Eve Lopez and I have known each other for years and have always shared a mutual admiration and respect. I admired her adventurous spirit and ability to mold young minds halfway around the world as an ESL teacher and I like to think she respected my ability to speak directly from my heart – even if it and my brain weren’t always connected.
As the lovely Eve has recently written a book and I have been starting on mine (some would say for years now), I wanted to delve just a bit deeper into her literary psyche and Eve (Lord knows why) wanted to know the same things about me.
In the end, I learned writing is a passion that can’t be taught, what Eve would be doing if she wasn’t a writer, and possible ways of stalking Luke Perry if you’re a thirteen-year-old girl.
Catherine West (CW): When did you decide to become a writer?
Eve Lopez (EL): I always knew I was a writer. I've never wanted to be anything else, though when I began my career, I realized I also had a knack for editing.
I've been writing since I was 7, and I always just knew. In that way, I have been lucky in life -- I've always known that writing was what I was meant to do. It took me a long time to learn how to write well, but I always knew I wanted to be a writer.
EL: How about you? You've been blogging for awhile and recently have begun writing fiction. When did you know you wanted to be a writer?
CW: I was about 9 years old. I was sitting in the back of church and to amuse myself, I wrote a story. It was either that or doze off in church and since my mom would look none too favorably on that (meaning she'd get that crazy, scary look on her face), I created a whole world with characters and problems and solutions. I liked the feeling and I liked the power. Best of all, I found something with which to entertain myself and -- believe it or not -- began to entertain others inside and outside of my family.
Editing came later in high school and college when I learned you can't have a good story unless you have good grammar and know how to use it.
CW: What would be your dream goal as a writer? What is it in the end you want to accomplish?
EL: I think every writer's dream goal is to be a best-selling author. I mean, that's the highest you can get besides winning a Pulitzer. But in some ways, I think it's like hoping to win the lottery.
So, for a more realistic goal: In the end, I'd love to simply be able to support myself full-time by writing what I want. I'd love to be an author who was able to simply afford a middle-class lifestyle by writing.
EL: What's your dream goal as a writer? And, do you think that goals have to be realistic?
CW: I think I have goals that are realistic. They just might not be realistic to other people because it will take hard work to accomplish them and hard work isn't always a welcome thing in this world. I would love to write a book; have that book become a movie; write the screenplay for that move; and win an Oscar for that screenplay. It's four steps. Four very difficult seemingly impossible steps to some, but I think it's possible. I want it to be possible rather as I can't see myself doing the same thing the rest of my life. I want bigger and better. I don't think that's a crime.
CW: If you weren’t a writer, what would you be doing right now?
EL: If I wasn't a writer, I would be an editor (which is, non-coincidentally, what I am actually trying to do now -- find a job at a high-profile corporation as an editor).
I LOVE writing and that's my passion -- but I am *almost* equally a grammar freak who loves editing. I suspect I love editing because of the superiority complex: After all, the editor's job description is basically fixing other people's mistakes.
EL: How about you? If you were not a professional editor right now, what would you do be doing?
CW: I think I would love to be a chef. I have a passion for cooking and trying new things. I use my coworkers and family as guinea pigs and they let me know what works and what doesn't and more often times than not when I bake or cook, my dishes come out really good, which is often surprising to me. I think cooking helps me to follow directions and listen more which is something with which I struggle. You HAVE to follow directions for the most part when you cook or bake or else you have a tremendous, inedible mess on your hands.
CW: What is your book about and what inspired you to write it?
EL: My book “Sex, Drugs, and Psychiatric Wards” is about a girl's college experience. It's a coming-of-age story about this really timid and insecure girl who goes to college and basically goes crazy.
I was inspired to write it when NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) made its splash several years ago. Some parts of the book are based on real experiences, but most of it is just bits of memories I have that I then fictionalized and took to scandalous extremes.
EL: You recently began publishing fiction on your blog -- what inspired you to do that? And do you prefer writing non-fiction blog posts (essays) or do you prefer writing fiction?
CW: I think I just got tired of wondering if my writing was good enough and wanted to test it out on my blog. The reaction was more than I expected and it encouraged me to start on the next few chapters and it's been fun mapping out the characters and story so far. I'm hoping to have the second part up in June. I hate to say it, but I just prefer writing. I think I like the power that comes with creating characters, scenes, places, and stories (fiction). However, it's liberating to relay my experiences to others (non-fiction). I can't choose.
CW: Last Question: What is something that no one knows about you.
EL: No one knows that when I was a teenager, my BFF and I tried to stalk Luke Perry by using clues to where he lived from descriptions of his house in tabloids and teen magazines. My friend and I looked EVERYWHERE because a magazine had published a picture of his front porch and we pieced together other bits of information (he supposedly lived "across the street" from Hollywood High School). This was before the internet, and before we realized that Luke Perry's porch was almost certainly hidden behind a huge gate or shrubbery. We were about 13 and my friend and I were big fans. We just wanted to say hi. :)
EL: YOUR TURN! Last question: What is something that no one knows about you?
CW: I cry at the end of movies or during shows like “Grey's Anatomy.” I present myself as someone who is strong (and I am), but I can be quite a sap when it comes to my movies or TV. I once spent a good half hour crying when one of the character's love interests died in Season 2 of Grey's and I spent two days depressed at this movie called "Untamed Heart" when Christian Slater died at the end of that. Now I was 13 years old so the last thing REALLY can't be held against me as my hormones were all over the place at that time.
About the Novel
Title: "Sex, Drugs, and Psychiatric Wards: A Novel"
Description: This is a graphic coming-of-age tale of a fragile young woman entering a notorious party college in California and encountering a world of drug-fueled parties, obsessive bar-hopping, and countless encounters with the opposite sex. After a series of events involving drugs, alcohol, and men, the young woman descends into a series of mental breakdowns.
About the Author (*Source Amazon.com):
Eve Lopez was born and raised in the suburbs of Los Angeles. She is a graduate of Chico State University in California. Her first novel, "Sex, Drugs, and Psychiatric Wards," was published in 2012.
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Sex-Drugs-Psychiatric-Wards-Lopez/dp/1475009089/
What Would Eve Do (blog): http://thingsevewoulddo.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
The Walk by Catherine Adel West
Pondering life over a toilet bowl seems normal to Pat. Clear water below reveals the porcelain god needs a good cleaning; a dirty gray-brown ring lies at the bottom of the bowl near Pat’s chubby face.
Bathrooms are where people come to get rid of a vomitous mass in their system; bile springing forth from mouths as hot lava from volcanoes. Bathrooms are where people come to wash themselves; a day's dirt disappearing from skin -- a purification.
The Bathroom is where Pat shuts down; collapses under the weight of the air in an apartment, heavy with hate, and memories, and now blood. Lots of blood.
Feeling strong enough, Pat stands, wobbly at first, bracing on the black granite sink, to keep from slipping on the ivory subway-tiled floor.
When they went to take a look at the apartment, the landlord, a short, bald African man named Nasiramani, called the color of the granite "ebony twilight" and the color of the subway tile "alabaster morning." Pat remembers the heavy Kenyan accent of the nice man marring the words into almost undistinguishable syllables.
It's funny what you think about after you just murder someone. Even if that someone completely deserves it.
Moss-green eyes look down at the delicate, crimson handprints on the toilet; the color is reminiscent of strawberry preserves. Pat is hungry. Stomach rumbling, demanding to be satisfied; a god in need of the sweet-tasting sacrifice only McDonald's processed food can tame.
* * *
Pat is sitting down to eat before Sam comes in from working at the factory all shrieks and curses. Pat just wants to eat in peace.
That’s all.
"One thing right. I ask you to let out the damn dog and you can't do that! Why in the hell do I put up with your shit?”
Breathing deeply is the only thing Pat can do when Sam is like this. Breathe deeply and be very still. Focusing on small things helps too.
The dining room table provided the perfect distraction. There are four legs on the table. The color is called “midnight chocolate.” It is four and a half feet high. One of the legs has a small chunk missing when Sam tried to stab Pat with the fork on their one year anniversary.
In Sam’s defense, the roast Pat prepared was a little overcooked.
Sam is still talking about the dog, well not talking, but raging -- a tsunami; a hurricane; a tornado -- and there is no escape; no shelter; no one to help.
Just be silent and stay still and maybe …
The first thing Pat feels is the sharpness of the hit; the pain comes a few seconds later. It always does.
"You hear me now don't you? You moron! I hate it when you try that Buddhist mind fuck stuff! You hear me! Do you fucking hear me?!"
"I hear you."
Pat’s hands are trembling; the burger lays, still warm and juicy and inviting, on a square, blue plate.
"Good. Now take the dog out so he won't piss everywhere."
Pat rises. Barnaby pads next to his master all love and golden fur.
“Come on boy,” Pat says. Barnaby follows Pat to the living room.
Draped on the tan sofa is Barnaby’s black leash. Pat hooks the leash onto the collar. Barnaby, anxious to take care of business, almost drags Pat to the back door.
Looking back, Pat witnesses Sam click on the television, sit down, and watch the highlights of last night’s football game. Pat hates football. Pat hates the sounds and roar and violence of the sport.
Pat especially hates that Sam can pummel and pound and punch and then sit down to look at television like nothing happened.
Light scrapping of claws on the back door and an impatient golden retriever’s high pitched whimpers center Pat’s thoughts.
Opening the door, the Chicago wind, unyielding and harsh, slices through Pat’s body. Barnaby pulls Pat down the wooden, snow-covered steps of the second floor apartment to the icy concrete landing of the first.
Rounding the corner, the duo walk down the block. Pat can make out the skyline, and though it is only a 15-minute train ride from Lakeview to the Loop, the distance seems unreachable and vast. Happiness seems that way too.
Pat sees Sam’s car: a 1969 Plymouth Road Runner two-door hardtop. A former piece of ancient, rusted scrap metal discovered in a junkyard, Sam says three years were spent restoring the car. Normally Sam puts the car in the garage rented from a neighbor. The car parked in front of the apartment means Sam is going out tonight …again. Going out and coming home drunk, which means a beating.
Pat shivers, but it has nothing to do with the wind or cold.
Barnaby finds a sapling tree nearby and relieves himself. They turn around and make their way back to the apartment.
Another beating.
The last one included a black eye, bruised ribs, and a fractured left wrist. Pat nursed the wounds and didn’t bother with the hospital; didn’t want to deal with the stares and the questions.
Not wanting to go back to the apartment just yet, Pat walks down the street to the park a block away. Aside from the solid crunch of snow beneath feet and Barnaby's panting, no other sounds or people inhabited the park. It looked to be a haunted place; the snow and ice visible apparitions roaming celestial, wooded territory.
The park is a place for Pat to think, mostly about Sam and how to get away.
Some might feel sorry for Pat. At best, many people would call Pat a wuss in this kind of situation. Well a person might not say "wuss" because that's a wussy thing to say. People would call Pat a "pussy."
* * *
Patrick Terrance Adkins remembers his dad, Bill, calling him a "pussy" all the time. Bill calls Pat this name so much when Pat is a child that by age nine, he thinks "pussy" is a real part of his name and says the word "pussy" in public, mostly at the grocery store, when shopping with his mom, Karen. Many people in their small town of Rainbow Ridge, Oklahoma believe Pat suffers from a severe form of Tourette's Syndrome.
Pat hears people whispering words of "poor boy" or "strange boy." But Pat's life isn't strange, it is normal. It is a life he knows. He hates it, but he knows it.
Pat knows his father works as a car mechanic Monday through Friday. Pat knows his father has a bowling league on Friday nights. Pat knows when his father comes in from his bowling league, he will be drunk and smell of cheap beer and whiskey and come in his room and whip him for at least ten minutes with a belt or a switch from the apple blossom tree in the front yard. And, Pat knows Karen won't help because she doesn't want a beating, and as long as Pat provides a distraction, she is safe.
Pat knows his life is shit at the house on Terry Boulevard and decides to leave on his seventeenth birthday. There were of course no balloons or cake or friends and family with well wishes. There was only Bill sitting in his recliner, the sound of the football game playing in the background, and the smell of Karen's meatloaf coming from the kitchen.
With $40.00 in his wallet and two small garbage bags full of clothes near the door, Pat desperately wants his dad to be upset he's leaving. He makes the announcement, hoping Bill will turn off the television and stand up and beg his son to stay; to work things out. Pat wants his mom to stop cooking and not act as if her only child walking out of the door is of no matter.
This, however, won't happen because Pat realizes Bill hates his life too and knows his dad feels he's saddled with a girl he knocked up eighteen years ago and a kid he would've kicked the shit out of in high school. Pat recognizes Bill is lost and bitter and daily thinks about killing himself. Sometimes Pat thinks about killing Bill too.
Bending down Pat picks up the bags and walks to the oak door. "Bye dad."
He hears Bill grumble and spit one word out of his mouth from his black recliner. "Pussy."
Patrick opens the door and walks out.
* * *
Pat meets Samantha Liddane Palmer a year later working as a bus boy at a restaurant on Chicago's north side. Pat is struck by Samantha's beauty. It is dark and cruel, and there is a feeling not quite tangible, which quietly and desperately tells him it will be painful to love her. Living with his parents for so long, Pat is built to know when loving someone is going to hurt, but he wants to do it anyway. So he walks toward her thinking, "Maybe this time, it will be different."
One year, six months, and twelve days after Patrick meets Samantha, Barnaby is the only evidence in his life there is change; the only evidence there can be someone or something capable of love -- even if it is a blindly loyal, furry, slobbering, go-fetch-a-stick kind of love. It is better than nothing.
Breathing in and out, feeling his chest expand and deflate, seeing his frosted breath billow out infinitely and disappear, Patrick feels the splintered edges of the winter-worn wood eat at his thighs. Making a firm decision about what needs to be done, Patrick stands and gently tugs on Barnaby's leash. They head back to the apartment.
* * *
Walking in the door, Pat kneels and unhooks Barnaby's collar. The dog quietly pads to the left corner of the kitchen, lies down and closes his eyes.
Sam is still in the living room in her chair eating a turkey sandwich; legs propped up and eyes focused on the television.
To the left in the sink, Patrick sees the knife Samantha used to cut the sandwich; morsels of wheat bread, mustard and meat still clinging to the blade. Patrick picks up the utensil and realizes this is the last time the knife will ever look exactly like this.
He walks toward the living room.
Freedom.
Bathrooms are where people come to get rid of a vomitous mass in their system; bile springing forth from mouths as hot lava from volcanoes. Bathrooms are where people come to wash themselves; a day's dirt disappearing from skin -- a purification.
The Bathroom is where Pat shuts down; collapses under the weight of the air in an apartment, heavy with hate, and memories, and now blood. Lots of blood.
Feeling strong enough, Pat stands, wobbly at first, bracing on the black granite sink, to keep from slipping on the ivory subway-tiled floor.
When they went to take a look at the apartment, the landlord, a short, bald African man named Nasiramani, called the color of the granite "ebony twilight" and the color of the subway tile "alabaster morning." Pat remembers the heavy Kenyan accent of the nice man marring the words into almost undistinguishable syllables.
It's funny what you think about after you just murder someone. Even if that someone completely deserves it.
Moss-green eyes look down at the delicate, crimson handprints on the toilet; the color is reminiscent of strawberry preserves. Pat is hungry. Stomach rumbling, demanding to be satisfied; a god in need of the sweet-tasting sacrifice only McDonald's processed food can tame.
* * *
Pat is sitting down to eat before Sam comes in from working at the factory all shrieks and curses. Pat just wants to eat in peace.
That’s all.
"One thing right. I ask you to let out the damn dog and you can't do that! Why in the hell do I put up with your shit?”
Breathing deeply is the only thing Pat can do when Sam is like this. Breathe deeply and be very still. Focusing on small things helps too.
The dining room table provided the perfect distraction. There are four legs on the table. The color is called “midnight chocolate.” It is four and a half feet high. One of the legs has a small chunk missing when Sam tried to stab Pat with the fork on their one year anniversary.
In Sam’s defense, the roast Pat prepared was a little overcooked.
Sam is still talking about the dog, well not talking, but raging -- a tsunami; a hurricane; a tornado -- and there is no escape; no shelter; no one to help.
Just be silent and stay still and maybe …
The first thing Pat feels is the sharpness of the hit; the pain comes a few seconds later. It always does.
"You hear me now don't you? You moron! I hate it when you try that Buddhist mind fuck stuff! You hear me! Do you fucking hear me?!"
"I hear you."
Pat’s hands are trembling; the burger lays, still warm and juicy and inviting, on a square, blue plate.
"Good. Now take the dog out so he won't piss everywhere."
Pat rises. Barnaby pads next to his master all love and golden fur.
“Come on boy,” Pat says. Barnaby follows Pat to the living room.
Draped on the tan sofa is Barnaby’s black leash. Pat hooks the leash onto the collar. Barnaby, anxious to take care of business, almost drags Pat to the back door.
Looking back, Pat witnesses Sam click on the television, sit down, and watch the highlights of last night’s football game. Pat hates football. Pat hates the sounds and roar and violence of the sport.
Pat especially hates that Sam can pummel and pound and punch and then sit down to look at television like nothing happened.
Light scrapping of claws on the back door and an impatient golden retriever’s high pitched whimpers center Pat’s thoughts.
Opening the door, the Chicago wind, unyielding and harsh, slices through Pat’s body. Barnaby pulls Pat down the wooden, snow-covered steps of the second floor apartment to the icy concrete landing of the first.
Rounding the corner, the duo walk down the block. Pat can make out the skyline, and though it is only a 15-minute train ride from Lakeview to the Loop, the distance seems unreachable and vast. Happiness seems that way too.
Pat sees Sam’s car: a 1969 Plymouth Road Runner two-door hardtop. A former piece of ancient, rusted scrap metal discovered in a junkyard, Sam says three years were spent restoring the car. Normally Sam puts the car in the garage rented from a neighbor. The car parked in front of the apartment means Sam is going out tonight …again. Going out and coming home drunk, which means a beating.
Pat shivers, but it has nothing to do with the wind or cold.
Barnaby finds a sapling tree nearby and relieves himself. They turn around and make their way back to the apartment.
Another beating.
The last one included a black eye, bruised ribs, and a fractured left wrist. Pat nursed the wounds and didn’t bother with the hospital; didn’t want to deal with the stares and the questions.
Not wanting to go back to the apartment just yet, Pat walks down the street to the park a block away. Aside from the solid crunch of snow beneath feet and Barnaby's panting, no other sounds or people inhabited the park. It looked to be a haunted place; the snow and ice visible apparitions roaming celestial, wooded territory.
The park is a place for Pat to think, mostly about Sam and how to get away.
Some might feel sorry for Pat. At best, many people would call Pat a wuss in this kind of situation. Well a person might not say "wuss" because that's a wussy thing to say. People would call Pat a "pussy."
* * *
Patrick Terrance Adkins remembers his dad, Bill, calling him a "pussy" all the time. Bill calls Pat this name so much when Pat is a child that by age nine, he thinks "pussy" is a real part of his name and says the word "pussy" in public, mostly at the grocery store, when shopping with his mom, Karen. Many people in their small town of Rainbow Ridge, Oklahoma believe Pat suffers from a severe form of Tourette's Syndrome.
Pat hears people whispering words of "poor boy" or "strange boy." But Pat's life isn't strange, it is normal. It is a life he knows. He hates it, but he knows it.
Pat knows his father works as a car mechanic Monday through Friday. Pat knows his father has a bowling league on Friday nights. Pat knows when his father comes in from his bowling league, he will be drunk and smell of cheap beer and whiskey and come in his room and whip him for at least ten minutes with a belt or a switch from the apple blossom tree in the front yard. And, Pat knows Karen won't help because she doesn't want a beating, and as long as Pat provides a distraction, she is safe.
Pat knows his life is shit at the house on Terry Boulevard and decides to leave on his seventeenth birthday. There were of course no balloons or cake or friends and family with well wishes. There was only Bill sitting in his recliner, the sound of the football game playing in the background, and the smell of Karen's meatloaf coming from the kitchen.
With $40.00 in his wallet and two small garbage bags full of clothes near the door, Pat desperately wants his dad to be upset he's leaving. He makes the announcement, hoping Bill will turn off the television and stand up and beg his son to stay; to work things out. Pat wants his mom to stop cooking and not act as if her only child walking out of the door is of no matter.
This, however, won't happen because Pat realizes Bill hates his life too and knows his dad feels he's saddled with a girl he knocked up eighteen years ago and a kid he would've kicked the shit out of in high school. Pat recognizes Bill is lost and bitter and daily thinks about killing himself. Sometimes Pat thinks about killing Bill too.
Bending down Pat picks up the bags and walks to the oak door. "Bye dad."
He hears Bill grumble and spit one word out of his mouth from his black recliner. "Pussy."
Patrick opens the door and walks out.
* * *
Pat meets Samantha Liddane Palmer a year later working as a bus boy at a restaurant on Chicago's north side. Pat is struck by Samantha's beauty. It is dark and cruel, and there is a feeling not quite tangible, which quietly and desperately tells him it will be painful to love her. Living with his parents for so long, Pat is built to know when loving someone is going to hurt, but he wants to do it anyway. So he walks toward her thinking, "Maybe this time, it will be different."
One year, six months, and twelve days after Patrick meets Samantha, Barnaby is the only evidence in his life there is change; the only evidence there can be someone or something capable of love -- even if it is a blindly loyal, furry, slobbering, go-fetch-a-stick kind of love. It is better than nothing.
Breathing in and out, feeling his chest expand and deflate, seeing his frosted breath billow out infinitely and disappear, Patrick feels the splintered edges of the winter-worn wood eat at his thighs. Making a firm decision about what needs to be done, Patrick stands and gently tugs on Barnaby's leash. They head back to the apartment.
* * *
Walking in the door, Pat kneels and unhooks Barnaby's collar. The dog quietly pads to the left corner of the kitchen, lies down and closes his eyes.
Sam is still in the living room in her chair eating a turkey sandwich; legs propped up and eyes focused on the television.
To the left in the sink, Patrick sees the knife Samantha used to cut the sandwich; morsels of wheat bread, mustard and meat still clinging to the blade. Patrick picks up the utensil and realizes this is the last time the knife will ever look exactly like this.
He walks toward the living room.
Freedom.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Dear CTA ...
As I live on the South Side of Chicago and work downtown, I have to take the wild, city rollercoaster that is public transit. And honestly, I would take Metra, but seeing as I have to be at work by five o' clock in the morning, an hour that makes the Devil himself say "Damn, that's early as hell!", I am forced to take the Red Line from 95th St. to Jackson.
I hate it. I hate it so much sometimes. The dirtiness and the smelliness are really overwhelming. When I say dirty I don't mean a candy wrapper here and there. I mean chicken bones and empty McDonald's bags and seats with stains in them that I'm sure have some kind of bacteria which has the possibility of becoming the next global pandemic. If I were to give you a scratch and sniff sticker of the CTA, your nose would smell an aroma of stale BO, pee, cheap liquor, and some other stench I just can't quite put my finger on at this moment.
Homeless people make the train cars their abode and sleep on them and are really annoyed if you need to sit down because other seats are otherwise occupied. I'm sorry I have to disturb your sleep sir, but seeing as I have only had about four hours myself and I have to go to work, I'd appreciate you just sitting up. It's hard I know. I'm a bad person for making you take up only one seat instead of two.
The people on the train can make my rides pretty interesting though. There was the crazy guy who kept yelling on the train, but knew how to down a can of beer in about two minutes. There was also a gentlemen who had on blue jeans, a dirty t-shirt, and -- I shit you not -- a Batman cape. Running up and down the aisle, he tried to sell a baby doll with a head and no arms and legs. He only wanted $10.00.
You can't make this stuff up!
Chicago public transit, the Red and Green Lines especially, seems to be treated as the trailer park relative with the drunken mom and 3 step dads (Frank Kruesi, Ron Huberman, and Richard Rodriguez).
I've rode the Orange, Pink and Purple Lines and never have to worry about what it's going to smell like or what insane person I might have to fight off.
I sometimes think it's the subconscious disdain the city seems to have for the South Side and its residents or just the fact South Siders have come to accept the way they are treated and never hope for anything better. Kinda like those movies where disenfranchised youth are broken down, but it only takes Michelle Pfeiffer or Sandra Bullock to help raise their hopes.
We need one of those people or -- at the very least -- someone with a mop and a can of Lysol.
I hate it. I hate it so much sometimes. The dirtiness and the smelliness are really overwhelming. When I say dirty I don't mean a candy wrapper here and there. I mean chicken bones and empty McDonald's bags and seats with stains in them that I'm sure have some kind of bacteria which has the possibility of becoming the next global pandemic. If I were to give you a scratch and sniff sticker of the CTA, your nose would smell an aroma of stale BO, pee, cheap liquor, and some other stench I just can't quite put my finger on at this moment.
Homeless people make the train cars their abode and sleep on them and are really annoyed if you need to sit down because other seats are otherwise occupied. I'm sorry I have to disturb your sleep sir, but seeing as I have only had about four hours myself and I have to go to work, I'd appreciate you just sitting up. It's hard I know. I'm a bad person for making you take up only one seat instead of two.
The people on the train can make my rides pretty interesting though. There was the crazy guy who kept yelling on the train, but knew how to down a can of beer in about two minutes. There was also a gentlemen who had on blue jeans, a dirty t-shirt, and -- I shit you not -- a Batman cape. Running up and down the aisle, he tried to sell a baby doll with a head and no arms and legs. He only wanted $10.00.
You can't make this stuff up!
Chicago public transit, the Red and Green Lines especially, seems to be treated as the trailer park relative with the drunken mom and 3 step dads (Frank Kruesi, Ron Huberman, and Richard Rodriguez).
I've rode the Orange, Pink and Purple Lines and never have to worry about what it's going to smell like or what insane person I might have to fight off.
I sometimes think it's the subconscious disdain the city seems to have for the South Side and its residents or just the fact South Siders have come to accept the way they are treated and never hope for anything better. Kinda like those movies where disenfranchised youth are broken down, but it only takes Michelle Pfeiffer or Sandra Bullock to help raise their hopes.
We need one of those people or -- at the very least -- someone with a mop and a can of Lysol.
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