No one ever fully prepared me for the weird things that would happen to me once I became a dedicated public transit user. I really don’t remember anything strange ever happening on the tube in London. Just a lot of Brits reading books. The only minor nuisance was getting stuck on a bus with noisy school groups—but when it’s mini-Brits in uniforms squealing in a British accent, “But I wanted MacDonalds!”—somehow, it’s much less irritating than being stuck on a bus with a group of loud American children.
But here in Chicago, every day it’s something (though sadly, not all as memorable as Monday morning’s commute).
Tuesday afternoon a man clucked at me—yes, CLUCKED—as I walked past him on the stairs. A few minutes later, as I was trying to hide behind my Bitch magazine and ignore the inevitable claustrophobia that sets in during rush hour, I glanced over the top of the magazine to find two nuns staring at me in horror. I grinned at them and continued reading. Hee hee hee.
But this morning I had a special hipster delight on my morning commute. If only I had had the audacity to pull out my camera and capture these two young men’s ensembles. If only. But I did have the pleasure of overhearing this:
Faded Jean Jacket-wearing Hipster: "I mostly just love that album cause it's like, ‘we're recording this on a 4-track in our basement’ and the quality is just, so raw and real."
Super Geek Hipster, nodding: “I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.”
Alison, nudging the middle-aged woman next to her: “Look at this fucking hipster.”
Middle-aged woman: “I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.”
So maybe that last part of the conversation didn’t happen. But it should have. Instead, I almost missed my stop, had to duck under Super Geek Hipster’s arm to get out, and then almost fell over due to the powerful wave of BO.
So you’re the one stinking up my favorite record store! I knew it!