At the End of the Red Line
As the Red Line train pulls up to 95th/Dan Ryan station, everybody rushes to the doors. For the people taking the train south, this is the final station. But for most people, the journey doesn't end here.
Past 95th Street, Chicago's South Side becomes a patchwork of neighborhoods. Half-abandoned industrial sites dot the landscape, creating enormous gaps between residential areas. Railroads - some abandoned, some very much active - slice through the residential areas, separating pockets of calm and stability from the areas plagued with gang violence. For most people exiting at 95th, walking home isn't an option - they have to take the bus.
As the passengers climb up to street, the crowds split. Those who are heading west and southwest go right. Those who head east and southeast go left. The CTA and PACE buses fill every available space, their engines rumpling in anticipation. The air is thick with the smell of diesel, which is made even worse by the hot, humid air. But nobody seems to mind - they don't intend to hang around too long anyway.
This being the South Side, most of the passengers are black. The few white people you see are heading southwest, towards the middle-class Beverly and Mt. Greenwood, or to the racially mixed southern suburbs. Most Hispanic-looking passengers head in the opposite direction, toward South Chicago, East Side and Hegewisch neighborhoods.
The passengers pile into the buses, swiping their cards as quickly as the machines would allow. The drivers wait patiently, carefully making sure that nobody takes advantage of the confusion and tries to sneak in without swiping a card. Those drivers have been in some of the worst part of Chicago - if you try to cheat, they will not let you get away with it. Some may even go through the trouble of physically dragging you out and shove you into the waiting hands of the station security.
I walk past the crowds, past the waiting buses, towards the Jim's Original hot dog stand. This hot dog stand franchise is best known for inventing the iconic Maxwell Polish sandwich. Since then, Maxwell Polish spread all over the greater Chicagoland area - some do it well, some do it very poorly, but none do it quite as well as Jim's Original.
Inside, a man who looked like he immigrated from the Indian subcontinent, asks for my order. I order a Maxwell Polish and he shouts the order to Mexican cooks. As per the age-old tradition, ordering the stand's signature sandwich gets me free fries. As I pay, I run into a snag - the stand doesn't take credit, and I'm not sure I have enough cash. But, quite a few pennies later, I manage to cough up with the right amount. The cashier shakes his head, hands me a to-go bag and wishes me a nice evening.
When I get out, the station looks a lot calmer. Most of the buses have left, and the few passengers who couldn't fit in look miniscule compared to crowd I encountered on the way out. But even as I walk back to station, more buses pull up. On the highway median below, another Red Line 'L' train arrives, unleashing another load of passengers.
I pull out my transit card and wait as my bus pulls up.
The cycle begins again.
Past 95th Street, Chicago's South Side becomes a patchwork of neighborhoods. Half-abandoned industrial sites dot the landscape, creating enormous gaps between residential areas. Railroads - some abandoned, some very much active - slice through the residential areas, separating pockets of calm and stability from the areas plagued with gang violence. For most people exiting at 95th, walking home isn't an option - they have to take the bus.
As the passengers climb up to street, the crowds split. Those who are heading west and southwest go right. Those who head east and southeast go left. The CTA and PACE buses fill every available space, their engines rumpling in anticipation. The air is thick with the smell of diesel, which is made even worse by the hot, humid air. But nobody seems to mind - they don't intend to hang around too long anyway.
This being the South Side, most of the passengers are black. The few white people you see are heading southwest, towards the middle-class Beverly and Mt. Greenwood, or to the racially mixed southern suburbs. Most Hispanic-looking passengers head in the opposite direction, toward South Chicago, East Side and Hegewisch neighborhoods.
The passengers pile into the buses, swiping their cards as quickly as the machines would allow. The drivers wait patiently, carefully making sure that nobody takes advantage of the confusion and tries to sneak in without swiping a card. Those drivers have been in some of the worst part of Chicago - if you try to cheat, they will not let you get away with it. Some may even go through the trouble of physically dragging you out and shove you into the waiting hands of the station security.
I walk past the crowds, past the waiting buses, towards the Jim's Original hot dog stand. This hot dog stand franchise is best known for inventing the iconic Maxwell Polish sandwich. Since then, Maxwell Polish spread all over the greater Chicagoland area - some do it well, some do it very poorly, but none do it quite as well as Jim's Original.
Inside, a man who looked like he immigrated from the Indian subcontinent, asks for my order. I order a Maxwell Polish and he shouts the order to Mexican cooks. As per the age-old tradition, ordering the stand's signature sandwich gets me free fries. As I pay, I run into a snag - the stand doesn't take credit, and I'm not sure I have enough cash. But, quite a few pennies later, I manage to cough up with the right amount. The cashier shakes his head, hands me a to-go bag and wishes me a nice evening.
When I get out, the station looks a lot calmer. Most of the buses have left, and the few passengers who couldn't fit in look miniscule compared to crowd I encountered on the way out. But even as I walk back to station, more buses pull up. On the highway median below, another Red Line 'L' train arrives, unleashing another load of passengers.
I pull out my transit card and wait as my bus pulls up.
The cycle begins again.