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.
