the regulars

It’s been almost 6 months since I began working and during that time I’ve developed a steady group of “regulars” on my morning commute. While we never actually speak, I’ve mentally concocted nicknames and secret lives for several of them.

1. Skunk Boy – This guy gets his nickname from the 2 distinctive white stripes on the back of his head that I can’t help but stare at. While I’ve been told that it’s not polite to stare since before I can remember, I just can’t help but become fixated on it. From the front you would never realize there were any stripes at all and at times I wonder how long in life he walked around never knowing, until the first day of kindergarten when Bruce, the school bully who was about 2 years older than everyone else, finally let skunk boy in on the secret that everyone else around him knew. I imagine this was probably fairly traumatic for skunk boy, a major life-altering event and that’s probably why he’s turned out to be such a D-bag now. Skunk boy is in his early 20’s, a recent college grad with a massive gap in between his front teeth, which is particularly unfortunate given his skunk-state. He developed much of his personality and social skills from the state-college frat that he was a member of for 5 years (the 5th year as a super-senior). He’s the kind of guy that laughs excessively loud at his own jokes, glancing nervously around the room seeking approval. He likes to talk on his cell phone in crowded places, louder than necessary in the hopes that people will overhear and think he’s important. His phone calls seem pretty uninteresting. He is a regular creep at bars that lingers in the corner, waiting until 15 minutes before last call to approach the drunkest girl in the room. He wears bright-colored button down shirts, with just one too many buttons undone, exposing his sparse chest hair and the beaded necklace he bought at his last Dave Matthews Band concert.

2. The Hacker – She’s in her mid-50’s and looks harmless enough but getting stuck crammed up against her is pure torture. The times I’ve had to stand with my body closer to her than I would get to anyone else in any other situation, I’ve been convinced that at any given moment the medium-sized rodent that’s been lodged in her throat for the past 15 years will erupt from her chest cavity in a mucusy ball, ultimately splatting against the CTA window and slowly sliding down, leaving an ooze trail behind it. I imagine that she lives a quiet and uneventful life and passes time with her 5 cats and 12 birds in a small, dusty apartment filled with all kinds of useless junk. There is a narrow path through the clutter that leads from the door to her tattered armchair to a stockpile of canned cat food in her kitchen. The Hacker isn’t above picking up a few cans on the street to exchange for the 5 cent deposit or checking the payphone for any loose change that may have gotten away. She’s probably a state employee (most likely at the DMV) with the same job since she was 18 and by now is making a 6 digit income, although you would never realize that from her appearance. Ultimately on one incredibly hot summer day, she’ll slump over in her beaten and torn arm chair that looks like something straight out of the 1960’s, and she’ll be found by her landlord once the smell has become too unbearable to the other tenants in the building. Her cats will inherit all her money and live out their days in some pampered cat retirement community.

3. Old Man Dr. McDreamy – He takes the 146 Express bus from the corner of my street. He’s in his late 60’s and I have yet to determine what exactly he does every morning. I suspect he no longer works but yet he is there, every morning, waiting for the 146 like clockwork. Every time I have seen him he wears the exact same thing and I have come to envision his closet filled with identical outfits, neatly awaiting him each morning. Old Man Dr. McDreamy gets his nickname from the character on Grey’s Anatomy because of his aged, faded resemblance to the TV-stud. He wears tight black jeans, a tucked-in button-down shirt, a slightly crumpled corduroy blazer and cowboy boots, which seem slightly out of place in the urban sprawl of Chicago. Although he is aged, he has thick dark hair with flecks of gray that he wears slightly long and wavy. He has gold-rimmed glasses that I suspect he acquired as he aged and his vision began to slowly fade. A stroke has left him with a perpetually opened mouth that appears uncomfortable and even somewhat painful. In his younger days, Old Man Dr. McDreamy was the kind of good-looking guy that had a flock of girls lusting after him but never really noticed; he was too preoccupied with things like art and eastern religious philosophy. Although he could have gone to an Ivy League school like Yale or Harvard, he opted for a less obvious choice like Babson. While in college he met and fell in love while working toward a PhD. His young wife died shortly after they were married, leaving him a young widower and causing him to dive into his work in order to avoid human interaction all together. From then on Old Man Dr. McDreamy remained alone, never remarrying or having children. His faded good-looks are the only remnants of the time in his life when he was truly happy. Now he just stands on my corner, his mouth open, waiting for the 146.