time. The ironic thing is that one of the guys was even bigger than me. I am a big fan of all or nothing at all. I would hold onto my precious space and my dignity by deciding to stand.

The purpose of this blog is not to discuss Chicago Mass Transit seating practices and ethics but rather the pretty girl I was lucky enough to stand near. She was sitting in the first row of seats to my left on the elevated portion of the bus near the back door. Being as I had a meeting today, I was dressed better than usual and my shave was extra close. I even used the expensive after shave. It stung at first, but it was a small price to pay in order to smell good.

The bus is full of so-called, "business people" who are dressed in a slipshod manner and who only shave, at best, once a month - and that's just the guys. The girls are even worse as they apply their makeup aboard a moving/rocking bus and their hair is still wet from the shower - and those are the decent ones.

The really bad one's still reek of the bar they got trashed in the night before. They were so late getting up that they did not even shower or rub off the hand stamp that the bouncer gave them for admittance the night before.

They are usually the one's who pass out during the journey from the stifling heat of being crammed in like a sardine with everyone else, or they demand the driver to let them off at a non-official stop so they can regurgitate the previous night's menu for all us commuters to revel in.

It's quite a visual and I have seen it numerous times. But it never grows old because the real thing to watch for is whether they have the willingness to get back on a crowded bus after everyone has seen them blow chunks of half digested mataccioli mixed with a dozen or so mojitos. Nine times out of ten, after wiping away the yard of saliva hanging from their mouth, they motion to the bus driver to keep going without them.

I could never understand why. Maybe it's the shame, but I think the embarrassment is worth the trip because they at least have a driver who is wiling to wait, and they will arrive at work on time. Besides, it's really tough to catch a cab on the outer drive. It's not like it's a street or anything, it's a damn highway.

This girl I was standing near looked exceptionally elegant. She had maroon/reddish hair styled in layers. She was wearing a business skirt and was carrying an expensive purse. Her makeup was magnificent. She was wearing bright red lipstick and she had just enough eye makeup on to make her blue eyes look radiant. Those eyes were something to take note of because her skin was so creamy and white and offered the perfect canvas for those angelic peepers.

When I settled into my spot, she looked at me and I looked at her briefly and we could both tell that we looked the part of the modern business executive. And then I made sure to stare out the window and ignore her. It sounds crazy but my intention was also to look stoic.

In my top coat and power tie, I was quite the dapper dandy, and with her alongside me, there isn't a boardroom or shareholder's meeting out there that we couldn't conquer.

So there I was with my best, "Washington crossing the Delaware" pose in the early morning Chicago sunlight, and there she was, pretty as ever, looking out the window towards the lake, but also taking occasional glances at me.

I saw her looking, but more importantly I felt it, and I wanted to do something about it, but the 134 Stockton/LaSalle Express is not the most opportune place to strike up a conversation or ask someone out. Commuters are busy reading the Wall Street Journal, the Chicago Tribune and listening to their Ipods. I had my own on the shuffle setting and was rocking out to Blue Oyster Cult's, "burning for you."

The point is that everyone is doing their own thing. I think it's out of respect for the fact that we are all heading to work to have our brains kicked in that we all make sure to remain respectfully silent so that people can enjoy these relaxing moments before the bashing. The quiet before the storm if you will.

She wasn't doing anything to occupy herself though. She wore no head phones and brought no reading material. She might have been off to a job interview or her Monday-Friday, 9 - 5er, but for the bus ride, she was perfectly content to stare out the window, observe the passengers, and give the occasional glance in my direction.

When we hit Wacker drive, the seat next to her became available. I saw this as my opportunity. Mind you, not to ask her out or start up some conversation - all forbidden on the morning commute- but just to let her know that I was not afraid of her. Even though I was attracted to her, and she might have been attracted to me, I wanted her to know that I could sit next to her and be perfectly comfortable and not have to ask her name or some either detail of her life. I could respect the silence of the ride.

When she moved from the aisle to the the window seat, I saw it as an invitation. I made eye contact, then gave a friendly smile and gestured for her to move her purse over so that I could sit down. I never said a word, but my eyes did the talking and she got the hint and obliged graciously with a little smile of her own. This was a big move on my part.

And there I sat, next to the object of my desire. I immediately dove into my briefcase and pulled out an old Newsweek that I had already read cover to cover and proceeded to re-read the editors note. I had to keep up this facade of me not being interested in her, and if I did not have anything to read, I might make her uncomfortable if we were both sitting next to each other with neither one of us concerning ourselves except with the scenery.

I was so interested in her, I did not want it to be awkward. This was also a good cover because I could focus on the magazine and steal quick glances at her legs. They were cute and sexy and her skirt looked expensive and recently laundered. She seemed like a class act.

But when panning from her legs to her lap, I saw her hand fidgeting, and then I realized it wasn't mindless, helpless fidgeting. She was scratching at the cuticles of her thumb with her index finger. I had seen my high school librarian do this all the time. She did it so frequently that her fingers were often bleeding, and this lead to her being the but of many schoolyard jokes.

On closer inspection of her hands through these hidden glares, I saw that her finger tips looked pretty raw. And though the color was an alluring and lovely, fire engine red, the nails themselves were small and chipped. And the skin nearby looked irritated and flaky.

I was heartbroken. My CTA angel had a flaw, and I immediately thought about what other self destructive habits she might engage in. Could she be a cutter? Did she like to pull out her hair? It looked pretty enough but she probably had enough of it to allow the occasional stress related, "handful yank." If she was a smoker, the habit might open up a whole different medium for torture. I hope she didn't keep any hat pins or Drano in her house.

My stop was approaching. When the bus got a block away, I put away last year's magazine and changed the song on my Ipod. The shuffle feature made it go right to the New Kids on The Block - "Tonight."

Jesus! I hope she did not see that...she can never know that side of me, at least not this early in the game. I wanted to turn to her and say goodbye, say hello...say something, but there was no cause for it. There was no need for any of it except of course to be polite. My real dream was to turn suddenly to her and say, "I know you don't know me, but would you like to grab a cup of coffee before work? I would like to get to know you now because I am afraid I may not see you again and I don't want to pass up this opportunity."

But I didn't know her and she didn't know me and strangers don't say hello and goodbye to each other after only sharing a single bus ride for twenty minutes, and they certainly don't invite each other on spur of the moment breakfast dates.

In retrospect, I would love to know what stop she got off at. I would love to know if she was in fact going to a job interview as I originally thought. I would love to know if that rich, ruby-red hair of hers was natural and if not, what the good people at Loreal were calling it these days.

I got off the bus at Wacker and LaSalle and made moves to the office as Donnie, Jordan, Danny Jonathon and Joey belted out their cheesy 90's ballad.

In conclusion, I will keep my eyes open for her, and hope that she takes it easy on her cuticles and stays away from sharp objects and lighters.

There are millions of stories out there about people making their way to work and this is one of them. This is the tale of the mass transit romance that never was.

To you guys out there, take my idea and invite that girl to a latte. And to you love sick women out there, don't be afraid to say hello and take it easy on us guys...as well as your extremities.