It's a Dan Brown World

As a nonfiction writer, I am glad that the crazies of the world (and especially the CTA) seem to be attracted to me. They provide me with excellent writing material and guarantee that my train commutes are rarely boring. Recently, I haven't met any notable crazies except a woman on the CTA who kept shouting that I was "the whore of the CTA" and "the whore of the airport." This was at 8 in the morning and I was too dumbfounded and jet-lagged (I had just returned from Ireland two days previous) to do anything but sit there and ignore her. We were the only two in the train car for about three stops. As soon as the typical morning rush began to bombard the train she turned her shouts elsewhere.

This week, however, I had a much more dedicated crazy. I was on my usual 8:06 a.m. train, which, I have noticed, seems to attract more crazies and angry people than the 8:09 train (the "you're a whore" woman was on the 8:06) -- I guess those three extra minutes of sleep really help! I was able to snag a corner seat. These seats are coveted on the new CTA trains where all seats face the aisle. If you're on a corner then you can avoid being sandwiched in by your book-ending neighbours and it also gives you a little nook to tuck away anything you may be carrying.

I claimed my corner seat, put my tote bag in the nook and began reading a new book a friend lent me. It took only four stops for the train to become jam-packed and a petite woman with a Starbucks cup squeezed onto the seat next to me. Normally I am so engrossed in a book on the train that I am oblivious to anything going on around me. What drew my attention away this morning, however, was the constant turning of the woman with the Starbucks cup. Every minute I would see her head turn and look at me. She did this enough times that I went from self conscious to annoyed very quickly. I then realized that she was talking, but it was at a level where you couldn't tell if it was to herself or to someone near her. Turning my head slightly - the perfect angle of being able to look at her without looking like I was looking at her - I saw that she had her iPhone in one hand and her ear-buds connected to the iPhone. "Ah," I thought, "she is talking to someone on the phone."

I went back to my book, but something about the woman's conversation kept drawing me away. I couldn't understand anything she was saying, but I was curious if she was actually talking to someone or not. She would say a few sentences and then stop, wait a few seconds, and then start talking again, but it wasn't the normal stop-and-go you'd except from a two-person conversation. Finally, I took a peek at the phone in her hands. There was nothing on the screen saying that someone else was on the line. "Here we go," I thought. The woman then dialed a number from her Contacts and waited for it to connect. The number was labeled "Signature, Inc." and was given the designation of "Home." I wondered if this woman was so dedicated to her job that she intentionally labeled it as her "Home" or if she just did not know how to work her iPhone. She waited for the call to connect and when it did she put her phone up to her ear even though her earphones were still in her ears and attached to her phone (for those of you that don't know, this means she could keep the phone on her lap and talk through the speaker on her headphones). Now I knew things were about to get interesting.

"Hey, hey -- it's me," she began, "yeah, I'm on my way down now, I'm on the train. Yeah look -- I talked to the detectives and the FBI and they're just not gonna do a thing. Not a damn thing." She had my full attention. People talking to phantoms on the phone usually say some interesting things, but the ones who bring up detectives or the FBI are even better. "It's that church, you know," she continued, "no one is gonna do a goddamn thing against that church. That's why I'm callin' the State's Attorney. The city of Chicago knows. Oh they know. And they're not gonna do a goddamn thing. They said two letters, two words, and one goddamn thing," She kept repeating this line a lot: two letters, two words, one goddamn _______. I could never completely understand that last word, but each time I thought I heard "game," "pagan," or "thing."

As I eavesdropped, I realized that I hadn't turned a page in my book for a while. It was still open in my hands and people were either going to think I was the world's slowest reader or, my real concern, this woman would realize I was listening to her. She was still glancing over at me from time to time so she was obviously paranoid. I put my book away, pulled out my phone, and began texting what was happening to my roommate. The woman continued to get angrier and louder on the phone: "Because I'm the next target. And no fucking, goddamn way am I going to let someone make me The Target and get away with it. They are endangering lives and no one cares. Not the city of Chicago or the FBI. They think they can just take lives and take mine and not have to pay. No goddamn way. NO GODDAMN WAY. They said -- they said to me two letters, two words, one goddamn thing. Yeah, you know it. Fuckin' church, fucking satanic rituals. Coming in here and taking people's live. I'm not gonna let them. Chicago may be looking the other way, but ain't no one gonna come and make me The Target and not get something from me. NO GODDAMN WAY."

From this point, the woman's conversation began to repeat. I was intrigued by what was going on and wanted to learn more, but all I could piece together was that a church in Chicago is performing satanic rituals on their parishioners, the parishioners are dying from these rituals, the city of Chicago is aware this is going on, but choosing to turn a blind eye, and since this woman is The Target, no one wants to help her. I wondered if she had read any Dan Brown novels lately.

I took another look at her phone. Apparently the call had connected at some point and although she had been talking for about ten minutes, the call time said she had been connected for less than two minutes. I also noticed that Signature, Inc. was an 800 number.

The train finally went underground and the woman got off the phone. She continued to talk angrily to herself about the church and how she had all the evidence that would bring them down. She stated, to no one in particular, that she had a video that would prove everything. She pulled up the video on her phone and, being the creeper that I apparently am, I watched it over her shoulder. The video was of a pair of feet, wearing black sneakers, and walking on carpet. The camera did not move above the ankles and trailed these feet for several seconds until the feet reached tile. At this point the feet moved out of the frame into blinding light and the camera was lifted and moved slowly across a wall of mailboxes. I noticed the woman's current footwear (black sneakers) and gathered that she had videoed her own feet walking down the hallway of her apartment building, into a tiled foyer (hence the bright light probably coming from the front door of the building), and the mailboxes were the ones for the apartment building.

As the train passed through the dark tunnels I was able to get a look at the woman's face. I recognized her immediately as the same woman who, a few weeks previous, had told everyone on the train that we were going to die because the train conductor was new and didn't know how to drive. She said this after the train knocked everyone around a bit at the spot where it always knocks everyone around a bit. I remembered thinking, "Give it a rest woman! Clearly you don't take the train that often if you think a little jolting is the conductor's fault." Now, seeing her again, that previous morning and her shouts made much more sense. I also realized that she was a regular commuter and that our paths will probably cross again.

As we passed through the Loop, most of the morning commute crowd had dispersed and there were about seven other people milling about on my side of the train car. (Some of you may be thinking, "How could all of this possibly take place in one morning commute?? How long are you on the train?" I am on the train for 45 minutes. Just enough time to see most Crazy Train Events from start to finish! Lucky me!) The woman was still very agitated and said, "No one believes me. No one fucking believe me. These goddamn motherfuckers are gonna get away with it -- well not if I have something to say about it! I'm gonna throw this coffee in someone's face and maybe then they'll fucking listen to me." At the mention of "coffee" all seven heads in the train perked up and turned towards me. The woman was holding her coffee in the hand nearest me. I decided that, although I like listening in on these crazy stories and enjoy relaying them to friends, I was not about to become an active member of this woman's delusional morning. I grabbed my tote bag and began to stand when the woman suddenly hopped up and walked to the train door. Everyone watched her out of the corner of their eye (or maybe they were watching for any sudden movements of her Starbucks cup). The woman continued to look over her shoulder at me so I stayed in my seat. I didn't want her thinking I was one of the church members sent to follow her.

The train stopped and the doors opened. As soon as the doors closed again I grabbed my stuff. I stood and headed towards the door since mine was the next stop. I hopped over someone's stretched out legs and planted myself right in front of the exit. I looked out the windows and was suddenly met with the reflective stare of the woman's eyes. I thought she had gotten off at the last stop! Without thinking, I spun to look at her. She was standing right next to me, glaring and looking ready for a fight. I took two huge steps back, making sure to place the outstretched legs between myself and the lady. She kept her eyes on me and I nonchalantly adjusted the straps of my tote bag around my wrist, acting like my almost leap backwards had been a totally natural thing.

Finally the train stopped again, the doors opened, and I let the woman exit before me. We both went up the escalator and while she stood on the right side I scurried up the left. I made it through the turnstile, up the second set of stairs and out of the station. I walked swiftly in the direction of the Sears Tower and waited until I was two blocks away before pulling out my phone to leave a friend a message about everything that had just happened. Before I began talking into my phone I looked behind me to make sure the woman and her Starbucks cup were no where in sight. Then I had to laugh at myself - who was the paranoid one now?

The CTA: A Travel Guide (Part I)

The Chicago Transit Authority. Also known as the CTA, or, if you are talking about only the train system, the El (for Elevated). The CTA comes in various coloured lines: red, purple, brown, pink, green, yellow, blue, and orange. Like the plethora of Chicago neighbourhoods, each line is unique in its route, service, people, and reputation. Let’s go through each colour before beginning your CTA journey:

First, a small map to help you visualize:

Red Line: If there is a “main line” in Chicago then this is it. Spanning from the northern tip of the city – Howard – to the very end – 95^th/Dan Ryan – this line runs straight through the center of Chicago (and is one of the few lines that runs underground). One of two trains that operates 24/7 this line is possibly the most diverse line. You start at Howard (aka Sketchville where there are signs in shop windows of a little child saying, “Don’t shoot me. I want to grow up!”) and then travel south picking up bohemians (Rogers Park), college students (Loyola), businesspeople (Fullerton, Belmont), international transplants from Asia (Argyle, Chinatown/Cermack), Yuppies (Bryn Mawr, Berwyn), drunk frat boys (Addison), tourists (Chicago thru Jackson), and homeless people who just want somewhere to sit, sleep, and be safe for a few hours. There are some people who deem this line one of the more dangerous lines (because there are robberies and altercations sometimes, but come on – we’re in a city) and avoid it after 5 p.m. However, those of us who travel the Red Line every single day – and have, at one point in time, been on the train between all the 24 hours of the day (it’s the fastest/cheapest way to get home at 4 a.m.!) – we simply describe it as eclectic.

Blue Line: The other 24/7 train line of the CTA. Full of college students and young families who do not really want to live in the suburbs, but also cannot afford to live in the city. This line primarily stays in the western half of the city except when it travels east to enter the Loop. (The Loop is what the city center is called – i.e. downtown. It’s called the “Loop” because all of the train lines meet there and loop around the downtown – except the Red Line, which runs straight through.) This line is most known for taking people to and from O’Hare, being 24/7, and, most recently, head-on, unexplainable-it-must-have-been-an-equiptment-failure train crashes. 

Green Line: This line has the worst reputation of all the colours. It runs from Oak Park to Chicago’s Southside (not the geographic Southside like Hyde Park and 95^th/Dan Ryan, but the bad Southside that’s known for lots of violence). Like the Red Line, most people do not enjoy riding this train after dark and there is normally a separation between white people at the front of the train and all other races at the back of the train. Clearly this has nothing to do with segregation, but is instead fear-related (the closer one is to the conductor the safer they feel). I once walked into the very last car of the Green Line to ride from Oak Park back to the Loop and the people I was with stated, “Are you crazy?? We have to go to the front where the conductor is!” Personally, I have never had a problem on the Green Line, but then again I have never taken it south of the Loop. It is also the one line where I have heard first person accounts of being mugged. This line is as diverse as the Red Line, but the Southside aspect seems to make the general public forget that it also travels to Oak Park (aka Yuppieville). 

Yellow Line: The Skokie Swift. This line takes passengers to a from Skokie, a boring suburb most known for Orthodox Jews and a gigantic outdoor mall. It was deemed “swift” because it picked up at the Howard stop (end of the Red Line) and dropped off at the Dempster station without any stops in between. The line has since gained two more stops (whoa!), but is still known as The Skokie Swift. It is also only three to four train cars long, thus making it look like the "special train."

Orange Line: This is the Midway train. It takes passengers from Midway Airport at the southern end of Chicago, travels north to the Loop, and then heads southwest to a few of the neighbourhoods-that-are-almost-suburbs. From what I have been able to tell, people mostly take this line to transfer to another line or to go to Midway Airport. (Also, as a side note, for a train whose primary purpose is going to and from the airport, it should copy the Blue Line and be 24/7 because anyone who flies out right when Midway opens or comes in super late has to either take a taxi or bus.)

Pink Line: Chicago’s newest El line. I honestly do not know much about this line except that it takes people directly west like the Green and Blue lines, but it stops much sooner than those two colours. I like to think it’s main purpose is to take people to Pilsen, a neighbourhood of Chicago set in the industrial area that is slowly becoming an artist-haven.

Purple Line: The line that runs from the tip of Evanston to the Howard station. This line also runs “express” to the Loop during the morning and late-afternoon rush hours. This is an amazing train if you catch the express because it runs parallel to the Red Line, but skips about 14 stops. Deemed a “safe” train because it is full of Evanstonites (i.e. business people, Northwestern college students, and the generally wealthy/well-off). This train is also one of cleanest and has the best air-conditioning in the summer.

Brown Line: Also known as “The White People Mover” and the “Whitey Express.” This train travels through Chicago’s more affluent  neighbourhoods and, like the Purple Line, is typically very clean, polished, and full of less weirdos. This train is perhaps the slowest train, which is either due to all of the twist and turns it must make or the fact that most of the passengers are AARP members (or a combination of both). This train is sardine-packed during the morning and late-afternoon rush hours (re: affluent), sparse on the weekend nights, and ends at an inconvenient 1-2 a.m. 

Do’s and Don’t’s When Riding the CTA:

Do wear your headphones and sunglasses. This way people will not talk to you. If they do, you can either a) respond accordingly or b) act like you can’t hear them and are in your own little world. It is also an excellent way to eavesdrop on interesting conversations.

Don’t talk loudly on your phone, talk loudly to your friend, or listen to loud music. This will cause other passengers to wish bad things upon your person, possibly accost you, and maybe even smack you in the face with their yoga mat (I may or may not have “accidentally” hit a man in the face with my yoga mat when he was yelling into his phone to his “bitches” who didn’t realize what a “fucking fine ass motherfucker” they were dealing with. Everyone on the train glared at him -it was clear we were minutes away from tossing him onto the electrified tracks - and sometimes you’ve just gotta hit these people with a yoga mat. Namaste, asshole.)

Do bring a book. It’s going to be a long ride. (My every day 45 minute to an hour commute on the El has caused me to become a reading fiend! I have gone through six books in two months. I haven't done that since entering Summer Reading Programs in grade school.)

Don’t freak out when you smell smoke. CTA trains catch on fire more often then you’d expect and the conductor has a nifty little spray bottle for leaning out the window and extinguishing these. Or you’ll have a fun adventure of being ushered off the tracks by the fire department.

Do brace yourself when the train starts to move and starts to stop. You do not want to be that person who topples over onto everyone else and then acts surprise that the movement of the train would cause them to do that. It’s embarrassing. 

Don’t be the jackass who takes up two to three seats to take a nap. There’s a special place in Hell for those people.

Do wash your hands after riding the CTA. There are some disgusting people on that train and possibly the source of the next worldwide pandemic. Disgusting acts witnessed on the train include but are not limited to: puking, peeing, snot wiped on the poles, spitting (everywhere), and the discarding of food. For a comparison of just how unsanitary the CTA is: I will (and have) walked barefoot on the streets of Chicago, London, and Aberdeen, Scotland. I will NEVER go barefoot on the CTA. Also, a friend contracted pinkeye from the CTA and I often get large welts from some sort of bug who has clearly learned that the El is the Country Buffet of succulent morsels. 

Don’t step onto a train before the other passengers have disembarked. There is a special place in Hell for these people, too.

Do expect the CTA to run swiftly and smoothly whenever you are not in a hurry and to stop frequently due to track maintenance, fires, hooligans, and because the conductor just feels like it whenever you are crunched for time.

Don’t play the Which Ball is the Cup Under? game. There are people who make their livelihood from these games and you will not win. Ever. The answer is: there is no ball. However, if you say that, then somehow the ball will magically appear. The real game you’re playing is: You Lose and the Ball Man Wins. 

And finally...

Do appreciate the CTA. Sure, it smells funny, people will preach to you, hit on you, pester you for money, and even try to sell you things, but all CTA riders should appreciate that the CTA even exists. No matter where you are in Chicago you are always at the most a two-block walk from a train or bus stop and, even with the recent increase in transit fares, Chicago has the cheapest public transportation system in the U.S. You can also travel several miles without having to do anything except get on and off a train or bus. Months ago I was driving in the car with my boyfriend and as he drove I immediately pulled out my iPhone to start playing a game. Bernardo* (I can't remember if I have ever given my boyfriend an alias on this blog so for now he will be dubbed Bernardo until I can remember what his original alias was) commented, "We can't talk? You immediately have to pull out your cellphone?" It was then that I realized how accustomed I had grown to the everyday equation: traveling = sitting and staring at your phone or reading a book. While this habit is a bit rude when riding in a car with another person, what a lucky way to pass time on your commute! Instead of sitting in traffic and having to pay attention to the other cars around you, CTA riders can mentally checkout and leave the hard-work to the train drivers.

In summary, the CTA is like a family: you've got your weirdos, your snobs, the smart ones, the high school dropouts, the hippies, the embarrassments, the ones you actually like and are friends with, and the crazy uncle who everyone is a bit leery around and generally tries to avoid, but in the end you've got to love them because they are always there (although they may not be terribly punctual) and, honestly, what other family do you have?

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.