This is a blog
I was spit on today.
The proper tense may be that I was spat upon, but I don't feel like someone who was spat upon. Some dude spit on me. No, this isn't a story about me exploring the darker side of sex and sexuality, if that were the case I would have been wearing a jock strap.
Let's go to the Intersection of Clark and Lake, underground, the blue line. 5:30pm and everyone is rushing home. This isn't my usual stop, but I'm familiar enough with how this works. The platform is crawling with people and I've ridden by about this time enough to know that I'm not going to be able to fit on the first train. Public transportation is a patience game, but I'm running behind schedule. I need to get up to Special K's place, the plan is to meet up and go with his friends to see Grindhouse. Actually, the plan is to go by my place, do the quick change, then hop back on the blue line. Little did I realize that Chicago was about to welcome me with a very special ceremony.
The first train rolls through the tunnel, packed full. I was right, there will be no room on this train for me. I may have to skip the quick change and take the train all the way up to meet my friends. One man on the platform seems especially upset not to be allowed on this train, and begins kicking the side of the train cussing. Words roll out about how it's worse than Europe, and growing uncomfortable being around the crazy I work my way farther down the platform through the crowd of people. I definitely don't want to share the train ride with the crazy man.
Train rolls out, train rolls in. The second train has enough room for me and I hop on board, my attention now drawn to a very handsome young fellow with a zip-up beige sweater with a very delicate high collar. He's wearing sunglasses, even under ground ... and he's very handsome, the kind of handsome that you just want to press yourself against. I follow him behind this vision of handsome, standing room only I get to share the ride with him. Ding Dong and the doors close, everyone grab ahold of something steady cause this train is bound for crazy. I'm positioned near the door I entered standing in front of some seated ladies, spending their ride traveling sideways. That's when I notice ... the crazy man, his back to the doors as they close.
A man taking some aggression out by kicking the side of a train is not in and of itself insane, it's just ... stupid. I mean, we all have our moments of frustration and sometimes they erupt into violence. Kicking the train while bitching about Europe and how the FBI are to blame, well that crosses the line into schizoid. The man stands probably 5'8" and is of questionable nationality. Thinking about it now I realize where police sketches come from ... they come from this man. He wore a light jacket with a hood, the hood pulled down to conceal any style to his hair, big glasses stained amber, and a mustache.
As the train begins to roll out of Clark and Lake the crazy begins to roll, his first target a man covered in tattoos to my right which happened to also by in the direction of travel. The crazy man apparently has a problem with this gentleman covering his body with art, threatening to help peel them off him when the train stops with the cut-press-crazy style of acting as though he speaks for the crowd, who sensing the oncoming onslaught begin to shuffle uncomfortably and find things on the floor or in the opposite direction to focus their attention on. The young man, covered in art flips the crazy fellow off, his silent resolve argument enough and a testament to his patience his only sentiment "let's go", response to the mans threat to follow him off the train at his stop. The train is packed and at least four people stand between the two men.
Stops pass and the crazy continues, one young man is told that he shouldn't be a cop for Chicago, "One shot, BANG!" he yells pointing his imaginary gun at the passenger "and you'll be dead." His ramblings continue unabated stop after stop as people shuffle on and off the train he guards his door. There are three people standing between me and the crazy man when it happens. The wet "thwah" sound and the abrupt cold sensation that races across my face. He spit on me.
The next few seconds are ... ... strangely blank. I don't know how long I stood there in cold shock. I automatically wipe my face against my shoulder in horror and disgust. I am overwhelmed by sensations, disgust, anger, fear, and more disgust, lots and lots of disgust. The only image that comes to my mind is of being arrested for assault, but his assault isn't finished yet. The young lady standing between us begins fussing with her hair, alarmed and terrified that she has just been spit on, but no ... just me.
"What you going to do? Going to cry pussyboy faggot?" This is too much. This is just too much. People are starting to look at me and I can't act. I'm stuck somehow in my rage, in my disgust, it's like my ego has gone on lock down. This man has violated me, violated the social contract. I should have the right to kill him, flat out kill him, but this is Chicago ... the big city. This is supposed to be culture incarnate, they're going to send me to jail for killing this motherfucker. No, really ... he was a motherfucker. Some motherfucker fucking spit on me, and I did what? I stood there completely lost ... with no base behavioral reference to act on ... I can't reach him from where I am, there are too many people, but I want to make this fucker bleed.
A large black woman rises from her seat somewhere and within moments is yelling a stream of explentives that anyone would be proud of, "How you going to be fucking spitting on people, motherfucker! This is your stop right here, cause you getting off this train or you aint never gonna be riding no goddamn train again." The doors open, my assailant flees. "Here you go sweetheart." The lady hands me a Kleenex from somewhere. "That crazy motherfucker, somebody ought to shoot that fucker." I suddenly want to cry, all that anger, all that rage ... all that embarrassment, all that inaction ... all that spittle on my face and now on my sleeve ...
I don't stop at California (my stop and incidentally where the man was chased from the train), instead I call Special K and head straight to his place where I wash my face and tell my story. "This is so a blog!" I say while expounding my story ... and now it is.