After Midnight on the Blue Line
I was already light deprived from an early winter Wednesday when I walked out of the Logan Theater. I had just seen the movie with the big star, the one about people invading other people’s dreams for espionage. Now, after a short walk through a neon haze, I was underground inside an enormous fluorescent cavern.
LCD Soundsystem was pulsing through that thin black cord connecting my Ipod to my eardrums. It was after midnight and I could not, for the life of me, figure out why this particular train station was so big. Two, three hundred yards long? Why? I had been in the Logan Square station a hundred times before but now it’s massive subterranean volume only made me feel more unfettered, like I was aloft in zero gravity.
There was a gentle rush of air before I saw the next train illuminate the tube at the far end of the station, a million light years away. The illumination lingered then grew brighter before the silvery snake fully emerged and groaned closer. When it stopped I was standing directly in front of one of the doors. I did not have to move an inch to my left or to my right to enter. There was surely some massive significance in this random act of symmetry. But when the door roared open I abandoned any thought of magic and just walked on as I always had. I used whatever connection I still had to reality to plan a thorough investigation of the Logan Square Blue Line station.
There were a few hipsters already in the car and I nestled in the left side of one of the two-seated benches that faced the aisle. I briefly laid my head against the plexiglass bolted to a stainless steel lower wall. That didn’t work. I toggled back upright and folded my arms tightly against my chest and looked down, the grooved floor filling my vision. A solid bit of sanctuary.
I still wasn’t heavy enough to feel stable in the particular gravity of that particular night. I vaguely blamed it on the movie hangover. But no. It had been one of the days. I vaguely blamed it on the almost total lack of natural light I had absorbed that day. But no. It was just my brain swimming in a pool with a funky Ph. It was one of the days. The sleeping until early afternoon and the thick cloud cover and the walling myself off inside a movie chamber and absorbing music instead my surroundings were just conduits, a way to exaggerate and almost enjoy one of the days.
The train catapulted back above ground greeted by miniature white suns dangling from painted poles. The metal wheels violently rolled over metal rail, trying invade my disconnect with pure noise. I tried harder to hear what was pounding through my earbuds. It was James Murphy singing about his band making music and not making hits. It’s one of my favorites and I wished I could hear it better and that I was as cool and as comfortable in the world as he appeared to be.
I sat there with my arms crossed, one arm extended to my upper lip, looking down and importantly as if deep in thought. Always my best defense. The train stopped for a passenger exchange at the California Station and the doors heaved open. I could hear the song better now. An older black man shuffled on board carrying a pal full of window washing stuff.
He sat, at first, facing me on the seats directly across the aisle. He put his pail down next to the seat, in what would be the leg space of the seats perpendicular to his. Then he got up and crashed himself on those perpendicular seats. From there he nimbly twisted around and stretched his legs across the seats he had just vacated. The doors closed and the train gathered momentum for its journey onward. A lurid smell of body odor and cheap alcohol reached me. I lowered the volume on my headphones.
I watched the window washer try to get comfortable as if watching a silent movie. My eyes flicked up to catch a frame and then back down. Over and over. I tried to keep the appearance that my eyes were focused thoughtfully and importantly towards the floor that way I would appear to be relaxed and unafraid. I didn’t want the window washer to think I was afraid just because he was black and drunk and smelled bad. I didn’t want the hipsters on the train to think I was afraid for the same reasons. I diverted my eyes over at them in much less frequent intervals too. They appeared aloof.
The window washer to settled in what looked like a comfortable position but then jerked up abruptly to reach down and pulled a dirty wooden handle out of his bucket. The handle, grimy and about two feet long but with no wiper attached, had briefly caught on torn pocket of his filthy overcoat. He looked at the stick carefully and with reverence. He grabbed it tightly with both hands and I was impressed that he was able to hold his upper body upright away from the backrest while he slowly swirled the handle out in front of him. He was mumbling something too.
I kept him in my field of vision with continued furtive glances. Each one bounced back from the window washer and registered bits of information.
My glances revealed a worn, coal-black face, with deep forehead ridges above bloodshot eyes. He had a substantial thicket of facial hair, black with doses of grey, that sprawled well up his cheekbones. It almost looked like part of his upper lip was missing, but I couldn’t tell without staring. It may have been swollen.
I did not feel danger, but my senses were out of whack. Could I even trust my intuition? I didn’t want a future conversation to go something like ‘yeah he was drunk and possibly crazy and waving a stick around, but I didn’t think he would actually hit me.’
I thought I heard him mumble something like ‘I will be your hero’. It looked like he was about to pass out before he livened up to face his imagined foe, twirling the stick with unexpected vigor. He now held the handle out above his legs with his left hand, the one closest to me, and started making some kind of movie martial arts gesture with his right.
Grab the stick first if he tries to stand up and hit me with it. He’s drunk and wearing a heavy coat so he won’t be able to generate much torque. It might sting my hand a little but nothing will break or be permanently disfigured. Ignore your racing heart. Pull the stick away from him and back up into the open space between the two doors. Extend your other arm, palm up. ‘Take it easy ok? I’m not going to hurt you’. That will disarm him. ‘I can’t give you the stick back, I’m sorry.’ He’ll plead that he needs it to make a living and can’t afford another one. I consider giving it back to him when I get off at the next stop, but then I think about the hipsters. I quickly look behind me to see that they are not paying any attention to what’s happening. I agree to give him the stick back when I get off. I don’t know if I’m lying or not. He thanks me and sits down, but doesn’t stop looking at me. He’s using his eyes as lasers now, but I am immune. I stay standing and grab one of the support poles, and resume looking down at the floor, using my exceptional peripheral vision to keep tabs on him.
The window washer slowly and clumsily twirled the stick and placed it back in the pail. It hit the molded plastic with a quick hollow thud.
A type of serenity overcame the window washer again as he tried to inch himself back so he could nook his head against the backrest and the window. A quick scan of the hipsters revealed continued nonchalance. It was hard to tell if this was genuine or feigned without spending more time with them visually.
The doors opened at the Western station allowing an unwelcome intrusion of cold air. No one got on or off. I kept my eyes on the window washer for slightly longer periods but still from a downward trajectory. He now had the back of his head flush against metal bar above the back of the seat and probably would have been uncomfortable if he wasn’t drunk slash delusional. He was mumbling again, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He perked up again and was now doing martial arts moves with both hands. His motions were caricatures but were soft and controlled. He was smiling and his eyes were white and red and wild. I could not tell if he was winning his battle.
Vault up and block his thrust with your right forearm. Bad strategy! It spun you toward the back of the car — less space and no way of exit except through the window washer. I look behind him and see the hipsters glaring at me and wondering what I had done to provoke this mentally ill window washer. I don’t think. I react. I look at the window washer strongly, firmly so he knows I could win a physical struggle. Then I instinctively relax my shoulders and un-tense my body posture, and look him directly in the eyes and give him a slight smile. I’m careful not to smirk. I do that sometimes. My right arm, still outstretched in a defensive position, begins to lower. It works. Before I can say anything compassionate, his body begins to slacken and he smiles back at me with surprisingly white and perfect teeth. It gives him a dignity that I’m sure I reflect back. He comes out of his attack posture and mumbles something. I only half hear the word ‘good’ as he sits back down. I move past him with casual caution and stand next to the door, grabbing one of the support poles. Before I can look back down at the floor I realize the train is slowing and it is my stop. I think about staying on an extra stop to make sure that he didn’t think I’s still afraid of him. That’s got to be the worst feeling — to be feared when you just want to be seen and heard and loved. But it’s my stop.
The door sprang open at the Damen station and I got up and gave the window washer one more glance. He had stopped the hand movements and his head was lowered closer to his chest. I couldn’t tell if he was still conscious or not. A few of the hipsters were getting off too and I paused to let them go by, standing for a moment over the window washer. I turned up the volume on my Ipod and began commiserating with James Murphy again. I walked off of the train, calmly victorious.