I spent the day alone in the office while my temporary co-workers had their summer BBQ. I remember going the summer before last and I was so hungover I sat in a lawn chair for five hours, eating chips and avoiding the conversation about why I was so tired. I did my job alone in the office, blasting Pandora from my boss's computer, finding myself staring out the window of the corner office. I did my work, but my mind was elsewhere. It's been elsewhere a lot lately.
After work headed to Clark and Lake for some drinks before the Sox game which was to include Elvis night. I was walking and there was a mid-20's torte obviously struggling in her heels...not so much a walk but more like a painful totter, with each step I could feel her blister getting bigger on those strappy three inch sandals. The Sox game was entertaining at least, sitting way up high with warm Miller Light, wishing I could eat more nachos without feeling the results. Ended up with a Kosher and some grilled onions, finally figuring out what that wonderful baseball park smell actually tasted like. Normally I avoid onions.
Behind me, a cusp mid-life crises man with a yachting tee-shirt in sky blue, air soled sandals and the worst toenails I have ever seen in my whole life. After some beers (or sober for that matter), this isn't what you want behind you, his foot in my face I ignored it and continued on faining interest in the game. After the Elvi flew per parachute and did their dance on the field, I headed home on the red line only to find myself behind the same girl from Clark Street, except in flats, and still smoking her Marlboro Menthols. I followed her to the El, fireworks in the background, couples standing on the side of the street acting romantic on 95th. I turned on the iPod, Jamiroquai, "Seven Days in Sunny June" and proceeded to daydream.
I turn to my left and Yachting Tee-Shirt had situated himself right next to me flexing his bald legs and toenail fungus. The act of brushing himself upon my side was less than appealing, I squish myself into the side of the train car. He's staring. I turn up the volume on "Hot Tequila Brown" willing my ride was over. The air, although air conditioned, was putrid, filled with the smell of stale beer and sweaty men over forty. My arm propped on the vent, taking the air intake selfishly so it spanned the whole of my arm - middle finger to shoulder. My other hand rested on my face, eyes closed and dreaming of a place that was not the El after a Sox game. Signs in Chinese passed by and soon I was underground again.
How is it in a city of 3.5 million I end up seeing the same two people in a span of six hours? Not only the same two people, but two people that I subconciously thought, "I hope I don't have to see these people ever again." I feel bad for even saying I don't want to see someone again, because no one is deserving of such a thought unless they really have done something that constitutes it. I am sitting home now, quiet with music and the now familiar Mac glow thinking, "I hope I see them again."
After work headed to Clark and Lake for some drinks before the Sox game which was to include Elvis night. I was walking and there was a mid-20's torte obviously struggling in her heels...not so much a walk but more like a painful totter, with each step I could feel her blister getting bigger on those strappy three inch sandals. The Sox game was entertaining at least, sitting way up high with warm Miller Light, wishing I could eat more nachos without feeling the results. Ended up with a Kosher and some grilled onions, finally figuring out what that wonderful baseball park smell actually tasted like. Normally I avoid onions.
Behind me, a cusp mid-life crises man with a yachting tee-shirt in sky blue, air soled sandals and the worst toenails I have ever seen in my whole life. After some beers (or sober for that matter), this isn't what you want behind you, his foot in my face I ignored it and continued on faining interest in the game. After the Elvi flew per parachute and did their dance on the field, I headed home on the red line only to find myself behind the same girl from Clark Street, except in flats, and still smoking her Marlboro Menthols. I followed her to the El, fireworks in the background, couples standing on the side of the street acting romantic on 95th. I turned on the iPod, Jamiroquai, "Seven Days in Sunny June" and proceeded to daydream.
I turn to my left and Yachting Tee-Shirt had situated himself right next to me flexing his bald legs and toenail fungus. The act of brushing himself upon my side was less than appealing, I squish myself into the side of the train car. He's staring. I turn up the volume on "Hot Tequila Brown" willing my ride was over. The air, although air conditioned, was putrid, filled with the smell of stale beer and sweaty men over forty. My arm propped on the vent, taking the air intake selfishly so it spanned the whole of my arm - middle finger to shoulder. My other hand rested on my face, eyes closed and dreaming of a place that was not the El after a Sox game. Signs in Chinese passed by and soon I was underground again.
How is it in a city of 3.5 million I end up seeing the same two people in a span of six hours? Not only the same two people, but two people that I subconciously thought, "I hope I don't have to see these people ever again." I feel bad for even saying I don't want to see someone again, because no one is deserving of such a thought unless they really have done something that constitutes it. I am sitting home now, quiet with music and the now familiar Mac glow thinking, "I hope I see them again."
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