The Egg Family

The Orchid Hotel is one of the more expensive places to stay on Mackinac. I have even been told by many an irate phone caller that it is in fact the most expensive place on Mackinac Island. Whichever may be the case, it is safe to say that about 95% of the Orchid’s guests are fairly wealthy. This, unfortunately, does lead to a certain level of entitlement with many of our guests. When you’re paying anywhere between $500 - $1,000+ for a one night stay I suppose it’s natural to assume that if you ask for something as measly as soy milk for breakfast or a carrot cake at dinner then it will be served to you on a silver plate. However, no matter the request, everything comes down to attitude. If you're nice you'll hopefully get what you want; if you're mean then good luck getting me to send you a bucket of ice promptly.
A few days ago we had two rooms check-in with the same last name. It was obvious this was a family traveling together so when the porters radioed that the Jeff party had arrived I stood at the desk with both registration cards and waited. An Indian man entered the hotel and greeted me as Mr. Jeff. Two young girls came behind him as I showed Mr. Jeff the registration cards.

“I just want to verify that we have you staying for the one night, correct?” I asked.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“And there are three people staying in each room?”

“Yes.”

“May we have the names of the other members in each room?”

Mr. Jeff took the pen from my hand. Because he had made the reservations his was the only name listed on the registration cards. He circled his name on both pieces of paper and wrote “& co.” He handed the papers back to me.

“No,” I said, “I need the actual names of each member staying in each room.”

“I do not know who will be in what room yet.”

“That’s fine. If you could just write all of the names then and we’ll sort the rest out later.”

“It is Jeff and company.”

“Yes, but I need the actual names for security purposes.”

“We are not going to steal anything.” He turned as a girl who looked about my age entered the lobby. I assumed this was one of the four adults we had listed between the two rooms (Mr. Jeff had booked the rooms as each consisting of two adults and one child).

“Oh it’s not about that at all! If we have to evacuate the building for any reason then we want to be able to account for everyone.”

“Here, I’ll take care of this,” the new girl said. She took the pen and papers from me and began writing a series of names.

“Do you evacuate the building often?” Mr. Jeff asked with a note of concern.

“Pretty much never, but it’s something we’re very conscious of,” I said. “It’s better to always be prepared.”

Suddenly, I noticed that during this back-and-forth, other members of the Jeff family had arrived. Our porters Ian and Elliot were bringing in bag after bag and the lobby was a jumble of luggage and people. It was clear everyone in the lobby was related to each other, but I couldn’t discern who was actually staying with us and who wasn’t. A few of the family members began taking the bags out the hotel the moment Ian or Elliot set them down. I hoped they had all just carelessly tagged their suitcases for the Orchid Hotel, but were actually staying elsewhere.

A woman appeared next to the girl who was still writing the names of the six people staying in the two rooms. “You have a breakfast?” the woman asked.

“Yes. It’s a light complimentary breakfast and it’s served from 6:30 to 10 a.m. right over there in the circle porch.”

“You have omelettes?”

“No. It’s just a light breakfast with fresh fruit and homemade pastries. There is a more extensive continental breakfast selection available through room service, but that is at an additional cost.”

“There are no omelettes?”

“I’m not actually sure what is available through the extensive breakfast selection, but you’ll find the menu for that in your room. I believe there is some type of egg dish on it.”

“What are the pastries?” the older girl asked, handing me the two registration cards.

“Mini muffins and different types of breads. It changes everyday.”

“Do you have pancakes?” a little girl asked, straining her neck to look over the desktop.

“No. Not that type of bread. Like banana bread or cranberry and walnuts.”

The mother of the group was looking severely offended now. “So there are no omelettes?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“But it is the weekend...and you will not make us omelettes?”

“No.”

Had my office manager been checking this family in it is quite probable that this woman would have gotten her way and every single member of the Jeff family would have received their own specially made omelette. Unfortunately for Mrs. Omelette I am not quite as accommodating. I handed her a stack of menus. “These are the places on the island that serve breakfast. I am sure one of them will have an omelette.” I then grabbed two room keys and attempted to lead everyone down the hallway.

I got to Room 104 with only the oldest daughter behind me. “Is there only one bed in here?” she asked, looking around the room.

“Yes. The rollaway will be brought in during turn-down service.”

One of the smaller children entered behind me. Another soon followed, struggling with a bag that was more than half his size. Two other children passed as I rounded the corner to lead the next group to their room. The lobby was still a mess of people and bags. My office manager was standing at the front desk. She looked at me as if to say, “What is going on?” as a few other family members grabbed various bags and walked out of the hotel.

I gave up waiting to catch someone’s attention and went down to Room 106. I held the door open and waited for someone to finally leave the lobby. As I stood there, two old women and an old man walked into Room 104, each holding a small duffle bag. Finally, Mr. Jeff walked down the hallway followed by three grown men. I showed them into the small room consisting of a queen bed and a single-person pullout sofa. Mr. Jeff looked around. “We will need a rollaway for this room,” he said.

I pointed at the sofa. “That pulls out and will be made up during turn-down service.”

“Okay, okay. I will tell you if we need another rollaway. Do not disappear.”

I wanted to ask why a room consisting of two adults and one child would need a third bed, but my question was answered as another pair of grandparents walked into Room 106.

When I got back to the office everyone was staring at each other looking aghast. “How many people just went into those rooms?” Trisha, the office manager, asked.

“Hell if I know!” I exclaimed. “People just kept flooding in behind me in each of those rooms.”

“Did he say there were only three in each room.”

“Yep, but he wouldn’t give me names. Just kept saying, ‘And company.’”

Another desk clerk, Bridget, pulled out the two registration cards. “There are more than three names on these,” she said. Upon closer inspection it wasn’t immediately obvious whether the names listed were even first and last names or just two rows of first names.

Mr. Jeff appeared at the front desk. “We will need those rollaways,” he said.

“Mr. Jeff,” Trisha said, putting on her soothing-but-serious voice, “how many people are staying in each room?”

“Three.”

“Only three people sleeping in each room.”

“Three plus children.”

Obviously, the Egg Family was trying to pull a “fast one” over the hotel. We could tell by looking at Mr. Jeff’s reservation that he had called and spoken with someone to book the two rooms. He had therefore been told that each of those rooms could only hold a maximum of three people (children included).

One of the men who had followed Mr. Jeff into 106 approached the desk. “Can we use those couches?” he asked.

“Couches?”

“On that porch.” He was referring to the first floor side porch, which was only available for rooms 102, 104, and 106.

“Oh yes. That porch is only for those of you in those specific rooms.”

“So we can use those couches.”

“Yes...” I wondered what he was actually trying to ask because it was clear he didn’t mean to simply sit on the side porch. “You are sharing it with the other rooms on the first floor,” I added.

“Thank you,” he said as if I had solved some equation for him. I turned to Olga, the Head of Housekeeping. “I think people are going to be sleeping on that porch tonight,” I said.

“They’re probably going to use the cushions and make beds,” Olga replied.

Trisha looked as though she was going into shock. She grabbed the master key, said she was glad the owner of the Orchid was off-island for the weekend, and left.

About an hour later Mrs. Omelette and the eldest daughter came up to the front desk. “The air conditioning in our room doesn’t work,” she said.

“There actually isn’t any air conditioning in those rooms,” I said. Mrs. Omelette looked as though I told her we let horses sleep in her bed.

“What do you mean there is no air conditioning?” Her eyes were intense and threatening, but I was in no mood to make apologizes.

“That is actually very common up here. Many of the hotels do not have any air conditioning. Neither do some restaurants. Even my apartment doesn’t have it. This is Upper Michigan and we really only need it about two weeks out of every year. This weather is unusual for us.”

The mother looked at her daughter with wide eyes. The daughter gave a sharp laugh. “We’re from a different country,” she explained, “that is just unheard of.”

I resisted asking why their registration card listed a Michigan address and using my Cuba-card – you can’t play the “I’m a poor foreigner” game with an international military brat, Eggy!

“So our rooms...have no air conditioning?” Mrs. Omelette repeated in case I hadn’t understood the question.

“I can give you a fan,” I said with perhaps more attitude than I should have.

“Well, there are just so many problems I have with this hotel,” Mrs. Omelette said, stuffing her scarf into a small purse.

“I am sorry to hear that,” I said, trying desperately to lose the sass.

“Like the décor,” the daughter laughed.

“Yes...the décor is interesting.” Mrs. Omelette then cocked her head and raised an eyebrow at me. “And sad.”

I stared at her for a moment, so taken aback by the blatantly antagonizing remark. My mind raced with, “I was just thinking how funny it was that your outfit matched the walls perfectly,” “Everyone has their own tastes, don’t they,” and the standard juvenile, “Your face is sad.” Luckily, I choked down the string of snarky remarks I wanted to respond and instead smiled widely, said, “Thank you so much,” and walked away. When I relayed all of this to my office manager she said that we must simply “kill them with kindness.” I said shutting off their power would be more effective. (I later learned that Room 106 asked for three rollaways at the end of the night. This is not Hogwarts. Where exactly were three twin beds going to fit?)

For as nice and accommodating as Trisha is with every entitled and rude person who walks through our door, there are times when she enacts a very subtle and nearly unnoticeable form of revenge. Right before I left for the day Room 102 checked out early. As usual, they simply did not want to stay in a room without air conditioning, but they were very nice about the entire situation. We were fully booked for the night and didn’t have any air conditioned rooms to upgrade them to so they packed their bags and left for another hotel. This move was most likely for the best because not only would the guests have been sweaty and miserable, but they were the only other room sharing that side porch with the Egg Family. Sometimes when a large family is crammed into a small room, Trisha offers them a complimentary extra room or, if it is available, a suite.

The next morning the Front Desk message pad consisted of only one comment from the night auditor: “Did anyone think to offer R 102 to R’s 104 & 106?”

Apparently not.

It's Gettin' Hot in Here

This week marks my third week on Mackinac Island. Or maybe it's my fourth? Let's be honest, when you're on "island time" the days and weeks seem to become one whole. Thus far the Orchid Hotel has been busier than ever. The staff is about 60% new and 40% 'returners'. Our restaurant is full four out of the seven nights we're open and we have had zero rooms vacant at the hotel on several occasions.

Sadly, the hotel has been slightly lacking in the "interesting characters" category this season although the severe heat wave striking the non-air conditioned Midwest has caused many of our guests to be grumpy and irritable. This has lead me to create The Problem Child(ren) of the Orchid Hotel awards. Already in my short time here I have realized that these awards will have to be given out weekly with maybe even a few Honorable Mentions here and there. Lately, these awards have been given to the people who come to the Front Desk, angry that their room does not have air conditioning (as is common to Mackinac Island hotels/the entire Upper Peninsula), and demand an upgrade. As mentioned above, often this upgrade to a waterfront room with air conditioning is simply not possible because we have no vacant rooms. This led one couple to angrily slam their key on the desk and stomp out of the hotel without ever checking out and another to ask to speak to management at least once every half hour.

However, there are those Problem Children recipients who I believe would have earned their award whether the temperature was a blazing 92 or a cool 70 degrees. Take the Hildebrands for example. From the moment they checked in they had something to complain about. As one of my co-workers, Rachel, welcomed the Hildebrands to the Orchid Hotel Mrs. Hildebrand asked if they had a waterfront room. Rachel explained to them that they had booked a Gardenside room and that we were full for the night and had no other rooms to even let them consider. The Hildebrands were not happy. They had booked their reservation online and had either not understood the term "Gardenside" or perhaps thought we were at liberty to upgrade everyone. Rachel showed them to their room and listened as they complained about the view, size of the room, and then gasped at how they could possibly be expected to stay in a room without air conditioning.

Over the next two nights Mrs. Hilderbrand continued to nitpick everything about the hotel: turn-down service started too late, why was there no ice machine (we have it sent to your room), why did they have to pay full-rate for their son who wanted to spontaneously join them the next day, etc etc. Typically these complaints went to poor Rachel. One evening, Rachel was on the phone when Mrs. Hildebrand came up to the desk. Thinking Rachel probably needed a break, I got up and greeted Mrs. Hildebrand. "I've been working with her," she said coldly, pointing at Rachel through the small glass window. "Oh," I responded, a bit hurt that she wasn't even going to give me the opportunity to try and assist her. I suppose I should have thanked her because for the next half hour she gave Rachel flack about trying to book the room for her son and his girlfriend who had suddenly decided to join them. (And she demanded a rollaway to be put in the room because an extra bed will certainly keep premarital sex from happening.)

On their last evening with us, Mrs. Hildebrand came up to the desk once again and was kind enough to speak to me. "There's a man on the rocks behind your restaurant with his pants down," she said. "You need to call management because it's inappropriate." Her son was with her and added, "There are children out there."

"Certainly," I responded. "I'll call our night manager right now."

Now, knowing Mrs. Hildebrand's M.O. I assumed some young kid was climbing around on the rocks and was wearing pants that sagged below his butt. However, I knew not calling our night manager would do more harm than good so I dialed Trey's cellphone number.

"Hello, Hotel."

"Trey, a guest just complained that there's a man behind the restaurant with his pants down."

"..." (Trey isn't exactly a prude and doesn't really care what people are doing as long as they are not destroying the hotel.)

"She's a guest who complains a lot and I think she's just going to get really uppity if she doesn't see someone checking," I explained. "She just said a guy has his pants down and that it's inappropriate."

"Alright, I'll go take a look."

Ten minutes later Trey entered the hotel looking perplexed. I was on the phone so Rachel relayed exactly what Mrs. Hildebrand and Hildebrand Jr. had said to me. I saw Mrs. Hildebrand walk in and tried to point to her through the office window so that Trey wouldn't make one of his normal snarky remarks. Mrs. Hildebrand pointed out the window and then took Trey with her to show him exactly what was going on. Rachel and I watched as the Hildebrand clan lined up against the fence bordering the park next to the hotel. They were all pointing at the lake. Rachel and I went into the owner's office so that we could see what they were pointing at. Nothing. What the hell was going on?

We sat back at our desks and joked about how much Trey was obviously enjoying all of this. We waited for him to return and tell us what morons the Hildebrands were, but as the minutes passed he never did. Suddenly we heard a commotion in the front lobby.

"Can you see them?" a guest coming down the stairs asked a couple sitting in the glassed-in porch.

"We just saw the girl," the woman in the chair responded.

"It doesn't look good," the sitting man said.

"His pants were down and everything!" exclaimed the woman who was now off the stairs and careening her neck to see a spot in the lake.

Rachel and I were fed up. I leaned over the desk, "What exactly is happening?" I asked. "We can't see anything back here, but we just keep hearing about a guy with his pants down behind the restaurant."

"Not the restaurant," Sitting Man responded, "they're on the break wall."

For my non-coastal living readers, break walls are barriers set up along shorelines as a defense against rough waves. Sometimes these are large cinder blocks or, like on Mackinac Island, they are gigantic (almost five to six feet tall) rocks. While technically these rocks are behind the Orchid's restaurant, the break wall is actually located about seven or so yards from the hotel and sits about three to four yards from the shore. These were definitely not the rocks I thought Mrs. Hildebrand had been talking about.

Rachel and I dashed into the owner's office once again. Finally we could see everything: the crowd of people watching the activity occurring at the break wall, the two cops standing at the edge of the shoreline, and a man in a bright green shirt wading back to dry land. We wondered what he was doing out there by himself and then we saw the top of a woman's head from behind one of the massive break wall rocks. As soon as she hit the water it was obvious Home Girl (as we termed her) was not having a good time. She stumbled a bit, but managed to keep herself from face planting into the cold water. At first we thought she was perhaps not coordinated in the water and walking on the slippery rocks. When she finally reached dry land, however, we could see that too much water was not Home Girl's problem. While one of the cops talked to Home Boy the other tried desperately to keep Home Girl upright. Even from yards away Rachel and I could see her hysterical tears as her body wobbled violently to and fro. We looked over to the fence where the Hildebrands looked on scornfully. Trey was grinning ear to ear.

The owner's office can neither see nor hear what is happening at the front desk so Rachel and I took shifts to keep each other updated.

"Home Girl is on the ground now," Rachel said. "Oh oh, and now she's puking. Oh man. The cop is just standing over her. Come on, at least hold her hair back or something."

Switch.

"Okay she's standing now," I reported, "and whoa she's pissed. We've got arms flying everywhere. Oh yeah, she is not happy." I opened the window. "I can't hear what she's saying, but I can tell she's yelling."

Switch.

"Now they're both on the ground. Oh, Home Girl's trying to get up. Nope - she's down again."

Switch.

"The Hildebrands are at a picnic table giving their statements to a cop. Good god, I bet this has just made their night."

Switch.

"Home Girl is puking again. Where are her shoes? Where are either of their shoes?"

Switch.

"There are a lot more people gathered around now. They're both sitting and the cop is doing something behind Home Girl's back...there's no way they're cuffing them. Are they cuffing them?"

They were. I called Rachel over and we watched as Home Boy and Girl did the walk-of-shame across the point and straight into a police cruiser. Mackinac Island is a no-cars allowed town with the only exception being emergency and construction vehicles. When the cop cars come out you know something serious is going down. For this circumstance the SUV cruiser seemed a bit overkill, but with the strength one of the cops was using to keep Home Girl on her feet it was clear the car was not due to the severity of the crime, but the fact that one of the two delinquents probably could not make the quarter of a mile walk to the police station. Poor Home Girl sobbed and yelled all the way into the car.

When Trey finally appeared back in the office he was like a kid on Christmas; he absolutely loves when people make fools of themselves (and being Mackinac's Fire Chief he's always one of the first to know when someone is making a fool of themselves). He filled in the rest of the story for us: Home Boy did not just had his pants down on the break wall. He and Home Girl had been up against on of the rocks having sex. Now, I should mention that this was not happening at 10 or 11 at night. Oh no. The entire ordeal spanned from about 7:45 to 9pm. The sun does not even begin setting until 9:30pm. Home Boy and Girl did it against the rocks for all of the world to see (they could have at least been smart enough to lay down between the rocks and try to shield themselves) and even had children throwing rocks at them to make them stop (hence the "there are children out there" observation). I swear you cannot make this stuff up (well...you can, but isn't it so much better knowing that it's all real?).

Nearing the end of my shift (Rachel left at 10pm and I continued on until midnight) Trey suddenly burst through the office door. His eyes were wide with excitement and he smiled like the Grinch after he took all of Whoville's Christmas presents. "Georgia, it gets better!" he cackled. I waited as he caught his breath. The man was literally giddy with whatever news he had just ascertained from one of his cop buddies.

"So, we have shipped Home Boy over to the mainland because not only does he already have a string of priors on his record, but there is a felony arrest warrant out for him." I started to gasp. "Wait," Trey said, "it gets better. Home Girl is only twenty so we obviously gave her an MIP [Minor in Possession] AND..." he paused, giving the punchline the weight it deserved, "Home Boy and Home Girl are HALF brother and sister."

"WHAT?!"

"That is the BEST shit I have ever heard!"

"That sounds like something that should happen in my area of the country."

"Doesn't it?! Oh my god I love my job sometimes."

And thus ends our tale of The Break Wall Bangers.  

When There's No More Mishegas

While talking to a friend the other day I lamented how it had been over a month since I last had a blog post. "I just have nothing to write about," I said. 

"Anymore crazies on the train?" she asked. 

 "Not really. Just this guy who likes to go into a corner and yell at himself while throwing himself against the walls." He and I have ridden the train together on several occasions. 

Suddenly it hit me. I talked about him like that was totally natural: a very disturbed young man who gets into an absolute rage, starts screaming at the empty space around him and slamming his body into the car walls. The first time I was on a train with him I was understandably concerned, but after a few stops went by and no one on the train seemed particularly upset I was able to tune him out. When Yelling Man was on my train a week later my only thought was to turn up my music. The crazies are no longer seen as special enough to warrant my attention or to even write about! It's time to leave, ladies and gentlemen. I am clearly too acclimated. 

When I first arrived in Chicago everything fascinated me. The people on the train, protestors on the street, the quick and determined way everyone moved around on the sidewalks and in their cars. Now, I am one of them. I don't give a second look to the afro-engulfed woman, constantly shouting profanity, who is staked out around the corner from Heartbeat Theatre. I don't question the man who walks around downtown Evanston rapping about how caffeine will kill us all (and I typically get his songs stuck in my head). And I try to act like I am talking on my phone when I see someone in my path who is clad in some sort of uniform, holding a clipboard, and smiling right at me (although I did give $2 to the Gay Rights Campaign today because that girl was very persistent and I am weak to a cause I care so much about!). 

I know it is not a bad thing to grow comfortable in one's home, but to an aspiring travel writer in her early twenties who is still seeking compelling material no longer noticing the oddities of a place is deadly (in a writer's block kind of way). Therefore, I am heading back up to Mackinac Island for the summer to work at my beloved Orchid Hotel where I will hopefully come away with as many entertaining stories as I did before. Life will be a bit different on the island this year. I will not arrive until the end of June and I will be there until the season closes at the end of October. I have also recently learned that I am able to live with one of my best friends for a good part of the season and I can only imagine that hilarious and possible hazardous events will ensue. I will certainly miss the friends I made on the island last year who will not be returning this summer, but I have my fingers crossed that I will still meet some fun and interesting people. What will I do after my time on the island? Who the hell knows...but while I postpone thinking about my future even longer I will entertain you with a story from the past month and a half: 

Towards the beginning of last month I was invited to a college friend's birthday get together. It was at a bar far from any train stop in Wrigleyville so I took a bus there. The bus ride itself wasn't terribly eventful and I watched the blinking blue dot on my phone's Google Map the entire way so as not to miss my stop. At one point I looked to my left and a person in very detailed skeletal makeup was leaning over the empty seat next to me. I somehow managed not to jump at this unexpected sight and turned back around to stare at my dot. 

Finally, the next road was the one I needed. I pulled the lever, walked to the front of the bus, and then watched as the bus driver sailed past the stop. What the hell? I looked at him, but he made no notice of me. In the rear view mirror I could see Skeletal staring intently at street signs. She sprang forth suddenly and yanked on the lever. The driver stopped immediately and Skeletal and I disembarked. We were about five blocks from where I needed to be so I began walking in the direction of my original stop. Skeletal walked in front for a few paces before darting into an unmarked bar. It was then that I noticed a lot of Skeletals walking on the sidewalk. Their makeup and outfits were so exaggerated and Tim Burton-esque that I couldn't figure out if they were serious or costumes. 

Upon walking into the designated birthday bash bar my immediate reaction was to run. Hearing someone is going to have a party at a bar brings to mind crowded mingling and music so loud you can't understand the name of everyone you are being introduced to. To me, this sounds like the ideal social situation to show up to alone when the only other party goers you know are the birthday boy and his girlfriend. Instead, the party consisted of about four tables that had been dragged together banquet style. Guests were seated on either side and it was very apparent that everyone was part of a couple. Being the only single attendee it was my infinite pleasure to take a seat at the head of the table. Making this situation even more joyous was the fact that to my right sat a boy and girl who came to this shindig as a first date and on my left was a couple who had only recently become official. I ordered a drink before even taking off my coat. 

Mercifully, my roommate Cassie* decided to be my "plus one." By the time she arrived everyone was a few drinks in and becoming quite chatty. The boy on the first date was not having a great experience and each time his date left to use the loo he would lean to me and say, "Is my humour too crass? I feel like I'm scaring her with the off-colour jokes and profanity." 

"I think your jokes are funny," I assured him. 

"I know! I wish she was laughing as much as you! I think she's too much of a good-girl." Thank you? 

When the party ended and everyone began to go their separate ways, Cassie and I were invited to hangout at another party goer's apartment. We agreed and all set off to catch the brown line. While on the brown line Cassie had the wise revelation that if we did not head back home right then we would miss the last purple line to Evanston. She got off the brown line abruptly and I had sense enough to follow because somewhere in my clouded mind I thought, "Best not to lose my roommate after three drinks. We boarded a red line heading north. 

As usual, the red line was crowded, but we were able to find two sideways-facing seats. At the next stop an extremely intoxicated college student entered the car and plopped into one of the forward-facing seats directly to mine and Cassie's right. His loud volume and swaying body caused the person next to him to move to the back of the train. Unperturbed, the drunk student spread out across both seats. He turned to Cassie, "That guy thought I was too loud." 

"You are a bit loud," she answered good-humouredly. 

 "But now I got these seats allllll to myself!" 

 "It's good to spread out." 

"Do you want to scare off your seatmate? I can show you how." 

I leaned forward and smiled at the drunkard. "Hello." 

"No," Cassie responded, "I think I'll keep my seatmate." 

"Oh! Well she's a pretty seatmate." He widened his eyes to look more sincere. "If I had a seatmate like her I wouldn't want to scare her off either." 

"You've got some glitter on your face," Cassie observed. 

"Ah yeah. I got glitter bombed by some dudes at this party." 

 "It's kind of all over." 

 "Got hit real hard." 

Directly across from Cassie and me was Zach Galifianakis's twin. He was wearing a purple baja and held a phone closely to his ear while watching everyone from the corners of his eyes. Across from Glitter was a young downtrodden man with his head in his hands, who was swaying dangerously to and fro. I looked around at the other occupants of the train. There was a man in slight business attire holding a Starbucks bag (I wanted to know what Starbucks was opened this late). By the back door stood an extremely curvy woman in petite clothing who was hanging onto a man I could only assume was her boyfriend or soon to be one-night-stand. I wondered if I looked as outwardly inebriated to these people as Glitter did. No one else on the train seemed as unsteady on their feet as I felt. To be fair, however, I was not swaying as Gumby-like as Glitter and I was fortunate to be sitting. My dumb smile was perhaps the only thing giving me away. Then again, to smile on the CTA only makes you look either like a tourist or mentally unstable. 

Luckily, my rum-and-coke-induced smile was to be upstaged when the downtrodden man across from us turned out not to be sad or tired, but sick. He began spewing pink foam onto the floor. Like a machine, half of the car around us sprang from their seats and huddled around the front door. Their terrified looks as they "sardined" themselves into a few feet of space would make one think this man was wielding a weapon instead of a stomach obviously too full of alcohol. 

 "Dude," Glitter said, "you're sick, dude." The man ignored this observation and continued to puke. "You should get off the train, dude. You're throwing up." Suddenly, the voluptuous woman in Barbie's clothing came strutting in between Glitter and Sir Sick A Lot. "Is he botherin' you?" she asked forcefully. 

"No, I'm just pointing out that he's sick." "IS HE bo-ther-in' you?" 

"No. I just think maybe he should get off the train if he's sick." 

"He ain't none of your concern, okay? He ain't puking on you." 

"No, but I just don't think he should be on the train like -" 

"You just mind yer own business, okay? He ain't botherin' you -- he ain't botherin' nobody, okay?" 

Magically, Sir Sick A Lot was standing beside Hoochie Mama like he hadn't just emptied the contents of his stomach for the last eight minutes. "What's your problem?" he said to Glitter. 

"I don't have a problem!" Glitter threw his hands in the air. "I was just saying that you're sick." 

"What's your deal, man, huh? You got a problem?" 

Hoochie Mama's boyfriend decided to join in the fray as well. He made his way to her side, which was right in front of Cassie and me. "Dude," he said to Glitter, trying to put on a friendly smile, "just stop talking." 

"I was just saying he was sick!" Glitter protested. 

"You want me to punch you in your face?" Sir Sick asked. "Cause I'll do it. I'll punch you in your motherfuckin' face." 

"I don't want you to punch me in my face." 

"Dude, just stop talking," the boyfriend advised again. A bottle of vodka dropped from his pants. "Opps," he said, picking it up and stuffing it in a pocket once more. I could see another bottle sticking out of a pocket on the inside of his coat. 

"I'm just saying that he was sick and now I'm about to get punched in the face." 

Cassie leaned over to Glitter. "You should just stop talking." 

"I'm gonna punch you in your motherfuckin' face," Sir Sick repeated. 

 "If that's what will make you feel better." Glitter crossed his arms across his chest. 

Hoochie Mama and Sir Sick became a cluster of "He wasn't even botherin' you" and "I'm gonna punch you in your face." Around this time I suddenly noticed a severe lack of passengers on the train. Baja Man and Starbucks were still here as well as another young guy, but I could have sworn there had been more. 

"Dude, you got glitter on your face," Alcohol Pants pointed out, still smiling pleasantly. 

"I got glitter bombed." 

"I'm just pointing out that you got glitter all over your face." 

"Well at least I'm not the one puking on the train." 

The smile faded. "Now you're just being a smart ass." 

Hoochie Mama took a seat beside Glitter and convinced Sir Sick and Alcohol Pants to go to the front of the train. "I got this," she called. It was not clear what she had, but she continued to say that until finally joining both of the men at the front of the train. She soothed and petted each of them, changing her boast to, "It ain't worth it. It ain't worth it." Everyone left on the train remained silent until all four of them - Hoochie Mama, Alcohol Pants, Sir Sick and Glitter - departed at Loyola. 

As soon as the doors shut Galifianakis Jr said into his phone, "Did you get all that?" Starbucks looked over at Cassie and me and said, "I cannot believe they all got off at the same stop." 

"I know!" I had been bursting with this exclamation since the doors closed. "That boy is a dead man." 

"He should have just ridden the train one more stop and then come back down." 

"My friend recorded the whole thing," Galifianakis said to Cassie, gesturing at his phone. "I do recordings and we're going to put that in something." 

"Oh." 

"Here's my card. Add me on Facebook." He handed the card to Cassie. It was bright yellow with buttons crafted into flowers in the background. The card read: "Sid Yiddish. Actor, Poet, Writer, Throat Singer, Mishegas."(I later looked up this last word and found that it is Yiddish for "Insanity or craziness"...Clever, Sid.) 

 Finally, we reached the Howard station. Cassie's original concern about missing the purple line turned out to be apt. We had missed the last one of the night by two minutes. Thankfully, Cassie often works late in downtown Chicago and has found herself in this predicament on more than one occasion (until this night I had only experienced this once and practically sprinted the 1.8 miles back to my car because the Howard District terrifies me so). 

We left the train platform and headed downstairs where we found a bus that would take us within a few blocks of our apartment. Unfortunately, the bus was not leaving for a half hour (making the departure at 2:30am). Cassie and I took a seat inside the bus. We were shortly followed by Sid, Starbucks, and the other young guy from our same car. Starbucks turned to us and said, "So you ladies survived the festivities, eh?" We had indeed.

I Plead the Fifth

My position as an Artistic Administration Intern at Heartbeat Theatre requires me to float between all of the administration departments. Since starting in January it has been apparent that my primary interests are in Development and I now basically go between Front of House duties and helping the Director of Development, Tad*, plan for our annual benefit. Thus far, the majority of this planning involves researching and soliciting possible donors for live auction prizes and raffle items. Most of the time I look up a place in Chicago, fill-out a letter of appeal, give it to Tad to sign, and then I post it. Other times, however, Tad and I go door to door with our letters, hoping an in-person interaction will prove more fruitful.

Yesterday, Tad and I drove to my neck of the woods to visit some of the popular shops and spas in downtown Evanston. Whenever we drive somewhere we take the Heartbeat shuttle and Tad drives. I have to admit that Tad is one of a handful of people who makes me slightly nervous when they drive. He doesn't pay much attention to other drivers and every now and then I so doubt his ability to brake that I find myself doing the parental "invisible brake" move.

Our drive started out as it always does: Tad backed out of the Heartbeat driveway and I braced myself for the inevitable impact with the cement wall across the narrow cobble-stoned road. Thankfully I was proven wrong once again and we headed into the city to pick up a candle-filled gift bag. We got the gift and then made our way to Lake Shore Drive. On the way we encountered an intersection with downed lights. The woman in front of us was not a terribly assertive driver and let about five cars go before she finally took her turn. When she did, Tad plowed on behind her much to the surprise of two other cars: one which was attempting to turn in front of us and another which got about a foot away from my passenger side door.

"Why are they honking?" Tad asked. "That lady went and no one seemed to mind."

I should mention that, like me, Tad is a fellow military brat. However, unlike my military brat life, Tad's overseas experience was spent in the Middle East as the son of a diplomat. Tad's family had their own driver and Tad only came to the States to attend a college in Chicago. Basically, Tad has had little experience driving his own car. I explained to Tad how powerless intersections became four-way stops. I am not quite confident that the next time he'll actually follow that rule, but maybe he'll at least not question the dirty looks from the other drivers.

We arrived in Evanston and Tad pulled up in front of the first business we were to solicit. Neither of us had enough change for more than thirty minutes at a meter and we wanted to save that for the row of businesses on the main drag. I hopped out of the car and found that the place was closed. I got back into the car and we headed a few blocks west. I pointed to the awning of the next store that was on our list. There were two cars parallel parked out front with enough space between them for the Heartbeat shuttle. "I'll wait in here," Tad said as he started to pull between the two cars. I watched anxiously as the side of the shuttle seemed to near the front of the parked white Lexus. We can make it, we can make it, I thought.

SCRAAAAPPPPPP - BOOM!

We didn't make it. Tad turned to me suddenly. "Did we just hit that car?!" I thought the sound and vibration through the shuttle had made the answer very obvious, but I craned my neck anyways to inspect the damage. All I saw was the curb and Tad turned the shuttle back towards the road. "I'm not sure," I said, "but it sounds like we did."

"Oh my god. Did we -- oh my god." Tad's eyes were wide and he looked from the wheel to the rear-view mirror.

"Maybe it was just the headlight," I offered. "Cars can make a lot of noise even when there's no real damage."

"Oh my god." Tad was looking over his left shoulder.

"I had a car fly past me once and they were so close that the sound sounded like he had just scraped all the paint off my car."

Tad pulled back into traffic. "We just hit that car...can you see a dent?" I wasn't sure if he meant the shuttle or the Lexus. We were now a block and a half away from the Lexus so I tried to look at the side of the shuttle.

"I can't tell," I said, watching the Lexus disappear completely from view. "Are we...we're not going to stop?"

"I can't believe I just hit that car. It's probably not that bad, right?"

"Probably not. Are we really not stopping?"

"Oh god. I think I saw a silver streak left on the car." We paused at a red light. "Are the rest of the shops north?" Tad asked.

"...Yes...we're really not stopping?" I felt dumbfounded. The side of the shuttle read "Heartbeat Theatre Shuttle" from wheel to wheel. The owner of the Lexus wouldn't have even needed to run out and read our license plate. The shuttle literally spelled out the name of the streak-leaving culprit.

I couldn't tell if Tad had stopped answering me because he wanted to ignore the situation or because he was that petrified. A typically self-assured man, I had never seen him so at a loss for words and indecisive.

He turned north on a street a few blocks away from my apartment. "Do you think we damaged that car?" he asked.

"Pull over here and I'll check the shuttle," I said. "If we left paint on their car then it has to be missing from ours."

Tad pulled over. I checked the rear-view mirror, only slightly paranoid that the owner of the Lexus might have seen the incident and followed us on a warpath. I mean, that's what I would have done if I had seen someone hit my car. Luckily, there was no paint missing from the side of the shuttle. Not even a scratch! There was, however, a small dent in the side door. A ten year old shuttle, Tad and I were not completely certain as to whether that dent had already been there or not.

We spent the next hour handing out appeal letters and walking from shop to shop in downtown Evanston. By 4pm we had only four letters, one of which was addresses to the business where the white Lexus had been parked. Tad and I stared at the letter for a moment. "Do you think we should go back?" Tad asked. I knew he meant only to deliver the letter, not to apologize to the Lexus owner. I fully believed that he would have dropped me off around the corner from the business and waited for me, safe from view. "Let's just post it," I said.

I realize that this story makes Tad sound like a horrible person who does not take responsibility for his actions. This is not true. As I said earlier, Tad's reaction to the hit-and-run took me completely by surprised. In the past three months I have known him as a thoughtful, upstanding, and confident person, who is not afraid to admit when he is wrong. It was not until after Tad had dropped me off at my apartment that the true cause of Tad's panic hit me: there is a very high probability that he does not possess a U.S. drivers license. Having spent his entire high school career in the Middle East being driven around by an armed guard, I am unsure as to whether he has any type of drivers license at all. Like me, Tad is in his early twenties and needs an ID to order a drink, but age can be demonstrated by a passport, too. I had ordered drinks with Tad once while hosting a Bingo benefit for Heartbeat. I could not recollect what he had shown as his ID. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think either of us were even carded that night.

As the Heartbeat shuttle drove down my street I thought about how often I needed to show my drivers license for one reason or another, but how each of those instances could have been satisfied with a passport. Maybe Tad had a military ID. That would show his age and have the hologram to prove it wasn't a fake. The shuttle yielded briefly at a stop sign before speeding through the intersection. I watched until it was more than a block away. I wanted to make sure he didn't hit my car.

Locked

I spent the beginning of last week babysitting a house with two large German Shepherds. After working at Heartbeat Theatre on Monday I drove straight to the house, let the dogs out, and feed them dinner. I was trying to catch a 5:10pm train downtown for an author event so I made a quick supper for myself, grabbed my car keys, and went outside to get my overnight bag from the car. A small cream coloured curly haired dog greeted me in the front yard and stretched his short legs all the way up to my thigh. A woman came by and apologized for the dog's enthusiasm. I smiled and said it was 'no problem' and headed back inside. I turned the door knob. My hand was met with unexpected resistance.

My heart stopped. I took a deep breath and told myself not to panic. When I had first arrived at the house the door knob had taken some force to turn so this wasn't unusual. I tried again. Nothing. My anxiety began to rise ever so slightly as I pulled and shook the door with all of my might. Still nothing. The door was a steel fortress protecting the house, the dogs, the keys, and my cellphone.

I walked around the front of the house trying to open every window. Nothing budged. The woman with the curly dog walked by once again. "Are you one of their neighbours?" I asked, gesturing to the fortified house. "Yes," the woman responded. "You wouldn't by any chance have a key to their house, would you?" I asked and added, "I'm watching their pets and...I seem to have locked myself out..."

She checked her watch. "Oh! They normally get home around five. That's in fifteen minutes."

"Yeah...they're in Hawaii for the next two weeks. They left this morning."

The woman's face fell along with my hope. I suddenly remembered the back of the house. I had bolted the back door before going outside to get my bag, but it had become unusually warm in Chicago. Maybe the owners had left a window open for a breeze! I walked along the side of the house and was met with a five foot tall solid wood fence. Naturally, the lock was located on the inside of the fence. I leaned over as best as I could, but was lacking in about three inches of length. I tried to extend my reach with my car keys, but was only able to brush the top of the lock.

(I should take a quick aside and explain that the pet/house-sitting I do in Chicagoland is all organized by a company called PetLand*. Pet owners contact PetLand whenever they need dog walkers or house-sitters. PetLand, who has done background checks on all of its employees, then calls those of us willing to do house-sits and sees who is available. Not a bad way to make money, but it does make the experience of staying in someone's house and taking care of their pets oddly impersonal. I meet the owners once before they leave and then that's it.)

Ten minutes later I was sitting in the nice neighbour's kitchen with her dog in my lap. She offered me her iPhone and I looked up the number to PetLand. I was trying to track down the boss, Janet*, who would be the only person with a spare key to the house or knowledge of where a spare key may be. Janet was, of course, gone for the day and the store clerk told me that she was not allowed to release her cellphone number. She said that she would call Janet and I gave her Nice Lady's home phone number and hung-up. Nice Lady, a professor at DePaul, went upstairs to grade papers. She told me to make myself at home and that she did not have to be anywhere until her yoga class, which was an hour and half away.

The phone rang. "Georgia, it's for you!" Nice Lady called from atop the stairs. "Georgia," Janet said before I had barely uttered 'hello', "what happened?"

"I've locked myself out of the German Shepherds' house. I don't even know how it happened! I was going outside to get my stuff, I didn't even shut the door and it somehow shut and locked behind me."

"And you don't have the key."

"It's in the house along with my cellphone."

"Where are you now?"

"Some nice neighbor's house. They have a dog walker, though. I assume it's a PetLand dog walker because I saw a PetLand packet on their table. Can you contact whoever that is and get their key?"

"I'm going to have to go back to office because I'm the only one with a key to the back room."

"Okay."

"It's going to take me an hour to get there."

...Of course...

While Janet made her hour long trek back to PetLand, I sat in Nice Lady's kitchen, wondering how this situation could possibly be anymore embarrassing. An hour later Janet called.

"It's not good," she said, when I asked if she found a key. "They don't use our dog walker and they're new clients so we don't have a key." I saw dollar signs float past my eyes as I thought of what a locksmith was going to cost. Would they have to change the locks or could they just get me in the house? "However, I do have the number to their dog walker, Adam*, and the number to a neighbor who might have a key." I scrambled for a pen and began to write the numbers on my arm before Nice Lady appeared with a scrap of paper. I thanked Janet and told her I would keep her updated.

For some reason, Janet had the dog walker's name and cellphone number, but only the neighbor-with-the-key's number. As luck would have it, Nice Lady was the head of the neighborhood watch! She pulled out her list of names and numbers and found that the house was right next door! Nice Lady suggested we go over in person to get the key. As we walked out of her house I shut her front door behind me. Nice Lady gasped and spun around.

"No," I said.

"That door is locked!"

I fell against the wall and slid down the the ground. "What is happening?!" Nice Lady began to laugh hysterically. "I swear," I said, "I've never even locked myself out of my own house! This never happens to me!"

"We'll deal with that later. Let's go get that key."

We went next door, my head hung low, and were greeted by the neighbor's teenage daughter who seemed to be experimenting with mascara for the first time.

"Ya?" she said, obviously annoyed that we had interrupted her trial and error time.

"Is your mother home?" Nice Lady asked.

"She's out for a wa-wlk." It was like listening to an SNL parody of a Kardashian sister.

"This young lady," Nice Lady gestured at me, "is babysitting Barbara and Lucy's* dogs and has gotten herself locked out. Apparently your mother has the key. Do you know where that might be?"

"Nooooo."

"Do you know when she'll be back?" I asked.

"She went for a wa-wlk."

"We've established that," I wanted to respond. Luckily, Nice Lady interjected with, "Well have your mother call us as soon as she gets in, okay?"

"Okayyyy."

Walking back to her house, Nice Lady led me to her backyard. "I hope you're not an axe-murderer," she said, "because now you're going to know where our spare key is."

"Don't worry," I said, clearly not listening to the words coming out of my mouth, "I've had two FBI background checks." Nice Lady gave me an odd look, but continued walking in the direction of her secret rock. She lifted it. No key. "Oh that's right," she said, "when my husband's out of town he takes the spare key."

"How long is your husband out of town for?"

"A week. He left for Springfield this morning."

"Ah."

"My children should have a key, though."

"Oh good!"

"They live in downtown...and their numbers are in my cellphone..."

"...Which is in the house..."

"Yes."

We walked to the front of the house. As we passed her garage door Nice Lady stopped suddenly. She squinted at the rear entrance, which consisted of a plexiglass door and a wooden door. The reflection of the wooden door in the plexiglass was slightly askew. Nice Lady walked over and found the door mercifully left ajar. Huzzah! We made it into the house with just enough time to answer a call from Janet.

"What's happening?" she asked after Nice Lady handed me the phone. I explained waiting for the neighbor to get back from her walk. "Those dogs are probably ruining the house," Janet commented.

"Well I had just fed them and let them outside before I went to grab my stuff. I was actually about to crate them so they should be fine."

"Why were you going to crate them?"

I suddenly realized my mistake. With PetLand, house sitters are supposed to start their watch at 3pm and not leave the house until morning. Have I ever actually adhered to this rule? Of course not, but I wasn't about to let Janet know that.

"Oh. I was going to go hear an author give a talk downtown."

"You know that when you start your sit at three you are expected to stay in the house the rest of the night. Is this going to be a problem?" Her I'm-the-boss voice was beginning to appear.

"Oh no! Travis [the assistant manager] said that we could leave to go get dinner if we needed to."

"Well yes, you can do that, but that's something that should only take an hour."

"The author event was in Uptown and I was going to drive so it was only going to be an hour. If even that really because the talk was only a half hour long." In case it's not obvious, I was making up every word. The author event was in downtown and I was planning on taking the train. The total excursion probably would have been close to three hours. Luckily, though, Janet trusted my words. She told me to call her as soon as something happened and hung up.

Another thirty minutes went by and Nice Lady's yoga class was looming dangerously close. I knew I could not expect her to miss her class to let me continue to hangout in her house and read her New York Times. She came downstairs in her yoga clothes. "Let's give the neighbors another ring," she suggested. Just as I had suspected, Mini Kardashian had never given her mother our message. Nice Lady explained the situation and said that we would be over momentarily. I barely placed a foot on the neighbor's doorstep before I took the key from her hands and bolted to the German Shepherds' house. Two and a half hours had passed since I had been inside the house. The spare key in my hand seemed to good to be true and yet...it worked! I threw the door open and was greeted ecstatically by the bear-sized dogs. I grabbed my cellphone, THE KEYS, and called Janet to relay the good news as I walked back over to the neighbor's house. I thanked both the neighbor and (especially) Nice Lady for helping me out and wished them both a good night.

As I walked back to the German Shepherds' house I made mental note to get Nice Lady a gift card to somewhere. I walked inside the house, shut the door, and stopped: I had never asked her name...

A Tale of Twigs, Bags, and Animals: More Adventures from the CTA

Spring has sprung in the Windy City, dear readers! I have been able to walk outside in nothing but a dress and cardigan for the past week! It has been glorious. It’s been a while since I last wrote something on here. I suppose that means my life has become boring? I work at the Heartbeat Theatre, work at the Gap, pet-sit almost every other weekend and try to see what few friends I have in the city at least once a week. Thankfully, I have the trusty Notes feature on my iPhone, which allows me to quickly jot down anything peculiar that I come across throughout the day. As one would expect, most of these happenings occur on the wonderful CTA. And thus we begin with more tales from the CTA (cue fog and eerie music):

1. Gorilla Boy

I wish I were joking when I say that there was a young man on the CTA one morning pretending to be a gorilla (or at least some kind of primate). He was not wearing a costume or anything, but instead beat his chest, hooted, hollered, grunted, and periodically swung from the bars (a real feat since there are really no horizontal bars on the El). I am also unsure as to whether he was pretending to be a gorilla or whether he actually thought he was a gorilla. He was by himself and not showing off for any friends, which leads me to believe the latter may be true.

2. The Bag Ladies

I have had the pleasure of running into these two women twice (and I mean that without a trace of irony). The Bag Ladies are two elderly women who travel around with two small carts (the kind you see older city people using to carry their groceries home). These carts are absolutely over flowing with clear garbage bags full of paper. The carts themselves probably measure only 2.5 feet tall. The carts plus the bags, however, tower over me by about a foot.

The Bag Ladies typically take up one whole end of an El car. They park their carts in the area reserved for a wheel chair and then line the rest of the space with paper from the bags. Having only run into them on the Red Line I assume that they just ride different lines back and forth to escape the cold.

The first time I encountered the Bag Ladies I was rushing to make the northbound Red Line. I ran up the stairs as I heard the train arrive and bee-lined into the first available door. One Bag Lady stood in the threshold of the door while the other picked up all the papers spread along the floors and walls (I don’t even know how they managed that). Bag Lady #2 was very methodical in how she picked up the paper. I do not remember seeing the expected gradual progression of clutter to spotless. It was simply like there was paper there and then it was gone. She handed the paper to Bag Lady #1, who swiftly tucked them into the top garbage bag. When they had double-checked to make sure they had everything, Bag Lady #2 called to the conductor, “Okay! We’re done now! Thanks!” My friend who was waiting for the southbound Red Line texted me later to say that the Bag Ladies had simply boarded the southbound train and set up their paper camp at the end of one car.

The second time I met the Bag Ladies was as I headed downtown one evening. I stepped onto the Red Line looking down at my phone and stood with my back to one of the walls. When I looked up I noticed two carts parked in the handicapped section. They were piled high with clear garbage bags. The surrounding areas where completely white in a blanket of paper. I looked over and there were the Bag Ladies. They wore their same matching black leather trench coats and red and green plaid winter scarves. Bag Lady #1 was sleeping as she sat upright. Bag Lady #2 sat beside her to serve as a prop. As the train moved, Bag Lady #2 picked up bits of trash around her. When the train came to its next stop, Bag Lady #2 got up and threw all of these items off the train.

A student boarded at Loyola and took a seat across from the Bag Ladies. Like everyone my age, she immediately began playing with her phone. Obviously aware of their eccentricities, Bag Lady #2 (the apparent alpha of the two women) leaned across and asked the young girl to please not hold her phone completely upright. The Bag Ladies were used to being gawked at and she explained that they did not want to suspect anyone of trying to take their picture. The student seemed a bit taken aback, but happily complied. Never before have I witnessed such a polite and surreal conversation. I made sure not to point my phone towards them either.

3. You’re So Pretty

I catch the same train to work every morning: 10:37am. Through a series of trial and error I learned that this one gave me both a good chunk of my morning to slowly get ready, while also getting me to the theatre right around 11am (even on the days when it stops randomly). One morning, however, I lounged a bit too long and missed my train. As I waited around for the 10:45 a man approached me. He looked to be in his late fifties, balding, and wore owl-like glasses. “Excuse me,” he said, “can I just tell you that you are really pretty?”

“Oh thank you,” I responded. I’m certainly never one to turn down a compliment.

“Yeah. You are just very very attractive. I think you are the nicest looking girl I have seen in weeks.”

“Well thank you very much.”

The man strolled down the platform.

I was constructing an email to my office manager explaining that I was going to be late when Owl Eyes approached again. “Is that your natural hair colour?” he asked.

“Yes it is.”

“Wow. You are just really pretty.”

“Well thank you very much.”

He left again.

I finished the email to the office manager and hit ‘Send'. “The train’s coming.” I looked up. Owl Eyes was smiling widely at me and pointing down the tracks. “The train’s right there,” he said.”

“Oh good,” I replied.

“You are really really pretty.”

“Thank you.” The flattery was swiftly moving to Creep Land.

“You are just the nicest girl I have seen in weeks. Thank you.”

“Thanks.” My mind had gone into temporary shock from the unwanted and surprising attention. The train arrived. I waited to see what car Owl Eyes was boarding and then made sure to get on another one. I knew I couldn’t handle more “you’re so pretty” remarks in an enclosed space for ten minutes.

Everyone departed the train at Howard and waited for the Red Line. I texted my best friend to share the strange encounter.“You are just so pretty.” I turned with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Owl Eyes had found me on the platform. What exactly was the point of all this? What did he get out of it? “Do you go to Northwestern?” he asked.

“No,” I responded and resisted the reflex to tell him what I was doing in Chicago.

“I went to Northwestern. I wasn’t very smart though. I’m a good man. I’ve always said, It’s better to be a good man, than a smart man.”

“Ah.” I inched closer to a young guy standing at the front of the platform. I thought that if Owl Eyes didn’t let up them I might be able to somehow act like I was there with someone.

“You are just so pretty."

“Thank. You.”

Mercifully, the Red Line arrived. Once again I waited for Owl Eyes to board before I chose my car. When I got off at my stop, however (and a stop that is not even that popular to boot!), there he was. Owl Eyes stopped at the top of the stairs and waited for me. He smiled as I passed, but I was fed up with being polite. A few months in the Big City has caused me to lose what Southern niceties I once possessed. I booked it out of the train station, my eyes fixed on the ground.

I crossed the road and headed for the theatre. When I glanced behind, there he was: Owl Eyes a mere few feet behind me. I don’t believe the man meant any harm, but I was now completely pissed off and ready to verbally attack if he spoke one more word. I turned sharply at the ramp to the theatre. Owl Eyes stopped momentarily and then continued on his way.

I learned a valuable lesson that day: I will never again miss my train.

4. Twiggy

Last but not least, I will end with perhaps my favourite of the El Eccentrics: Twiggy. I first saw Twiggy back in January when we both waited for the Purple Line. Twiggy immediately caught my eye because not only did she wear an Obama 2012 button (go Twiggy!), but she chewed a twig. The sight of the twig piqued my interest and I made sure to get as close to Twiggy as possible to see if what was hanging out of her mouth was indeed a twig. I thought that perhaps it was a sprig of rosemary or some other herb. Maybe this was a cold remedy I hadn’t heard of. Upon closer inspection I learned that it was an actual twig.

As we road the train, Twiggy looked intently at the elderly man sitting across from her. Twiggy herself was no spring chicken, but she looked to be in her mid-fifties. This man was easily in his eighties. “You’re looking nice,” Twiggy said. She waited for the man to look around when no one responded. She gestured to his outfit, “You look very spiffy.”

“Oh why thank you,” the old man said.

“Are you goin’ somewhere special?”

“No, no. Just headed downtown for a few things.”

“Well you look very nice.”

“Why thank you.”

Not yet completely fascinated by Twiggy I drifted off into some other thought. When I came back to The World on the El Twiggy was asking the man if his wife had dressed him. The man’s eyes misted over. “No ma’am,” he responded. “I do not have a wife anymore, thank you.”

“What?” Twiggy exclaimed. Oh no, I thought, please tell me you are not about to try and pick this man up. And yet: “A good looking man like you shouldn’t be left on his own,” Twiggy cooed. “How could she possibly leave you?”

“My wife has passed away, if you please, ma’am.”

“Oh well that’s a shame.” (Tone translation: "Hello, rip for the picking!”)

Twiggy continued to try and schmooze with the old man, but it was obvious that he was in his own world thinking of his wife. Behind my sunglasses I glared at Twiggy. “Chew your damn twig and let the man be,” I wanted to say.

Since this day, Twiggy and I have gotten on and off at the same train stops a total of twelve times. Twiggy wears the same outfit: canvas pants, light blue Nikes, periwinkle rain jacket, and the Obama button. Twiggy looks exactly the same from day to day (it seems like even strands of gray hair stay in the exact same place). The only thing that changes is her twig. About every three days Twiggy is chewing on a new twig, which you can tell because the leaves on the twig are different (for a while I thought maybe she was just so excited to find green leaves in winter that she wanted to carry them around with her as long as possible).

It is obvious that Twiggy is lonely. Whenever there is a single elderly person on the train, Twiggy sits as near to them as possible and gradually starts a conversation. Unfortunately it is also obvious that Twiggy lacks common social cues. If she speaks to a man then she immediately inquires as to whether he has a wife or not (each time the man has been a widower). If it is a woman (typically not entirely “normal” looking whereas the men look very put together) Twiggy asks where she works and then asks what hours she works.

I say that Twiggy is lonely, but this does not necessarily mean that she is alone. A small man named Jacques rides on Twiggy’s shoulder. I believe that Twiggy and Jacques used to be an item because Twiggy now scolds Jacques for his interest in younger women. Twiggy speaks harshly to Jacques on this subject, but there is a definite sound of hurt in her voice at the same time. Twiggy has also complained of Jacques “getting in [her] way” and has threatened to flick him off her shoulder. These two can get into some very heated discussions although it is not entirely clear whether Jacques is fighting back or just trying to explain himself.

The last time I saw Twiggy, we were the sole occupants of the train car. If you haven't noticed, I've made it a habit to sit or stand as close to Twiggy as possible so that I can hear everything that she says. We sat across from one another, bobbing periodically with the movement of the train. I wondered if Twiggy recognized me as the girl who always boards the train with her. She stared at me over the top of her glasses. With my sunglasses on and earphones in place, I kept my head turned stoically towards a poster that read "Tucson: The REAL Southwest." Inside my two halves battled it out. One part wanted to welcome a conversation with the woman I had been observing for almost two months. What would we talk about? Could I bring up the name Jacques and see how she responded? Would this then mean that we would have to talk to each other every time we rode the train? Could I ask her about the twig? The other part of me did not want to engage Twiggy because I did not want to ruin the magic that is Twiggy. Talking to Twiggy would be like talking to your favourite movie star and then you have to face the fact that he is just a man, who is a talented actor and not actually Mr. Darcy.

I kept my eyes fixated on the cactus and laughing cowgirl in the poster. I was not ready to give up my Twiggy.

Now You See It, Now You Don't

I have always thought of myself as an independent person. Being a military brat and an only child I just assumed this was an inherent trait. Having spent the past two years moving from state to state, however, I do find myself question just how independent I really am. I am independent enough to entertain myself when I have to and although I do not enjoy being more or less "on my own" I do adapt to it and find a few upsides. Where I am beginning to learn I am not so independent is in my general well-being. Does that make sense? Let's take cooking for instance: yes, I can cook, but I do not like to cook. This means that my meals primarily consist of sauteed vegetables and pasta although lately the vegetables have fallen by the wayside and my dinners have been pasta and cheese. I almost never buy milk because I do not drink it fast enough and the primary staple of my diet is Special K cereal. Sometimes in the morning I will have an egg. When I really sit down and look at this I think: how do I live? Shouldn't there at least be a salad in there? Maybe more protein than just an egg on the odd morning? This is the type of bland diet I used to chide friends for in college. My roommates and I used to tell one of our friends (turkey, pita, ranch dressing, and Pops cereal) that he was going to get scurvy. Now I wonder: am I going to get scurvy? Or more importantly: will I even know if I get scurvy?

About two weeks ago my contacts began hurting my eyes. I would put the lenses in my eyes and would immediately begin tearing up and sniffling. Of course, this is just one of the downsides to being a contact-wearer so I chalked it up to a scratch in my contacts. I continued to wear my contacts everyday. My glasses have not been updated since I was in high school so they are pretty much useless to me.

As the week progressed I became mildly sensitive to light. If I was looking at someone who was sitting with a light behind them I found it hard to look at the person. My bedside lamp became a nuisance as well and there were times when I had to stare at the floor on the CTA because the sun was too bright. My eyes looked and felt puffy and tired even if I didn't feel all that fatigued. There were also times when the veins in my eyes were so prominent that it almost looked like my eyes were bloodshot.

At first I blamed all of these symptoms on my lack of rest. I say "rest" and not "sleep" because I was getting as much sleep as I always have (in bed by 12:30 or 1am and up somewhere between 7:30 and 10am). My schedule, however, had become somewhat chaotic over the past month and I had very little downtime. I thus figured that my body was just exhausted and was expressing this through my eyes (and the noticeable veins were a result of dehydration). I iced my eyes, dabbed them with anti-wrinkle cream and soldiered on. It wasn't until my sensitivity to light increased twofold that I really thought of my eyes as being anything other than tired.

I finally admitted I might have an eye problem when the fluorescent light at work caused me to look away. A meeting with my manager forced me to look at a dark corner of the room because she sat with a large window behind her and the dim bar lighting at our Bingo Benefit caused me to constantly rub my teary eyes. The morning after Bingo I called an optometrist. My eyes had greatly worsened overnight and were now glazed over, in excruciating pain, and puffy to the point where it looked like I had been sobbing all night. To top it off, I had recently developed a severe cold and sounded akin to Minnie Mouse (not even an exaggeration unfortunately). I called the optometrist and attempted to make an appointment for the next day (I still had to go to the theatre after all!):

"We have an opening at 3:30 today and 2pm tomorrow," the chipper receptionist said.

"I'll go with 2pm tomorrow," I squeaked.

"Okay. Be sure to bring your health insurance card and a photo ID tomorrow."

"K."

"Do you wear contacts?"

"Yes."

"Glasses?"

"I have them, but they don't really work so I just wear glasses."

"Are you having a problem with your contacts?"

"You know, I'm not really sure. For about the past two weeks I've just been growing more and more sensitive to light and it's finally gotten to the point where I can't have any lights on around me."

"Oh...are you sure you want to come in tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I haven't decided if I'm going to call in sick today or not."

"Do your eyes hurt, ma'am?"

"Like my actual eyeballs?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Yeah. Quite excruciating really."

"How long have they been hurting?"

"About two weeks."

Silence.

"Ma'am, we can squeeze you in at 10:30 this morning. Do you think you could make that?"

Now I know things were serious. I made the 10:30am appointment and called in sick to work. When I got to the doctor's office they found that I did not have health insurance to cover an optometrist. My insurance covers medical doctors only. The optometrist was a very nice man, however, and took pity on how I was almost having to close my eyes under his lights. "Let me just take you in the back and take one quick peak," he said.

I sat down in the examination chair and Dr. Eyes swiveled the phoropter at me (I thought phoropter would sound better than 'eye examination thingy'). I placed my chin in the chin-rest, Dr. Eyes turned the beam of light on and I immediately whipped my head back in pain. Apparently even in that mila-second Dr. Eyes saw all that he needed to and exclaimed, "Whoa that's bad!" He coaxed me into letting him looking into my other eye for the same length of time and then swiveled the phoropter away.

"Can you be without your contacts?" he asked.

"I mean, I can, but I prefer not to. As long as I don't drive -"

He stopped me. "It actually wasn't a question. You will have to go without your contacts."

"Oh."

"Come with me," he said. We went back to the reception area where Dr. Eyes immediately picked up the phone and began dialing. He rifled through a rolodex and handed me a business card. "Do you know where that is?" he asked. I had just assumed he had given me his business card. I looked down and saw the address for an eye surgeon. Before I could respond, Dr. Eyes began speaking to someone on the phone.

"Hi, this is Dr. Eyes, is Dr. Surgeon in? No? Well I have a patient here who needs to see him -" he turned to me, "what's your schedule like today?"

"Open."

"When is your first available appointment?" he asked into the phone. "2pm? Great. And have Dr. Surgeon calls me when he gets in. I want to explain the situation to him." He hung up then phone and gave me detailed directions to Dr. Surgeon's office.

"Is this bad?" I asked as loudly as I could.

"You have a cold, right?" I nodded. Thank you, Mr. Obvious. "This can often happen with a cold," he said.

"This only happened two days ago," I said, pointing to my throat.

"Oh." Dr. Eyes looked at my answers on the What is Wrong With You Today sheet. "Well Dr. Surgeon can help you out and then when you need new contacts I can prescribe those to you."

I left not sure if I should be feeling just a little bit panicked. I immediately called my mother so I could wonder aloud to someone what would happen if I needed eye surgery. It suddenly hit me how alone I was in case of an emergency.

At 2pm sharp I was sitting in Dr. Surgeon's office, filling out another What is Wrong With You Today form. A nurse called my name and led me into an examination room. My voice was fading rapidly and the young girl seemed miffed that she had to keep leaning over to hear me. Finally, Dr. Surgeon entered and asked me a few basic questions about my symptoms. He then brought his phoropter to my face and, like a case of déjà vu, he shined the light into my eye and immediately exclaimed, "Whoa that's bad!" Had I had the voice I would have said, "WHAT is so bad?? Will somebody tell me?" Instead I waited while he checked the other eye. "Yep, it's in both eyes," he said. "That is very inflamed." He wrote me a prescription for steroid drops, told me to stop wearing my contacts indefinitely and to come back in one week.

I went home and spent the rest of the day under my covers. Luckily the maintenance man had been by that morning to replace my blinds which had collapsed the week before so my room with nice and dark.

While lying in my Bed of Pain, it struck me how I really do not take care of myself when living on my own. When I was back in my original apartment in Evanston I was chided for only having eggs, almond milk, Special K cereal and soy sauce. Aware that I am slightly iron deficient, I never took my iron pills until my boyfriend came and stayed with me and literally put one in my hand every morning. I also never fixed the broken blinds in that apartment until he showed up and let's not even get started on my current lack of fresh fruit and vegetables (although I do have a mango!).

Basically, what this experience has taught me is: health-wise, I am not as independent as I hoped. I apparently need someone else there to remind me to eat more than just Special K and almond milk and that maybe light sensitivity is not a symptom of being tired. Without other people -- I fall apart!

Then again, I haven't even come close to dying yet so I must be doing something right. And thanks to steroids, my eyes are whiter than they've ever been!