All the pretty girls get off at Southport
By Stephen Schumacher
A little Hispanic man boards the Brown Line train in Chicago heading downtown slightly after 3:15 p.m. He's wearing a pair of faded blue jeans exhausted by the afternoon and a navy blue t-shirt with respect in the tags. He is like another little Hispanic man who boarded the train earlier. Neither very tall, neither in tuxedos and no matter how young and zestful they actually are - their demeanors are matured and worn.
He boards in clumsy steps carrying a small, plastic bag with a such a focused look on his face his enduring eyes twitch until they drag him to the end of the train car where he hopes to grab one of the two single seats facing one another. He goes about this train seat acquisition with such determination the train's structure begins to wonder if someone once told this man in secret, "Hey, you know those two single seats at the end of the train car that face each other? Those are the best."
Although several other seats are available, these two spots are of top priority for the non-tuxedo caballero. The man succeeds to grab the remaining spot on the left. His personality and burdens sink into and fuse with the plastic, metal and fabric.
He stays on board a few stops - only a few minutes - resting with his eyes shut the entire trip. Yet, he wisely feels the air change from stop to stop and knows when the train arrives at his destination. He can also hear the automated voice howling from its speakers like a urologist, “Paulina is next, doors open on the right at Paulina.”
He quickly jumps from his seat, dragging his bag behind him like a sweaty sack of pancakes as he walks a few steps and gives a postpartum look back at his vacated spot. Nearing the door while the train decelerates, the Hispanic cavalier grabs onto the railing and takes one last glance at his Brown Line thrown before exiting. It's like a sad little game of musical chairs.
Grief does strange things to us.
All the pretty girls get off at Southport.
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