Gina and Bobby

She was puking that milky, filmy bile of the soon-to-be-dead. He was clearly stressed, yelling her name, which I struggle to recall. They were to stop at Monroe, which had come and gone, and most of the riders had fled to the back of the car or gotten off altogether. I never bought into that—you sit where you sit and you get on with it. The large black man who got on at Clinton sat at our end felt the same, or at least he refused to leave.

Gina, that was her name. Now I remember the frantic pushing, the Gina, Gina, Wake-Up Gina. Gina was slumped against the car wall, waking at random intervals with the wretch and stumble of those who fade between consciousness and sickness.

He asked for a phone and I complied. He was going nowhere, she was dying, and what kind of stain on my karma would that leave? The white man withholds the phone while the black woman struggles? It wasn’t even an issue.

He talked to her mama for seven minutes. Mama didn’t want her home. She was a user and the kids shouldn’t see it. She might die, but the kids shouldn’t see it. He handed the phone back, exasperated, reaching for his gin, calling the large black man names.

White man can help a black man, but a black man won’t help a black man. Why is that? Why is that? Answer me, you fat bitch.

You’re a user and that phone isn’t going to help at all. He shouldn’t even let you use the phone. You need help. You need to check yourself into a clinic. You need to get Jesus. The doors were open and he was leaving, the large man, Christmas presents in hand.

Fuck you, motherfucking fat bitch. Won’t help a black man. Mister High and Mighty.

I offered to call the police, call anyone who might help. They refused. Its not surprising…they might still be carrying, they would likely be locked up and beaten, they would certainly be separated. And that part that was unacceptable. I came to learn that Gina was fifty, had been in rehab, and fallen out. She was smacked up and ready to flatline. Bobby had been with her ten days ago and wedged the spoon in her mouth to keep her from choking on her tongue, god at her doorstep or at least a bit of piece. Isn’t that what Lou taught us, to try for the kingdom? When the mainer hits the vein?

I got off at Oak Park, like I always do. Before I left we gave each other high-fives and I prayed for them in that way that people who are skeptical of Jesus pray. I look at that seven minute call, that number on my log, and sometimes I think about dialing and asking Mama if Gina made it.

Mamma Mia, Mamma Mia...

The two men entered the train at Western, bundled like men who work in the cold do- the one with a back pack held together by bungee cords and pure luck. Inside you could see a black plastic bag attempting to break free and move on into the world. But it wasn’t the black bag that was the source of annoyance. It was the radio inside the bag, blaring away and intermittently cutting out, telling us about a sale at the Jewel or the quality of the high def TVs at Circuit City.

Under normal conditions I’d have shut it out- closed my eyes or read a book and made it go away. But last night was another “marketing event” that I’d attended, and the sting of free whiskeys too numerous to mention made me blurry even 24 hours later. Not that I’m complaining, mind, I’ve probably drunk more complimentary 15 year old Single Malt in the last year than I’ve purchased in the last five combined, but the point stands. Couple that with sloppy December weather and the general, stinky film that washes over a wintery Friday and it was looking grim.

So the men, they sat across from each other, as men would, by the far door. Only when the car began to empty out at Cicero did they seize the chance to sit together in a forward-facing ‘pair’ seat across from me. The radio-playing-man was buried deep in a green hooded parka, a cartoonish scarf and a White sox baseball cap covering the bulk of his face-- sad eyes peering out from behind. Eastern European. The other man was practically bathing in large, tan coveralls- his generic ‘Chicago’ baseball cap in the familiar red and blue befitting the North Side team.

The radio is beginning to grate- the familiar ending of Let’s Spend The Night Together is gurgling out of the speakers and I’m trying to sleep through it. Its not going to happen, so I count the stops left until Oak Park.

Then, it gets interesting.

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide No escape from reality.

Bohemian Rhapsody. The Queen classic. The point man in the coveralls is leaning forward slightly, like a dog on a leash, peering out the window eagerly into the darkness. Why, I’m unsure. There is nothing to see, even in daylight, of this bleak west side stretch. His thick mustache doesn’t settle properly and he has the air of an animated character—bug eyed and two dimensional. It might not usually be funny. But coupled with…

Mama, just killed a man…put a gun against his head…pulled my trigger, now he's dead…

Well, its surreal. Know that the two men haven’t uttered a word since they got on, and its not going to change anytime soon, I wouldn’t guess. They probably mutter eight words to each other all day as it is and that counts as friendship enough. The train lurches to a stop, for no reason, between the long stretch of the Cicero and Austin stations. Its cold, its dark, the world has taken on the effect of grainy film, and I can’t escape…

I see a little silhouette-o of a man
Scaramouch, scaramouch will you do the fandango?

Only now the radio-playing-man has decided it would be best to play invisible drums. His arms are flailing, his scarf flopping around like a kite tail. Never mind that this part of the song is dominated by Brian May’s guitar work. Have I mentioned, right about now the African-Americans on the train are getting a little annoyed? I get a sick chuckle out of this. (Some damn poor white fool blares his radio and nobody say a damn thing, but if the brothers do it we’d be run off this train in no time).

I stare at the pockets of sand and grit that litter the floor, listen to the uncomfortable scuffle of feet.

(Let me go.) Will not let you go
(Let me go.) Will not let you go. (Let me go.)
Ah No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

The point man continues to lurch and stare into the distance. The train is moving again, and the inhabitants of the car are beginning to circle in on our radio playing friends, metaphorically speaking. This might not end so well. Alas, we pull into Austin and the two men gear up to depart…a tussle of winter clothing, wiping the hand across the nose, hitching up the backpack.

Nothing really matters, Anyone can see
Nothing really matters
Nothing really matters to me

Indeed, Freddy. Indeed. Just get me home.