Hot 2 Trot

I leave Steve and Katrina in the Clark and Division station. My train is here, going north.

I sit down in a row of seats facing the direction the train is going. I always sit in the direction of motion because I get restless and sort of dizzy if I don't. It's closing in on midnight, but there are people around me, coming home from their Sunday nights. The train is bright and there's a sleepy air about everyone, an end-of-the-weekend feeling.
For a while, I just draw the face of a boy I see in the reflection of the window. The train calls out Fullerton, then Belmont. Almost everyone gets up and leaves. Addison. The boy gets up and I put away my notebook. Sheridan, Wilson, Lawrence and Argyle. I notice that someone is sitting in front of me and he's got his cell phone out.

His back faces the seat to my left. The hood of his sweatshirt is up and he's wearing blue track pants. My mind goes in and out of focus as I stare out the window, and he opens his arms in a stretch.

A very, very obvious stretch. Cell phone in hand, screen facing me, lit up. I squint and look at it.

What is that? Is that...? ...Yep. That's a penis.
It's a thick-ish, dark brown penis. The shaft is darker than the head, which is almost tan. It's wrinkly but erect.

I quickly look out the window again, slightly taken aback. I mean, it's not like I've never seen a penis before. But I wasn't expecting to see one on the train tonight. What was he trying to accomplish by showing me this? Did he think I would jump up from my seat to sit on his lap and compliment his enormous penis? Or wait. I get it, he's a flasher. A more modern kind of flasher. And don't those people get off on seeing you scared? I should just laugh at him. I should just burst out laughing and embarrass him. But oddly, I don't feel like laughing.
I can see him out of the corner of my eye, and I turn my head back casually. I'm not scared. This situation is hilarious, right?

He's still pretending to stretch, and rest his hand on the bar in front of him, and scratch his ear. The dick is still on the screen. I squint again at it.
Is that... on the train? Does he have it whipped out right now?!
On the display I can see the blue of his track pants, a line, and a gray floor. I look down at the floor of the El. Gray. In front of me the man has his legs spread apart, and in front of him the bottom of the seats makes a line. Dear god. Is his cock still out?

I avert my eyes, my mind racing. I really want to insult him. I want to say something or laugh at him. But I can't, what if he retaliates? Could he be arrested for something like this? I should press the CTA call button. Or call the cops. But will they care? It's not as if I'm in any real danger. I've gotta say something, have to get back at him somehow. Okay. I'll do it as I get up to leave.

I turn my head to the left. It's black outside. The reflection of the two of us is shown clearly in the line of square windows.
I can see his overshadowed bulbous eyes, staring at me. His face holds a dangerous expression; it's almost obsessive. It's dark below his hood, and there's a short black beard circling his solemn mouth.
I should have realized. His head was tilted to the left this whole time. He was watching me, gauging my reactions.
My body suddenly feels light and tingly, and my knees start to shake slightly.

"This is Loyola." One more stop, one more stop, one more stop. My eyes avoid the cell phone. He's making it even more obvious now, practically waving it in front of my face. The train rushes past the windows of apartment buildings and finally begins to slow to a stop.

Have to wait until the train's about to leave, or he'll get up and chase me. Am I wearing anything baggy enough to grab onto? No. If he gets off with me, I'll just run down the the cubicle where the CTA man sits.

"This is Morse." The train slows and comes to a stop and my legs shake as I get up, balancing myself with the seat behind me. I face the windows in front of me, looking at the reflection of his shadowy, serious face.

"Pencil Dick," I say clearly to the image, and he turns around in his seat.
"What'd you say?" he demands, voice muffled by the hood of his sweatshirt. But I am not waiting around to repeat what I said. My feet move quickly to the doors and I cut in front of a small group of girls; the only other people in the car. The doors open and I rush down the stairs to the El station.

No one is in the cubicle.
I don't think he followed me, but I turn to look behind me anyway. No one. Only the group of girls at the top of the stairs.
Anger surges up in my chest; the CTA man is NEVER here when I need him. I sigh and turn my back to the cubicle, leaning on the empty glass-paned box.

"Hey, can I use your phone? The pay phone here is broken." A man, also with his hood up, approaches me in the station. His face is almost gaunt and there are deep circles under his eyes, although he looks no older than 25.

I stare at him for a moment. No fucking way, I think. "I forgot it at home. I'm...sorry."

He shakes his head in defeat and looks down at the ground. He tells me that the '7' button isn't working on the pay phone on the platform, and that he's trying to call his friend.

"Oh, I'm sorry, that sucks," is all I say, and he leaves to wait outside the station.
My body is vibrating with nervous energy as I curse the CTA man.
Keys jingle somewhere behind the box and an old man appears behind the turnstiles. I stare at him, wondering what to say. Why did I think he could help me?

"Is something the matter, miss?" He asks, and I glance back to the figure outside of the door.

"Are you usually here?" I ask stonily. He looks at me, confused. "Why is it that there is never anyone here when I need help?" My voice is beginning to shake.
"Do you need help?" He asks, his wrinkled face alert.
"I-I don't know, I'm just scared...nevermind."
"Is someone bothering you?" He says from the other side of the gate. I glance back again to see if the phone call man is still outside. He is. "Is that man bothering you?" He nods toward the other man's back.
"N-no...." Well, technically he isn't. "It-it was someone on the train, I... nevermind." I turn my back on his confused expression. He can't help me with anything.

I pull out my phone. I call Steve, he doesn't answer. I call Katrina, and she does. "Kat?" I say. I realize that the man outside is going to know that I was lying about my phone, but at this point I don't care. "Just stay on the phone with me, okay?" I say as steadily as I can, and I push through the door into the freezing night. I walk past the man without looking at him, and he doesn't follow me.

"I know I pretend to be a strong person, but...." I say when I am out of earshot of the phone call man. "I-I guess I'm not." And to my surprise, I start to cry.

We Are Family Guy!

I'm on the train coming home from work, and as soon as I position myself into a corner of the train, a group of little kids comes in, escorted by their very angry sounding mother. There are four kids, and shortly after the man next to me gets up, a little girl sits down next to me. She leans over, watching me play my DS, until her older brother begins to sing.

"It seems today, that all you see..."
She chips in with "Lah-da-dah-da-dahdahdah..." Apparently the boy is the only one who knows most of the words, but that doesn't stop the rest of the from joining in.
"Ladadah-dadadah-da-SEX ON TV," they yell in unison.
"Sexy sexy sexyyyyy, sex sex sex!" The tiny girl next to me sings. I'm trying desperately to not get pissed off; to concentrate on my game.

Their off-tune voices raise up in chorus and they finish with, "WE! ARE! FAM! LEE! GUYYYYYY!!!"

Then they start all over again.

I get up, stumbling to get my balance, and push past the mom to a seat on the other side of the doors. Sighing, I sit down and return to my game. A few minutes pass, and I feel a shadow fall over me.

The little girl is watching me again. "Why did you move?" She finally asks.

"Because it was too loud," I say, and she locks eyes with me for a moment before running back to her mom.

"Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!" She shouts, trying to get through whatever conversation the mom is having.
"What?!" The mom responds angrily.
"Do-do you know why that girl moved? It was because it was too loud!"

I laugh, look back at them, and turn back to my game for a minute before the little girl comes back to watch me play.

Thug Lyfe

The El passes me by and I run for it, glancing to my right for a relatively friendly looking train car. I choose the second to last and sit down, looking around me.

Oh, the red line at midnight.

Chinstrap and Ballcap over there are drinking vodka from a plastic bottle when Ballcap decides to stumble over and sit next to me. His poofy jacket is wide enough to crowd me against the window.

"Hey, --- - -- - -?" His drunken mumbling is obscured by the sound of the train.
"What?" I lower my head to hear, wondering whether I should tell him to fuck off, ignore him, or act nice so I won't set him off.
"---&@)-(--?" He asks again.
"I can't hear you." I say, raising my voice slightly.
"You can't hear me?" He manages to say.
"You're too drunk, I can't understand you."
"You can't hear me?" He looks up at me and offers me an earbud from his MP3 player. I shake my head 'no.'
I'm frowning heavily by now, because it's midnight and I'm tired and I'm fucking sick of being harassed by dumbfucks who want to show off to their pals or solicit me for sex on the train. Finally he turns his attention to the guy across the aisle who is conveniently ignoring my discomfort. Ballcap says something to him, and the guy shakes his head. At last, the thug next to me gets up to rejoin Chinstrap and I bolt up and out of my seat, headed for the next car up. I'm glad I know how to work those emergency handles now.

Either I attract creeps, or I'm asking for it by riding the red line alone at night. Maybe I should just act crazier than they do.

Tryin' to face the strain

I've been wearing makeup and contacts lately and dressing nicely for some stupid reason (because I want to feel pretty, let's just admit it). I don't want to admit it, so I say I'm doing a "social experiment." I've gotten compliments.

"No one wants you, girl." I wonder if that actually got to me, if a creepy guy on the train who seemed like he wanted to mug me and then rape me (he donned a mask) somehow changed my opinion of myself. He shot it at me as he was leaving the station. I was waiting by the CTA booth in case he decided to try something. Usually I try to calm myself down about these things, thinking it's just paranoia, but I think this one was justified.

He sits down in front of me, apparently done panhandling, and faces me.
"Hey," he says.
I glance up, raising my right eyebrow. "Hey," I say nervously, and go back to playing my DS.
"You going anywhere?"
Well, I am on the train. "Uh, I'm going home." I look around. We're the only people in this car.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Smooth guy.
"...Yes," I say. You always gotta say that, even though I'm a single woman now.
"Well... what he don't know won't hurt him."
My mouth opens a little in surprise, and I take a second to answer. "Sorry, I'm really not interested in that."
This is when he stands up and pulls a mask out of his pocket. Not a ski mask, but something like a Zorro mask. He starts to put it over his eyes, and lowers it at my stunned look.
"What?" he asks. "What?" he keeps saying. He's getting a kick out of this, I can tell.
I get up, and my hands shake as I try to figure out how to work the goddamn emergency entrance to the next car. Lift up handle cover. Slide lever. I move to the next car, hands a little scraped up from the experience.
When I leave the train, I nervously glance behind me, and of course, there he is.
When we reach the turnstiles, I pause.
"No one wants you, girl!" He says, turning his head toward me as he passes. Swearing, I look around for the CTA guard, who is conveniently absent from his or her cubicle. I wait there for a few minutes more before deciding that he wouldn't have bothered to wait outside for me.

And this is why I don't really feel safe in my neighborhood anymore. Along with many other reasons: gunshots, plenty of car alarms, a few more incidents witnessed on the El at my stop, being propositioned for sex, being screamed at by a crazy guy ("Don't go past here! There are niggers everywhere!").

Too bad Uptown is the ghetto, I'd move there.

Up at night

So, I'm up because I don't really feel like sleeping.

Today I attempted to go to Evanston to get my hair cut. I wasn't quite sure what stop to get off on the purple line, so I had a little adventure.

First of all, I'm exhausted for no reason. I got a good seven hours of sleep, and was almost late to my appointment because I slept in until 8:40 when I was supposed to leave at 9. So of course I'm drifting off on the train, falling asleep playing my DS. I'm in and out listening for the Central stop, which I remember getting off at before (heehee getting off).

In. Ding Dong. Doors closing. Central is next. Doors open on the left at Central. Sweet, I think. I'm almost there.
Out. I'm leaning over into my legs to sooth my buzzing head. A vague image of people getting off the train. But this is still the stop before, right?
Nope. I wake up and we're passing suburban houses, and it's taking longer than it should. Shit.
Yep, this is Linden.

Of course it has to be snowing like crazy and freezing outside. But at least there's already a train back to Howard in the station.

Now, you would think that the Central stop, for its name, would have something to do with the shopping center of Evanston, right? Nope. Not true at all.

"Do you know where Sherman is?" I ask the CTA person.
"Sherman? Um... I think it's somewhere that way." She points behind her. "It's a ways away, though. Where are you trying to get to?"
"1704 Sherman. I think there's a Hair Cuttery somewhere around here."
She gazes off into the distance, thinking. She points her thumb behind her again, trying to gauge her surroundings. "Sorry," she finally says, shrugging.

I exit the CTA station. and realize that this is not the shopping center. This is the place where my good ol' friend Mason picks me up sometimes. A deserted wasteland.

So, I call him and he tells me that Davis is the stop where most of the stuff in Evanston is. And because I'm obsessed now, on a mission to get my hair cut and dyed, I wait in the cold for the train, shivering, hunched into my scarf like a bird hunching into its chest feathers to protect against the cold. I almost just wrote "to protect against the corn."

Well, I get off at Davis and actually manage to find Sherman without too much trouble. The hair cuttery is right there, and I realize that this is not the place I had been to before. Fuck it, I think.

Nervously, I enter the hair cuttery and try to judge the quality of the hair cuttresses. Yes, I just made that a word.

Well, this blog is getting to be way too long so I'll just sum up the end. Basically the woman who cuts and dyes my hair, Nuran, a Turkish woman, is awesome and friendly and very good at what she does. She keeps asking who cut my hair before, like my head was a disasterpiece before she got to it. Hey, it was cute before when it had just been cut.

Speaking of, I realized today that cut and dye=cut and die. Why is hair cutting suddenly so morose?

And there's this guy who keeps clapping his hands around his woman coworkers' arms and shaking them. He seems really annoying, but they're speaking in Spanish so I don't know what they're saying.


Well, I wait for the dye to set and decide to play a little DS; Animal Crossing, of course. And the dye soaks in and turns out amazing and I leave happily. I get to Howard and realize that I left my DS in the hair cuttery, so I call the place (luckily Nuran gave me a business card). Yes, my DS is still there. I rush off the train and after it leaves I realize that I left my hat, the one with the ear flaps that I was just beginning to warm up to, on the train. So I pull my hood over my still-wet hair and wait for the train. Again.

This time things go okay, I get my DS and a new hat from CVS and make it out to Morse without too much trouble. I buy groceries on the way and watch a couple episodes of X-files while eating ravioli under my incredibly thick and comforting comforter. And I doze off, and here I am not, awake.

If you're still reading, thanks. I guess I rambled a lot about nothing in particular. I'm glad that I don't get worked up over little things like this. I laugh it off as another adventure and wait for the train.

Changes

My girlfriend has changed.

I woke up about a week ago and she was like this. Her skin was gray and her eyes were rolled back into her head. She was sitting up in bed, staring ahead and drooling. I turned over in an attempt to spoon. It took me a few seconds to realize that her skin was cold.

"Anna?" I said sleepily.

"Gruahhhgh," she groaned, and that was it. That's the only sound she makes now; a mixture between a groan, a growl, and a gurgling noise.

She won't sleep. She hasn't eaten all week. Her once beautiful long, red hair is knotted and tangled. I wake up to her sometimes, her dirty fingernails pressing into my scalp, with that blank yet somehow menacing look on her face.

"Go to sleep, Anna," I say, and she gurgles at me.

I think she still loves me. I mean, I still love her. I do. But lately I feel like she's only attracted to my body. She looks at me hungrily, but not in that horny-romantic sort of way.

She's just not the same anymore.

"Anna," I say, "come watch TV with me." I'll guide her to the couch and turn on the TV, but the picture just reflects off of her white eyes as she stares blankly ahead.

"Anna," I say, "do you want to go shopping?" I'll put the purse in her hands, but she drops it every time, as if her muscles are too stiff to curl into a grip.

I tried to get her to go on a bike ride with me the other day, but she only got as far as lifting one leg over the seat before toppling over. The bike landed on top of her and I ran over yelling, but she didn't react at all. She lay there under her bike, foaming at the mouth and staring off into space. She had a nasty scrape on the back of her leg, but she didn't even flinch when I dabbed rubbing alcohol on it. And I have to admit, I poked her harder just to see if she would.

She doesn't go out anymore, preferring to spend the day in bed. When the sun goes down, I can hear her in our bedroom, walking around in a daze and bumping into things.

Her parents don't know. She hasn't called them, and that's her decision. But I'm getting worried. I think they should know the state their daughter is in. Who knows, what if this turns out to be dangerous?

I suppose it's not that strange. I've overheard four or five other people at work talking about it. It's spreading like a trend. It's not like Anna is the only one.

I figure she'll snap out of it eventually. I'll wake up one day and she'll be sighing in my ear, her warm breath smelling like day-old plaque instead of rotting gums.

Yeah, I can stick it out until then. I mean, it isn't that big of a deal. How long can it last?

Welcome me, goddammit

So this is a blog, eh? Just kidding, I've had blogs before. Many blogs. Blogs to pimp my writing. Much like this blog. Blog blog blog. The word is starting to lose meaning 'cause I wrote it too much.

So, I'm Amelia. I'm 20. I work at a pet supply store and I go to school for Fiction Writing. I live in Chicago in Rogers Park.

SO. Now that the introductions are over, we can get on to the good stuff. Me writing about nothing in particular.

Today wasn't as bad on the anxiety scale as yesterday was. Yesterday was hell. Or was it two days ago? Either way, this week and last week have sucked. Other than that, life is grand. Work is a good distraction, so I'm thankful for that. If I didn't work almost every day, I would have too much time to myself to think. I might end up laying in bed, depressed and listless.

But really, it isn't that bad. My medications seem to be working. I haven't had an extreme low in months, and I haven't hurt myself since July. I will grin and bear everything and anything that happens to me. I am strong enough to recover from anything now. And because I know that I can recover, I don't take it too hard. If you don't take your problems too seriously you can maintain a distance from them and not have to worry so much. If I don't realize that what is happening to me is real, I'll be just fine. It's when that revelation comes that things get messy. But I'm not a fragile little girl anymore who cries over her own lack of confidence and self-esteem.

Sometimes I feel estranged from my soul or my consciousness, as if I could just put all my energy into a ball of light and transfer it to someone else. Sometimes I imagine that if I concentrate hard enough, I can transfer my consciousness into a ghost-like form of myself that can travel wherever I want and see whatever I want. Weird, huh? But I can feel it as a sort of warmth above my head sometimes, quivering and waiting to wander.

I wish I could drop everything and travel around the world. I wish I could leave tonight and move to Canada. In the woods as a hermit, of course. I would collect edible plants and kill a moose every so often. Or I could live off of my millions in the bank, moving from hotel to hotel, never staying long enough for anyone to know my name.

Or I could go for a nice three-month-long sleep.