Heads or Tails #11 (Trains)

Welcome to this week's installment of "Heads or Tails," a wholly owned subsidiary of Barb's blogging empire. Today's challenge: Trains.

I've whined so much about the Blue Line of the CTA since this blog went up that I could just pull up snippets from past entries and satisfy today's obligation. With a little editing, they might even be enjoyable....

Of course, most of the entries here suffer from want of editing.... And editing is work....

I was thinking about this morning's entry as I waited for the train to pull in. I was fortunate today: A train arrived just as I descended to the platform... and it was relatively empty. I watched the cars roll by and thought for a moment that I would sit one car further back than usual... but, on that car, I saw, my seat was taken. I hurried back to the preceding car.

My seat?

When I was in law school I lived with my parents, well out in Exurbia, near where Christ lost His shoes. My father took the Chicago & North Western train both ways and I rode down with him in the morning and sometimes returned with him at night.

I never needed to look for him: He was always in the same car, in the same seat. During most of those years he was reading the Daily News. (Yes, children, once upon a time, we had afternoon newspapers in this country as well as morning ones.) I'd get through Mike Royko, at least, before I fell asleep. But I always fell asleep.

Nor was I the only one. This was an express train and it ran for a good 40 minutes before reaching Exurbia, and ours was the first stop. Almost all of the riders left their tickets or monthly passes out and surrendered themselves to the arms of Morpheus; the conductor moved quietly through the car at some point... you knew he'd been there, if you had a ticket, because it had been punched. Or collected. But you never saw him.

Now that I think about it... a pickpocket could have really cleaned up on that train....

My father's seat selection was personal -- but I've come to believe that this is something men do. That men have to do. We function best in a routine: My wallet must be put here at night. My watch and pen must be there....

"My" seat on the el isn't always on the same car: The trains arriving at my station come from O'Hare and they will be crowded or empty according to the number of planes arriving. But I'll scramble for that seat on any car I can. Things aren't right somehow if I can't get it: The coffee cup doesn't fit the same way or I have no room for my feet... and, if I have to sit on the other side of the car, or facing the other way, the Sun will surely blind me or I'll spill or... something.

Of course, I can vary my routine: Sometimes I run into my friend Steve on the platform. I'll ride down with him. "His" seat is in an entirely different place within the car, and always more towards the front of the train than I prefer. But, then, I'm riding down with him so it's OK. If we chance to meet riding home, however, I always aim for "my" seat.

That's normal, isn't it?