Rush Hour
Tired commuters packed the el train cars. They squeezed in close on this steamy-hot day. Intimate odors, both sweet and vulgar, hung anonymously in the air.
In silence, they gazed ahead, shoulders jostling to the rhythmic motion of the train. Ruth Thompson, a secretary for 14 years now at the First Illinois Savings & Loan, worried about her daughter’s older boyfriend. He’s dangerous. Lord knows, all men are dangerous. I just barely made it out alive from my husband, the bastard. Suddenly, her attention snapped back into the train car.
Just ten minutes earlier she had been standing atop the Monroe Street stop – a three storied wooden contraption destined to be a pyre someday – waiting patiently amongst the familiar crowd of commuters. There, behind the yellow line beyond which was posted a sign that read, “Danger High Voltage. Keep Off The Tracks,” they stood safely. Some read morning-old newspapers; others chatted; others stared down below.
The street was crammed with mom and pop stores. Thick electrical wires lolled across the intersection. In the middle, a traffic light lazily ordered traffic. As the light switched to red, pedestrians stopped at the street corner and waited.
Metallic screeching cut through the air. Navigating the sharp curve, the gray train cars wobbled to one side as their iron wheels gnashed the rails. Sparks flew. A boy at the street corner threw up his hands and covered his ears, his elbows jutting out at right angles. Above, none of the commuters tried to block the sound. They were used to it.
With mouth agape, the boy stared at the cascading sparks. He wore shorts held up by sky blue suspenders and a clean white pullover. Next to him stood his father. On his left hand “Rick” was roughly tattooed into his skin with bruise colored ink. His girl friend, six months pregnant, wore a faded smock, the color of autumn berries.
Rick jerked her elbow towards him and with his other hand, index finger extended, jabbed her sternum, jabbed home some message six, seven, eight times.
The girl friend looked down, her long brown hair falling like a shroud about her face.
Brakes squealed as the train shuddered to a halt. Rick shot a glance upward then grabbed the girl friend who swooped up the child.
Train doors clattered open. Idle riders sprung to life. Sliding by the exiting passengers, they hastily found a place in the car.
Through this human riptide, one young boy bumped along. His eyes, the color of olives, assessed the best course. His slight but strong frame steered it true. It was not so much his body that slowed his passage, it was his bass fiddle.
He positioned himself at the front of the car standing in the aisle. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he glanced out the window and noticed sky blue suspenders on a child just his size being whisked into the adjoining car. Sky blue was his favorite color. The doors sighed shut; the train lurched forward.
The sound was hard to place. That’s why Ruth turned her head, to see where it was coming from. She spotted the young boy who plucked away at his bass, accompanied by an older man squeezing a concertina and another boy sawing a fiddle. She, like everyone else, sat still, assessing the danger.
The father, short and plump, wore chino pants and a light brown buttoned shirt opened to reveal silver-gray chest hair. Across his head from front to back ran glossy streaks of black hair. Beads of sweat streamed down his face as his small, leathery hands squeezed and pulled the concertina. He smiled expansively revealing one gold capped canine tooth amidst large yellowed teeth.
The third boy was taller than his dad and skinny. Long brunette hair framed a dead serious expression as he bowed his way through the number, careful not to poke someone’s eye out. A brown derby was perched just so on his head.
They played “Sweet Georgia Brown.” Chicago Tribunes lowered and gazes focused. The music softened taut muscles.
Then they played the theme from Rocky. Ruth smiled. Up until then, she had been resisting the intrusion, suspicious of their intentions. But at the sound of Rocky, her foot began to tap.
The father’s eyes sparkled as he looked from one person to the next, setting other’s eyes sparkling. With gusto he worked the concertina. At the finish of the song the fiddler doffed his cap and bowed. Then with a thick Italian accent he said, “We thank you for your appreciation.” The father nodded vigorously, sweat raining from his chin.
The first recipient of the hat hesitated then dug deep into his pocket. Out came a handful of change which he dropped into the hat. Others did the same.
“Those Were the Days” now filled the train as it neared the next stop. The bass player nodded to the fiddler to repeat the chorus. The father followed right along, his concertina as rich as a pipe organ.
Headaches disappeared, and the heat let up. Drunks laughed, and lawyers sang. “La-la-la-da-da-da…”
Meanwhile, in the next car, Rick smashed his girlfriend’s face—Ruth’s daughter—into the metal bar of the seat in front of them. With spit spewing, he shouted, “You bitch; you filthy slut.” People sat immobile. The child for the second time that day held his hands cupped over his ears, his eyes black with fright.
Sheridan-Sheridan-Sheridan-Sheridan, the signs flashed by through the dust caked windows. The train braked to a halt. Quiet, then the doors exhaled open.
The boy with the bass fiddle and the boy with the sky blue suspenders exited at the same time. Their eyes locked. The boy with the bass smiled and waved. The other boy spit back at him.