Almost home
It takes 45 minutes to for me to get to the Sheridan Red line stop after that I look out the window, usually waking p from a short daze.
I sit on the train with my head propped on my hands, and the train whines while it curves around "Wunders Cemetery." The cemetery use to be covered in snow, now it's green again.
I get off at the platform and the smell of fry bounces around my head. I imagine several Pop-eye's Chicken employees taking a smoke break on the sidewalk, just outside the restaurant's door. I walk down the steps and see the bum that lays in a door jam on cardboard, with his face towards the building, sobbing, like he does every day.
I walk by Popeye's Chicken; look at the line of customers.
I brush my hand over my bag's strap and I make my eye lids heavy as I pass the bus stop a few feet away. I don't want any trouble from the mexican men that stand there impatiently waiting for the 145 Wilson Express.
On the other side of the street Truman College looms. A mix of a student body saunters about in fashionable jeans, tight weaves and full book bags.
A bit further, there is a small tree outside the Wilson Men's Hotel. The temporary residents stand six feet tall and loud around the tree. I hear snippets of, " yeah, we can't bring beer in the hotel. We'll get kicked out." It reminds me of some sort of teen summer camp; the kids want to break the rules so badly, but their too scared to get caught. Only in this camp, they are forced back onto the streets.
I pass the alley that angles behind the hotel. There's a fire hydrant there where the prostitutes sit. One of them has a newborn baby, none of them have teeth.
I begin to lift my head up a little as I cross in front of the 24 hour 7-eleven. It's the only 24 hour store for many square miles. I'm shocked. It opened not too long ago. I wonder if the management will decide to close it up early in the near future, given the late night on-goings just outside their windows.
A few paces in front of me is a large fire house. The Men sit on lawn chairs outside of it when the weather is nice. They enjoy watching all the people walking by I suppose. I am curious about what they think of me or if they even notice me at all.
Now, I see the fancy restaurant named after the street I live on, "Magnolia Cafe." It's posh and only white people are ever seen lounging on the patio that pushes out onto the narrow sidewalk like an annoying show.
And then there's the starbucks, on the corner. Strollers, pure-bred dogs, lattes and your middle class chat away the early evening.
Now I turn onto my street, walk down past a few nice houses and condos. I walk by the two drug rehab, half-way houses. I walk by the abandoned house that must be 100 years old. I always think about how I want to live there.
I rustle for my keys, always nervous, no matter what time of day it is, that I will be jumped right there at the iron gate. I'm home.
Three flights of stairs, one more turn of a key. Home.
It only takes 4 minutes for me to walk from the train platform to my building; so much compact humanity in a 4 block stretch. I can never wrap my head around it.
I sit on the train with my head propped on my hands, and the train whines while it curves around "Wunders Cemetery." The cemetery use to be covered in snow, now it's green again.
I get off at the platform and the smell of fry bounces around my head. I imagine several Pop-eye's Chicken employees taking a smoke break on the sidewalk, just outside the restaurant's door. I walk down the steps and see the bum that lays in a door jam on cardboard, with his face towards the building, sobbing, like he does every day.
I walk by Popeye's Chicken; look at the line of customers.
I brush my hand over my bag's strap and I make my eye lids heavy as I pass the bus stop a few feet away. I don't want any trouble from the mexican men that stand there impatiently waiting for the 145 Wilson Express.
On the other side of the street Truman College looms. A mix of a student body saunters about in fashionable jeans, tight weaves and full book bags.
A bit further, there is a small tree outside the Wilson Men's Hotel. The temporary residents stand six feet tall and loud around the tree. I hear snippets of, " yeah, we can't bring beer in the hotel. We'll get kicked out." It reminds me of some sort of teen summer camp; the kids want to break the rules so badly, but their too scared to get caught. Only in this camp, they are forced back onto the streets.
I pass the alley that angles behind the hotel. There's a fire hydrant there where the prostitutes sit. One of them has a newborn baby, none of them have teeth.
I begin to lift my head up a little as I cross in front of the 24 hour 7-eleven. It's the only 24 hour store for many square miles. I'm shocked. It opened not too long ago. I wonder if the management will decide to close it up early in the near future, given the late night on-goings just outside their windows.
A few paces in front of me is a large fire house. The Men sit on lawn chairs outside of it when the weather is nice. They enjoy watching all the people walking by I suppose. I am curious about what they think of me or if they even notice me at all.
Now, I see the fancy restaurant named after the street I live on, "Magnolia Cafe." It's posh and only white people are ever seen lounging on the patio that pushes out onto the narrow sidewalk like an annoying show.
And then there's the starbucks, on the corner. Strollers, pure-bred dogs, lattes and your middle class chat away the early evening.
Now I turn onto my street, walk down past a few nice houses and condos. I walk by the two drug rehab, half-way houses. I walk by the abandoned house that must be 100 years old. I always think about how I want to live there.
I rustle for my keys, always nervous, no matter what time of day it is, that I will be jumped right there at the iron gate. I'm home.
Three flights of stairs, one more turn of a key. Home.
It only takes 4 minutes for me to walk from the train platform to my building; so much compact humanity in a 4 block stretch. I can never wrap my head around it.