Redacted

Seen on the Orange Line to Midway at about 8:30 a.m.

His black sunglasses and his black suit don’t quietly ask for privacy; they snarl for anonymity. This is the type of man who keeps his money stuffed under a mattress, the type of man who doesn’t own a computer or a cell phone. If he were registered to vote, he’d be an ardent Libertarian—but of course, he doesn’t register for anything. This man uses force to avoid the needle-sticks of the weary phlebotomist. His DNA belongs to him alone. His presence on the train is disconcerting, for he has made every effort to revoke his membership in society. He is barely human.

Sorry about the delay in stories this week. Aside from Friday, which was a lovely day, my weekend was kind of horrible and required some recovery time. I don't wanna talk about it. Actually, I'm counting my blessings--it all could have been much worse. Anyway, should be back to regular posting now. 

By the way, the third story is up on All Together Now--Leta's this time. And now the cycle renews itself! I'm excited about this project. 

Delia

Seen on the Brown Line to the Loop at about 10:15 p.m., June 13^th, 2013

I want a girl who plays the banjo and swings the universe on her skirt. Someone with American lips and starry eyes. Someone with intimate hands and an infinite mind. She’d learn everything without ever leaving her backyard, and then she’d pass that knowledge onto me, and you, because why not? She’d be too neighborly to be selfish and too cosmopolitan to allow ignorance. Despite witnessing countless sorrows and horrors, she’d smile at me with crooked teeth and tell me everything’s going to be alright. And I’d believe her, because only this girl would have the authority to say so.

A drabble for Friday. I have a busy-but-fun weekend ahead yet again. Hope you're all in the same boat! 

Also, have I mentioned that Leta, Gena, and I started a fiction blog called All Together Now? One person writes a story, then another person writes a story based on that story, and so on. It updates every Tuesday and Friday, and I am today's author! Post should be up around noon central time. Check it out.  

Shannon

Seen on the Purple Line to Linden at about 8:45 a.m.

Shannon flips through her brand new copy of City Guide to Los Angeles. She learns all about Venice Beach (a hangout for the beat generation in the 50’s and 60’s), Chinatown (created by Hollywood set designers), Griffith Park (home to the original Batcave, the old, abandoned L.A. Zoo, and, of course, the Griffith Observatory). If she were a tourist, this would be well and good. But there are a few areas in which the guidebook is lacking.

The book needs to explain which level of SPF is needed to keep her pale Irish skin from burning. She needs to know how a huge city like L.A. thrives without an adequate system of public transportation. On a related note, Shannon believes there should be a chapter dedicated to the art of breathing smog. It would also be helpful to know the odds of one’s boyfriend becoming a successful (or even semi-successful) screenwriter. If there’s no chance (or virtually no chance), she could save a lot of money by just dumping him now.

Whatever happened to her sense of adventure? Maybe she simply prefers security. Maybe it’s ok to like where you live. Maybe it’s normal to fear change. Maybe it’s normal to doubt your loved ones.

Shannon snaps the book shut, angry at it now. When she gets to L.A., she’ll write her own guidebook, honest and thorough. Nobody will publish it.

I have to tell you about the most amazing thing that happened to me last night. My friend Lindsey and I went to see Russell Brand at the Chicago Theater. We were seated in the second-to-last row of the balcony, all the way up at the top. Before the show started, an announcement went over the P.A.: "TBS Just for Laughs Chicago is about to upgrade the experience of two lucky fans! The winning tickets are in the rear balcony..."

Huh. We're in the rear balcony...

"Row Q..."

We're row Q.

"Seats 301-303."

Holy shit that's us!

So this woman came and brought us down to the VERY FRONT ROW. Like, Russell Brand was basically thrusting in our faces all night. It was hilarious. Anyway, just thought I'd share. I was so excited. I've always wanted to see him do stand-up, but I never thought I'd get to be so up close and personal. 'Twas a lucky evening. 

Roy

Seen waiting for the Brown Line to Kimball at about 8:30 a.m.

Good morning and welcome to the game of confusing careers—

GUESS THAT PROFESSION!

Our contestant today is straight from the Windy City, Chicago, Illinois. Please welcome Roy Donoghue! How’re you doing this morning, Roy?

Hmph.

A little grumpy today, are we? Haha! That’s quite alright, friend. I’d be grumpy if I lived in a city with weather like Chicago’s, too.

Okay, with introductions out of the way, it’s time to—

GUESS THAT PROFESSION!

I’d like our studio audience to study Roy’s appearance. Observe the short-sleeve white dress shirt. Observe the thick, horn-rimmed glasses, the neglected buzz cut. Observe the lines ingrained in the corners of his eyes and mouth. (No offense, friend.)

Ready to play? Great! Here we go: do you think that Roy Donoghue is—

A) An ice cream salesman

B) A 1950’s basketball coach

            Or

C) A gardener

Thirty seconds on the clock, and…go!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Time’s up! Let’s go through the answers.

If you guessed A, an ice cream salesman, you are…ohhh! I’m sorry, you’re incorrect. Perhaps you missed the key clue on this one: no bowtie! You can’t be an ice cream salesman without a bowtie. Besides, can you imagine that grouchy mug dealing with kids all day? (No offense, friend.)

Onto answer B, a 1950’s basketball coach. That is…also incorrect! Though Roy’s peevish demeanor makes this answer more fitting, I’m afraid it’s wrong. Did the glasses throw you off? He may look like he’d spend his days devising drills and screaming at the teenage boys of Rydell High, but Roy is, in fact…

C! A gardener. Seems to be the most unlikely option, doesn’t it? Can’t judge a book by its cover. Roy inherited his gardening business from his mother, if that helps explain things. His thumb appears more gnarled than green, but maybe he enjoys the solitude of it all.

That’s all the time we have for today. We’ll see you next time on—

GUESS THAT PROFESSION!

I have literally no idea why I wrote this story like a game show. I was trying to think of a story for this man, and I kept getting stuck on the idea that he either looked like an ice cream salesman or a 1950's basketball coach, so I decided to go with both. Please read this story in Bill Hader's SNL gameshow host voice. 

Peggy

Seen waiting for the Purple Line to Linden at about 8:30 a.m.

Peggy dreams of a child’s life—scraped-up knees, hide and seek, popsicles, sidewalk chalk, earthworms on blacktop after the rain. This dream keeps her chest flat and her hair cropped short. No razor has touched her long, deer-like legs.

In the summer her longing becomes louder, like there’s a toddler living in her lungs, crashing the lids of pots and pans together. She’d give anything to trade her desk for a swing-set, her job for sleepaway camp. She’d rather spend her Friday nights catching fireflies than at happy hour.

Sometimes men present themselves to her, attracted by her toothy smile and the freckles that spill over her nose and onto her cheeks. “You seem so free,” they say. Their cologne disgusts her. She swats them away like mosquitos. Her mother always told her not to talk to strangers.

Oh my I had a busy weekend. Tonight I have to run to the suburbs since relatives are in town. Then it's back to the city tomorrow night. Summer is always so crazy.