The Red Line

He mopes onto the northbound Red Line train at Madison.

The Red Line is part of the Chicago Transit Authority. It runs from the far south side, 95th and the Dan Ryan, to Howard Street, the northern border of the city. At Madison, it’s a subway. About a mile north of the loop, the tracks go above ground and the train becomes an L that runs through the alleys – within feet of people’s bedroom windows.

It’s 5:15 on April 16th, a Friday. For the last three and a half months, he has worked more than 65 hours a week – grinding out a billion tax returns and hating every minute of it. Heading home before 6:30, even on a Friday, is rare.

He plans on riding the red line for thirty-five minutes to his lousy neighborhood near the end of the route, just south of Evanston.

The accountant sags down in a window seat near the door. He feels so miserable; if he had to stand, he’d pass out. A male college student who reeks of pot plops down next to him.

He is a wreck – the accountant – not the student. At least the student knows how to have a good time.

His suit, shirt, and tie have food stains hiding among the wrinkles; his shoes look like he stole them from a homeless guy living on Lower Wacker Drive. If you look closely, he’s wearing two different socks – one black and one dark blue. He forgot to put on his belt that morning. So, the left side of his shirt hangs out the front of his pants. The deep circles under his eyes distract onlookers from the raging anxiety zit on the tip of his nose and the sore on his lower lip. That morning he shaved with an old blade that he should have chucked weeks ago. But it’s okay because the stubble hides some of his sickly pale complexion and the strange red patches on his cheeks and chin. The double cowlicks at the back of his head form twin peaks like a clown’s wig because he hasn’t had a haircut in two and a half months. His hair is greasy; he didn’t shower that morning. The donuts and pizza are slowly destroying a once trim young man.

He is so tired his peripheral vision is shrinking; his hands have a minor tremor.

Please don’t start crying,

His problems go far beyond exhaustion and taxes. He’s a twenty-four-year-old guy without a real friend in the world. He’s never been close to a girl. In high school and college, when normal people learned about dating and relationships, he stayed on the sidelines, too afraid of getting hurt or hurting someone. There’s no obvious reason for the fear. He’s not too short or too fat or too bald. All his parts, large and small, are in the right place and work as designed. He is smart enough.

He has chosen the certain pain of perpetual loneliness versus the possibility of companionship and happiness with a risk of some painful moments. This is a decision that he’ll regret for the rest of his life.

What a moron.

Like many weekends, he might not talk to another human until he returns to work Monday morning.

The social problem lives up there in his noggin and refuses to come out. It weighs on him like Gibraltar. To him every day that goes by without someone to share it with is another miserable crawl across a desert.

Who would go out with you, if they knew the story?

When he was an adolescent, his mother used to say, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Now he is a world class pro at feeling sorry for himself, real hall of fame material.

At the Chicago Avenue stop, a miracle happens. The pot-head floats off the train and she swings into the spot next to his.

His brain immediately releases a testosterone tsunami. The hands stop shaking; his vision comes back on line. Nature has taken the wheel and demands that he know more about his new seatmate.

If he holds his head ever so slightly to the right and shifts his eyes over that way so far it hurts, he can look without gawking.

Don’t be a creep.

His brain clicks through the new information.

She’s wearing classy clothes, simple jewelry and minimum makeup – nothing too flashy. What a pleasant scent. Now don’t be obvious and stupid and get caught eyeballing her.

You look like a newly minted corpse and you smell like a dead horse. Your breath could peel paint off a Chrysler. If you talk to her, what senseless thing will you say? You’ve got no game.

As always, there it is, the exact opposite of a positive mental attitude. He goes to bat thinking about striking out rather than hitting a homer.

She takes out a paperback copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. His feelings zoom from simple attraction to out of control fascination. He has read that book nine times since discovering it when he was sixteen.

A couple of stops later the train climbs above ground. The briefcase belonging to a middle-aged lawyer type falls open and a dozen files stuffed with documents drop like an avalanche onto the filthy and wet floor next to their seat.

The accountant mutters in a low voice that only she hears, “So it goes,” – a phrase that permeates Slaughterhouse Five.

She turns; looks him full in the face and smiles.

He can now stare right at her and it’s the best thing that has happened to him in years.

She’s got red hair and a face that should be on an ad for Irish tourism. She has the most beautiful green eyes he’s ever seen.

She says, “So it does go.”

Please-please-please give me something to say.

“Have you read Slaughterhouse Five?” she asks.

“Yes. Many times.”

His brain gives him a high five.

OK. Well done. You haven’t barfed on your shoes, yet.

A month ago, the office receptionist, who wanted to help him land a girlfriend, told him that at this point he should introduce himself and ask what her name was.

So, he says,” My name is Yon Yonsin. What’s yours?”

Damn it, Magoo, you’ve done it again.

His name’s Joe, but he’s trying to be funny because at the beginning of the book, Vonnegut mentions the song that starts with:

My name is Yon Yonsin. I come from Wisconsin.

“Montana Wildhack,” she responds.

She gets the reference and throws down the perfect response. Montana is the leading female character in the book.

He laughs too hard and starts coughing. It takes a full minute for him tor regain control.

What now? You’ve talked yourself into another corner, laughed like a fool and hacked up a phlegm ball the size of a grapefruit.

Then she gives him a life line by saying, “My name is Eileen.”

“I’m Joe,” he replies.

When we get married, what will our children look like? What the hell. She’s thinking about normal stuff and you’re choosing schools for the kids.

He checks for a ring. Last year he finally learned what a ring on the left hand of a woman means, something most people find out in grade school.

OK. There’s no ring. Now what, genius?

“What do you think of the book?” He asks.

My God, man. You’ve asked a reasonable open-ended question. You put the ball back in her court – well played.

She answers, “I’m not sure. It’s the first Vonnegut book I’ve read, and I don’t like science fiction or war stories.”

Damn-damn-damn. You love this book – the science fiction, the anti-war theme, the humor and everything else.

She sees something in his reaction. And asks, “Why have you read it so many times?”

He puzzles over that one – why indeed?

Because it is the best anti-war story ever written. There’s a certain comic book quality I love. I read all the books I like multiple times because I don’t have anything better to fill my time.

“I don’t know. I just like Vonnegut.”

Impressive, Romeo, you’ve managed to answer the question in the least interesting way possible. How can you ever recover?

So, he asked, “What books do you like?”

BRILLIANT! You’re an interviewing genius. NPR wants you on staff immediately – move over Terry Gross.

“Oh. I like the English classics and poets, but my boyfriend recommended Vonnegut.”

With that she says goodbye, gets up and exits the train at Belmont.

His hands start shaking and a tear falls to his lap.

He crawls off the train at the next stop, Addison, and walks the remaining four miles to his apartment.