excerpt from Human Voices

∞

I’d pinned up my hair, gently powdered and rouged my cheeks and applied mascara, put my feet into new stockings and pulled on a sandy pin-tucked silk shirt and delicate chocolate pencil skirt that fell above my knees. My brown leather pumps made a sound, hitting the pavement, so sophisticated I shut off my discman in favor of it. I carried a black valise on my right shoulder, which held lesson plans, a fountain pen, reading responses of 18 students, and ‘Composition as Explanation’ by Gertrude Stein. My left hand brought a Starbucks coffee to my mouth for furtive sips. I waited impatiently for the train, breathing deeply. The scent of piss was stronger than usual, and a few lights had burnt out, leaving the station dark. I moved away from a puddle, developing a speech I hoped would be effective in frightening my students into better attendance. A few of them had begun to drop off.

As usual, I forced my way onto a train full of cranky, protesting office workers on their way to the loop. At 8.30AM, every train was packed. If I waited for a train with ample space, I’d wait an hour or more. So, every day I crushed myself against strangers, demurely saying, ‘Pardon me, excuse me, I apologize,’ as people protested, often profanely. Passengers in a train car, I found, could swell or contract like anemones. They took up as much space as they had. In an empty car, they’d sprawl over two or more seats with belongings. It was a matter of not breathing deeply, and waiting three stops until Clark/Lake, when many people stepped off, and often I could sit. I stared out the window, watching as we shot through darkness. At Monroe, I got off the train, the sound of my footsteps following me down the long concrete partition to the stairs.

A slab of sun glossed the red and white wall along the stairwell to the street. With some effort, I climbed the stairs and saw her coming toward me in clothes she’d worn yesterday. She walked dreamily down stairs, not noticing me.

‘Hey! What are you doing?’

She didn’t hear me.

‘Hey!’ I touched her shoulder as she passed, and she recognized me.

She didn’t appear surprised to see me at 8.30AM. She said she’d been writing, and she was going home now.

‘What were you writing? Did you sleep? Are you OK?’

A train passed underneath us. She shrugged, ‘I’m on my way home.’

‘Well—I’ll call you later,’ I said, as I watched her head slide out of sunlight. Then I turned, momentarily blinded by brightness as I stumbled forward to teach my class.