Terrifying Damen bus story #1

When I worked in downtown Chicago and took the bus or el to work daily, I had lotsa stories. Bad stories. Stories like this charmer:

It was the year 2000. I was a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed recent Chicago transplant (from Michigan) and was madly in love with my new city. I was working in a high-rise downtown and living in frou-frou Lakeview, mere blocks from the beach and in the middle of shops, restaurants, and tons of transit options. I didn’t know a lot yet.

Waiting at the bus stop the very first time I was to take the bus home from work, I saw a bus at the stop south of mine. It pulled over and stopped. And sat. And sat. And then a man came walking toward me from the direction of the bus. “If you’re waiting for that #36 bus up there,” he said, “it’s stopped and they’re waiting for the police because some passenger in the back was sniffing paint from a bag.”

There could not be a more proper introduction to Chicago transit, although frankly I preferred the time I came back from a fantastic trip to San Diego and got on the el at O’Hare airport only to discover I was sitting next to a steaming pile of vomit. Welcome home.

I don’t take the CTA much anymore because I drive to work, but on the random weekend jaunt it can be the easiest way to get somewhere. Last weekend I took the bus nearest my apartment, the #50 Damen Ave. and it was quite a treat. A couple boarded the bus carrying a big plastic bag and sat down across from me. The man began removing the items in the bag one by one. It was full of clothing, obviously from a Village Discount thrift shop — obvious because they staple the price tags on the clothes.

Out came a sports jersey. Off came the tag and on the floor it went. Out came a sports jersey. Off came the tag and on the floor it went. Out came a sports jersey. Off came the tag and on the floor it went. You get the picture, right? Something like 6 or more jerseys, representing all kinds of sports — football, basketball, soccer. And then, miraculously, two pairs of dress slacks, which didn’t seem quite the right type of pants for half a dozen or more sports jerseys. A couple of women’s items that couldn’t have been for the rather robust woman. Frighteningly, a bath towel (sorry, but I don’t buy used items that have touched someone else’s privates).

I had looked away when I heard the woman say something to me. “What?” I asked. “It’s cute, isn’t it?” she cooed. I looked up and saw the man holding a see-through floral nightie. “Uh, yeah, it’s cute,” I lied.

Then the man lifted up a pair of matching thong undies and snapped the side string with his mouth. That’s right — he put used underpants in his mouth. The horror! The horror! But it got worse. They started kissing.

Then someone got off the bus so they switched seats. And kissed more. Then they switched seats again, so they were seated two feet from my face. And kissed some more. Because nothing says romance like seeing your boyfriend bite a used see-through nightie that won’t fit you, I guess.