There’s an art form to commuting and it’s one I learned well while shuttling from my suburban home to downtown Chicago.
On a crackling cold January morning, very few commuters are seen. Most are huddled inside the depot or up against it, out of the wind. Then, as if a signal just shone from above, movement begins. The herd heads toward the track, artfully forming discrete clumps in very specific spots. These seasoned riders know exactly where they should be when the train stops and the doors open. And as an outsider clad in a journeyman cloth coat and a ball cap, I just didn’t dare to attempt to affix myself to this curated clump.
This station, being in a rather well to do suburb, has more than its share of well turned-out dandies. Camel hair coats are de rigueur. However, only an erudite few would know that their coat was made from the hair of the double-humped Bactrian camel. They just know they paid dearly for it and it alone gained them access to the herd.
As seen from above, these morphing brown clumps resemble a flock of Bactrian camels at a watering hole. Only these non-humped camels sport jaunty hats and oh-so-pricey Burberry scarves and kidskin gloves. Of course, highly polished wing tips or brogues complete the look. So these are definitely not your garden-variety camel.
These are well-dressed businessmen (and during the years I’m writing about, they were predominately men) heading to the Chicago Board of Trade, an ad agency or perhaps to some snazzy LaSalle Street law firm. The only other visual cue that proved these folks weren’t heading to less lofty jobs was a copy of the Wall Street Journal tucked under their arms.
Once settled into their seats, the conversations I overheard from these camel hair-clad corporate warriors were priceless.
“The wife and I just skied St. Moritz. We found the fondue lacking. The Swiss are just so uninterested and the wines, barely drinkable.”
“Recently visited the spa at Baden-Baden in the Black Forest. Doesn’t hold a candle to Parador de Corias in Spain, wouldn’t you agree?”
“We dined at Chez Mirage recently and found the wait staff indifferent. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
On the homeward train, the bar car was the place you always found these high-dollar commuters. Tales of deals made, trades consummated and clients acquired swirled through the car like a Sirocco wind in North Africa, only without the annoying sand and airborne fleas. It also didn’t escape my attention that while camels endure long periods of travel in harsh conditions without water, these guys couldn’t get through a day without a highball or beer.
So no camel hair coat for me. If I want to be at one with my inner ungulate, I’ll see them at the zoo. And they won’t care what I’m wearing.
Jim is a freelance writer and seasoned veteran with 25 years of creative experience at two leading advertising agencies. He’s proud to say that his stories are gluten free and that no artificial color is ever added to enhance their appeal.