Even though I am a child of the 80s, I never saw the music video for “Thriller” or understood the gravitational pull of Tiffany or Cyndi Lauper. Instead, I grew up listening to, amongst a lot of oldies and 80s country, The Kingston Trio. My dad listens to them the way I listen to The Smiths, say, or Wilco: loudly and on repeat. One of his all-time favorites was (and is) the catchy “MTA Song.” It tells the now-infamous story of poor old Charlie who can’t get off the T (the subway) because he doesn’t have a nickel for the exit fare. The chorus, which I’ve already song-bombed myself with just by writing these few sentences, recounts poor Charlie’s fate: “And did he ever return? / no, he never returned / and his fate is still unlearned (poor old Charlie) / he may ride forever / ‘neath the streets of Boston / he’s the man who never returned.”
The “MTA Song” was at least as significant to my childhood as the Dolly Parton/Kenny Rogers duet “Islands in the Streams” or Juice Newton’s “Angel of the Morning,” both of which I used to sing while standing on the fireplace hearth, belting them out like I was on Broadway. When my dad pulled out his Kingston Trio albums, my mom rolled her eyes, and we’d both suffer quietly while my dad readjusted the record needle for the umpteenth time. (He listened to them on record until we got a CD player in the late 80s, and of course he re-purchased all the Kingston Trio CDs available. He has since copied all his records onto CDs as well. There’s really no question where I get my musical obsessions from.) Over and over we’d hear about how Charlie’s wife handed him a sandwich (but never a nickel) everyday at quarter past two, and if we were really lucky my dad would tell us the story about how he met the Trio on an airplane one time.
I was Charlie on Saturday.
I set out for O’Hare around 1:30pm. My friend Julia, who I hardly ever get to see, was in Chicago on her way to Israel, where she’ll be participating in a mission trip with 30 strangers (you can read about her adventures here). Her flight arrived at 2:45, and I was planning to meet her at baggage claim. My plan of action, which I determined after carefully studying several online CTA maps: take the 6 bus downtown, walk to the blue line, and take the blue line to O’Hare. The 6 runs every few minutes, and this route bypasses the grittier neighborhoods west of me. I figured it would take 1 1/2 to 2 hours, so I brought The Places in Between, which I was nearly done with, and a second book to get started on. I walked to the 6 bus stop and waited. After about 15 minutes, two buses came in quick succession: the 28 and the 15. The next bus… another 28. I have mostly learned to suppress travel-rage during my 10 months in Chicago: buses sometimes run when they feel like it, and the El train going in the opposite direction of your destination always comes first. But that Saturday the sun was hot, the bus stop was unsheltered, and I only wanted to make the most of the few hours with Julia that I would have. The only thing I could do was to step off the curb and squint down Stony Island Avenue, trying to make out the outlines of a bus against the glare of sunlight. I did this over and over, hoping not just for a bus, but one that displayed but a single digit on its marquee, hoping that my repetitive curb-dance would somehow procure my salvation from sweat and sun and tardiness. I felt perhaps the creator of the “accept the things I cannot change” prayer had been inspired by public transportation.
Thirty minutes later, the 6 pulled up, and I climbed aboard with the others who had been waiting wearily at my stop. Our sweaty hands slipped on the guardrails as we fumbled for our passes. I imagined the bus was smug and glib, holding our travel itineraries hostage, smirking because it could make us late and there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it. Too many bodies were packed inside its long metal frame: we obviously hadn’t been the only people kept waiting. I was lucky to get a patch of standing room in the little cutout by the back door of the bus. Sweat ran down my back, but at least I wasn’t pressed up against strangers in every direction. The rails I clung to were near an air vent, and I wanted to press my whole body against the cold, thin metal.
The bus rolled through Hyde Park, always more people getting on than getting off. At some stops there were over a dozen people waiting, as sweaty and frustrated as I had been. They all looked inside our bus in disbelief, weighing the risk of waiting for the next bus to arrive. Most of them got on anyway.
At 2:45, the same time Julia’s flight was landing, I reached downtown. I walked to the blue line, frustrated but resigned to being late. Very late. I knew what motel Julia was staying at, and I knew I’d have to bypass baggage claim, our original meeting place, and go straight to the Super 8. The train heading to Forest Park–away from O’Hare–arrived first. I reprised my curb-dance, leaning over the tracks, hoping to see train headlights approaching. A guy next to me kept watching me lean over, pace, and lean over again. He knew it wouldn’t make the train show up any faster.
On the blue line, I pulled out my book, grateful to be sitting down at last. We rumbled north and west of the city. Somewhere past Logan Square, the train stopped. We were above ground in a dirty, deserted place that hardly seemed like Chicago. I went back to my book. The conductor’s voice crackled through the PA system: “There’s a mechanical defect on the track ahead, uh, sorry for the inconvenience and, um, we’ll get moving as soon as we can.” Fifteen minutes later, after a second announcement, the woman in the seat next to me turned and said, “At least you gotta book. I got nuthin.” The El was silent except for the groans of its passengers. Even the lights and air conditioning had gone out, and the absent hum made our groans echo off the metal walls.
I called Julia’s hotel and got ahold of her, explaining the situation. “Here’s the thing,” she said. “I’ve got a meeting at 5.” I knew she did. It was already 3:45pm. But could I really turn around after all this time?
I couldn’t, of course. I finished my first book and pulled out the second, a book of short stories. Halfway into the first story, the air conditioning snapped on. We were moving. At O’Hare, I found the magical “Door 2″ Julia had told me to find. Through its sliding glass doors was a beige minivan on its way to the Super 8 Motel.
I hopped in, noticing the sign taped to the back passenger window that said, “TOTAL DRIVING TIME 7-10 MINS (5 STOPLIGHTS).” Seven to ten minutes. It was 4:43. I gritted my teeth. The driver slipped into his seat, closed his door, and opened his mouth. “You stayin’ at the Super 8? Yeah, well, it’ll just be a few minutes. We gotta go by door 5, then we’ll swing back to door 2. They’re gettin’ cheap on gas, ya know, so I gotta pack it tight. I was up by the Wisconsin border this morning, for my other job, you know, and gas up there? It’s maybe $2.80, $2.90. They tell me to go cross the border just to get the cheap gas.” His monologue would continue on the way back. “I’m Jewish, you know, but haven’t been to temple since somebody got married or died. But I dated a Jehovah’s Witness once, I only lasted six months with her! It was all I could take. And then after we broke up, I found out she was married! Can you believe it? And she blamed me for being kicked out of her church!”
4:54. The Super 8 sign had never been so welcome to me before. I tripped out of the van and ran inside.
4:56. The front desk gave me Julia’s room number. Up I went to 240, running down the black and gray carpet.
* * *
I don’t know if Cyndi Lauper or Tiffany knew how I felt, but the Kingston Trio sure did. I wasn’t sure I could make the trip back to the South Side. I thought I might never return. I thought I might get stuck inside the amber-lit labyrinth beneath Chicago. Maybe I should avoid the streets-beneath-the-streets entirely. I mused out loud on the possibility of taking a shuttle back to Hyde Park. The Super 8 driver said, “Aw, no, don’t do that! Two dollars, you know, get on the blue line, cheapest way into the city! It’s the Jew in me. I’m cheap that way.”
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