Jim survived decades as a creative director and writer at two renowned U.S. advertising agencies. He’s now enjoying life as a freelance writer and has a special on Tuesdays, where he offers 50% off on nouns and all words beginning with “Q.”
Riding the Rolling Rain Forest
Riding Chicago’s elevated commuter train (the “el”) back in the ‘60s was more than a ride to work and home again. Back in the Primeval Era, you had to be made of special stuff to survive this rolling rain forest.
Riding the el on a sweltering August day was a near claustrophobic experience. And the further you rode in this heat-encased steel chamber, the hotter and more humid it became. Before long, an entire weather system formed inside. Low-lying clouds stretched from one end to the other. Once, I thought I saw a flamboyance of flamingoes pass through. But I may have been suffering from heat delusions.
At each stop, new people crowded aboard and soon the aisles filled and the windows steamed up, further enhancing that closed-in feeling. Right on cue, the summer rainstorm would begin and each new arrival boarded drenched. One gentleman stood before me in his stylish Burberry raincoat and jaunty brimmed hat. I was reading a newspaper, trying to avoid eye contact with these apparent flood survivors. As the gentleman leaned down to see the Cubs score in my paper, a river of rain streamed from his brim, formed a tributary that ran down me, onto my paper, down my leg, onto my Gold Toe socks and ultimately created a small lagoon in my Florsheims.
The el that ran through my hometown of Evanston had a special kind of torture. The woven straw seats had seen better days. Perhaps first woven from Nile reeds by Egyptian basket makers, the cane on these seats was breaking apart and had many sharp ends. Slide onto a seat and you could find yourself suddenly lanced by an angry cane end. To remove it, you had to slowly slide back the way you came. In today’s terms, this movement was kind of a slow motion seated twerk. To suddenly stand meant that your pants got ripped, the pain intensified and you were left with an unwanted cane implant.
I always felt sorry for out of town visitors or first-time riders listening carefully for their stop to be announced. The speakers for the train’s public address system were so ancient, it became an aural impossibility to correctly hear a simple announcement about an upcoming stop. “Loyola and Sheridan” became “Royalaaaa and Chadwinnnn.” “Howard, end of the line” was garbled into “Allward, Bend Your Mind.” Whoever was on the mike sounded as though he’d been chloroformed and the rag stuffed in his mouth for safekeeping.
Today’s el riders probably ride in cushy comfort with Wi-Fi access, a special designer coffee car and Bluetooth announcements you can actually understand. They’ll never know what we endured back in the day.
And they’ll never know about the survival skills and adroit moves once needed to successfully step through all those flamingo droppings.