En Route

Recently, in honor of SUMMERTIME!!!, my hours got changed slightly at work.  Not dramatically—I just come in and leave a half-hour later than usual—but it’s enough to give me an extra half-hour’s sleep, and it required me to learn The Rules of my new commute. 

During the rest of the year, I’ve pretty much had my commute down to a science that involves a healthy combination of reliance on the CTA Tracker and my own experiences with each bus and/or train.  I’ve also gotten to know some people quite well, even though we are strangers.  Seeing them for a few minutes every day is enough for a lifetime.  Know what I mean? 

Here are a few of the characters I’ve gotten to know, and whose faces I doubt I’ll see again until September when my schedule returns to normal:

The Ceremonial Smoker.  Middle-aged woman, slight, with a dark, bobbed haircut.  Every morning we get off the bus together and she makes a beeline for the awning of the Chase Bank, where she lights a cigarette and huffs it down before getting to the train.  I can just imagine her being like, This is MY time, dammit.

The Boy Next Door.  Nicely-dressed young professional.  Muscle Milk drinker.  Totally adorable.  One time this other guy drove by while the Boy Next Door and I were waiting for the bus at 6:30 a.m. and demanded directions to Magnolia Ave.  Boy Next Door said, with the slightest Southern drawl, “Magnol-ya?  Ah don’t know.  Ah apologize.”  My heart died of happiness.

Peanut Butter.  A thirty-something nurse with a Peter Pan haircut who rides a crowded bus eating a peanut butter sandwich on a regular basis.  Kudos on a healthy breakfast, but that early in the morning, in a crowded space, there are few smells more nauseating.

Rat’s Nest.  Older woman, petite, rides the bus to Hyde Park.  She reads books on a wide variety of topics and seems utterly normal except that her hair is always a gigantic mess.  What’s going on?  Does she not brush it?  I don’t know.

Angry Face.  I used to think this guy who rides from Hyde Park to the Loop every afternoon was a musician or something because he likes to gesture emphatically with his hands and face, and I thought he was conducting music in his head.  But now I think that he’s just having a fantasy argument with someone he hates.  Probably one of his coworkers.  I feel bad for Angry Face because I think he hates his job.

The Bear.  My favorite bus driver of all time.  I usually catch him on the way home from Hyde Park.  He’s a big guy with dreadlocks and a drawling voice.  When you say thank you to him, he says, “Uh-huh, watch your step,” really adorably.

Farewell til September, commuter friends.

Why I Eat Meat

Today I bought some ground bison and some hickory-smoked turkey bacon and some wild-caught salmon fillets, and I got to thinking about meat in general.

Oh man.

OH MAN.

A while ago the New York Times ran a contest of sorts where people could send in essays about their ethical reasons for eating meat.  Obviously, there are plenty of ethical reasons NOT to eat meat.  For some people it’s a religious thing; for others it’s political; for others stll, it’s environmental.  For a lot of people it’s a health issue.  Some people just plain don’t like it.

I get all those, but if I don’t eat meat, I feel like a sad little anemic red blood cell.  My insides have frowny faces if I don’t get a regular dose of hamburger.

Also I’m training for a 10K, and while it’s totally possible to be vegetarian or even vegan and have a really hardcore athletic lifestyle, it just wouldn’t work for me.  I promise.

I don't know when the Times' contest closed, and honestly I don't really have a good ethical reason to eat meat; I just need to eat meat.

I’m also not sure why I feel the need to defend my omnivorism.  I suppose it really only comes down to the fact that I wouldn’t mind eating steak for breakfast.  In fact, I have eaten steak for breakfast.  And I feel like a lot of people would judge me for that.

Here’s a poem I wrote a few years ago about the process of cooking a whole chicken: 

Dinner for Two

 A knife, and you: the bird lies in the sink

A pair of shears, the yellow, mottled fat.

Insistent hands tear bone from shiny pink

Muscle, and I toss some to the cat.

I never knew a “tender” was a part—

I just thought fast food chains devised the name.

You show to me the kidneys and the heart,

 The wishbone sits to dry, our little game.

The Pope’s nose cut away, the spine thrown out,

The pieces, two by two, lined on a pan.

Defrocked, defiled, the skin is strewn about,

We scoop it up, we dump it in the can.

By ten o’clock, our dinner’s nearly done.

I don’t mind eating late—my heart, you’ve won.

(I don't love this poem but some people have told me that they do.  So whatever.)